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"From the Shadows to the Light "Written By: Hemlock Inyx Category: Supernatural/Romance AU Pairings: 2x5x2 Rating: R Spoilers: Mild, if any. Warnings: OOC-ness, yaoi, vampires DISCLAIMER: This chick does not own any of the Gundam Wing characters because they belong to Bandai and Sunrise. I am borrowing them for this fict and will return them in good (if somewhat sticky) condition. I also don’t own Lynn Erickson’s Out of the Darkness, on which this fict is heavily based (well more like a fusion/translation). This fict is written out of love and not for profit, don’t sue. Thanks and enjoy! Archive: www.sweetlysour.net, www.gundam-wing-diaries.150m.com This is dedicated to: TJ Dragonblade for all her enthusathem for this fic. Thanks for being so crazy TJ. Summary: Chang Wufei had sworn revenge on the creature who had made him less than a man—had sworn to strike him down. Then he met nurse Duo Maxwell, who reawakened all the best parts of his latent humanity. But Wufei knew he was putting Duo at risk—and not only from himself. His old enemy Milliardo took an unholy interest in all Wufei’s affairs. Duo was a fighter, though. He believed in Wufei. He believed that Wufei could be cured of his "condition," that they could find a way to have a life together. But Duo hadn’t reckoned on Milliardo, who was determined to thwart Wufei—and Duo—until the end of time.
" From the Shadows to the Light "
From the Shadows to the Light – Chapter 01
It was November, and a light rain was drifting down
onto the park's winter-brown expanses, but Wufei paid the icy drizzle
no heed. The cold he felt came from deep within, and the warmth he
sought in the raw black night would come from no fireplace. The park was empty or, to the uninitiated eye, it appeared
to be. But Wufei knew that somewhere, perhaps huddled beneath a gracefully
arching bridge or stretched out on a bench in the bowels of this emptiness,
there would be life, a single beating heart from which he would extract
the warmth. He moved with purpose, his passing no more than a fleeting
shadow, as all the while the demand grew within him. His thirst became
excruciating, a pain that had been growing for a very long time now.
Yet even as it intensified, his soul writhed in torment over the act
he would soon commit. Near the reservoir he stopped momentarily, his senses
sharpening. Yes, Wufei thought, he could just make out the scent of
a human, through still some distance away. He began moving again, the night shadows embracing him
with aching familiarity. He cursed his awful craving and his lack
of courage. He cursed himself for the knowledge that he could, if
he had the will, end this unnatural existence. All he needed to do
was await the dawn, turn his face into the rays of light and he would
wither, an agonizing death, of that Wufei was certain, but death nonetheless.
Death and peace. Others before him had ended it, Wufei though, but
they were far braver than he. The scent of human life caressed his nostrils then,
and the painful craving filled him again. Wufei moved across a path,
through a stand of bare trees, the fog that swirled around his legs
obscuring his strides, making it appear as if he were gliding through
the night. On the far side of an embankment he stopped abruptly, the
rain dripping slowly from his long, dark lashes. He stood motionless,
the human scent very close. Flesh and blood. Ah, yes, blood. Salty,
thick, warm. So warm. A feral gleam ignited in the black of his eyes
as all his senses tuned to the moment and his body quickened with
the longing. Over there, yes, his prey. Pathetic, Wufei thought as he stood there in the darkness,
one still shadow among many. He could feed so easily on this one,
and no one would be the wiser. Pain tore through him as he remained motionless not
thirty feet from the crone, pain both familiar and terrible. His eyes
glowed, and he could hear the pulsing of blood in the old woman's
veins. So easy... And yet...Hadn't he sworn that if he fed again it would
only be on the blood of a criminal, that he would exact a peculiar
kind of justice from the dregs of society? Surely somewhere in the
park even now a crime was being committed! But the sad old woman was right there, huddled against
the rain only a few feet away, soon to die, anyway, by the looks of
her. The wind and rain buffeted him, tore through his dark
hair, and with it came a groan of misery. The old woman. She was suffering.
Alone. So alone. Ah, he knew that loneliness only to well! He could
help her, end her pain and sorrow. It would be over in a minute. Wufei stood on the embankment and rocked back and forth, a part of him already tasting the woman, a part of him recoiling in shame. And then suddenly, with a swirl of his long black coat, he was gone, a flitting shadow in the night, the agony driving him, making him insane, enraged, making him swear vengeance—as he had done so many, many times over the centuries—on his old nemesis. * * * * * * * The year was 1481, and Chang Wufei was twenty-six years
old. His life was good. He had spent eleven years in the priesthood
in Canton, China, and he was the pride of his family. Like most men in the priesthood of post modern China,
Wufei had been born with his destiny laid out before him. His older
brother was married with two surviving children of the six his wife
had borne him, and his younger sister, though widowed, had two strapping
boys. Wufei's father was dead, having succumbed to a lung infection
many years before, but his mother, Lien, lived on, a healthy woman
of fifty-three. Indeed, no other path had been offered Wufei except
the priesthood, and he'd entered the monastery happily, proudly,
an inordinately intelligent, handsome and pious young man. It was
even said in Wufei's home village that one day he'd see the capital
city; after all, he was twenty-six and could expect to live until
his forties, and even beyond that, the Gods willing. Indeed, Wufei had made his family proud. But that was
in the spring of 1481. That was before the coming of Milliardo. It was that same autumn that word spread in his province
of a strange wasting illness that was sweeping the land. Dozens were
falling to a scourge that seemed to drain the body of its lifeblood.
Physicians were at a loss—even the priests examined this sudden
and inexplicable illness that had taken hold of its followers.
Rumors were sprouting that demons were at work. It was on the morning of October 21st that the news
was brought to Wufei. Dressed as always in his coarse robes, he was
crossing the courtyard of the monastery, his morning meditations still
held peacefully within, when Brother Chen approached him. And so Wufei left the monastery, going on foot as swiftly
as he could to be at his sister's side that night. By the next morning
she was dead, a wasted, ashen shape lying on the cot in their mother's
modest house, not a drop of blood left in her body, or so the village
physician declared in awe. She was buried quickly, as no one knew
how the terrible malady was contracted. Within a week, Wufei, who'd stayed to comfort his mother,
began to notice the paleness in her cheeks and the flesh all but falling
from her bones. Oddly, too, there were bruises on her neck, for which
she could not account. On his eighth night in his mother's house he
was awakened by her screaming and found her thrashing around on her
bed, her eyes wild in madness, her hands clutching her throat.
The next day she was raving, rambling on feverishly about demons and
a pale-haired man. Once she even lunged for Wufei, pulling him onto
the bed, tearing at his robes. She died at midnight. And it was that
next day that Wufei first heard of Milliardo, the tall, fair-haired
stranger who lived at the edge of the forest. It was said—in
fearful whispers—that the man roamed the woods and village
at night with fire in his eyes. "Tell me," Wufei demanded, taking hold of
the neighbor who had first spoken of Milliardo, "Tell me what
you know!" Then, that evening, assailed by a sense of impending
doom, Wufei set out from the edge of the village to discover the truth
about this man. He'd felt an enormous, overwhelming sadness as the sun slipped away, but he'd gone on, striding purposefully to his destiny. * * * * * * * The rain in Central Park was letting up, but a fine
mist clung to every blade of grass, every barren branch. Wufei slid
in and out of the fog, silent, the rawness seeping into his soul.
It had been more than a year since he'd last fed, and the craving
had been building within, a bitter thirst that could no longer be
denied. He was weak and had not even ventured out into the night
for some weeks now, fearing his terrible urges, cursing the inevitable
need for sustenance. Every sight and touch and scent had taken on
a unique texture, that of blood, red and smooth and oily, warm, so
warm, with the special odor of copper. He moved eastward through the park now, sensing more
human life—the homeless seeking shelter, using the seclusion
of the park as protection. They would be safer with their brethren
who sought shelter in the subways or public buildings, for there the
crowds protected them, but these isolated souls—did they not
know they were in peril? Wufei had not actually felt the presence of Milliardo
in this city, not yet, but it was becoming the perfect home for the
creature, a place that was crime-ridden, a place where so many lived
in hopelessness. Yes, New York was ready for Milliardo's special touch;
he fed on anarchy. They had not met in fifty years, but a confrontation
was coming, Wufei knew. Sooner or later he would read or hear about
people who had died in unusual circumstances, drained of blood,
and then he would know his nemesis had arrived. Most revenants killed
only when they had to, discreetly, carefully. But Milliardo killed
with terrible violence, the victims bitten all over, not only in the
neck. Oh, he would know when Milliardo began his killings here in
New York. The cry came to Wufei as he was passing behind the row
of fine museums. The sound hung eerily on the mist, muffled by it,
and he stopped short. Somewhere close by, a person, a man, was in
trouble. Again a shout drifted on the fog, and Wufei, at ease in the
blackness, moved toward it. Even before coming upon the scene, Chang Wufei could
sense three beings: the young man, whose cries were weakening, and
two men whose curses filled the air. His attackers? Then Wufei saw
them, in some bushes near the edge of the park, directly off a lighted
path. The men had the young man down, one trying to clamp a hand over
his mouth, the other holding his struggling legs. "What the... ?" The other man stopped his
attack and stared up into the fire of Wufei's eyes. "My God..."
he croaked, but it was too late. "You will not dare venture into the night again,"
Wufei whispered harshly, and he was on the man swiftly, mercilessly,
with the precision of a surgeon. That cold rainy night in Central Park Wufei fed, filling
his soul, feeling the beating of the man's heart as he drank his fill.
The warmth that spread though his body was searing, jolting him like
a shock as the liquid penetrated every fiber of his being. The man did not die. But then Wufei had never intended
to take his life. And when he was done, his thirst abated, Wufei lifted
his head and was vaguely aware of the other one scrabbling off into
the night, and of the young man still lying close by. But at the moment
nothing mattered to him except the sensations that rippled through
him—the sweet blessed warmth, the return of strength, and the
all-consuming satisfaction. For a long time Wufei crouched beside his victim and
remained motionless, his handsome head tilted upward to the night,
mist shining in his dark hair, glistening in his long lashes,
illuminating a single ruby drop at the corner of his mouth. Oh, yes,
yes, Wufei groaned inwardly, pleasure coursing through him. And then
finally his surroundings came into focus once more, and he twisted
his head to stare down at the victim of the attack. He was no street person, of that Wufei was instantly
aware. He wore a green uniform of sorts—was he a medical student,
venturing home after a night shift? How foolhardy, Wufei thought,
still crouching beside him, crossing Central Park at this hour. Wufei stayed next to him, weighing the situation. Clearly
the man was dazed by the attack—perhaps he had hit his head,
been stunned. Wufei wished he would come around. As it was... What was Wufei to do with him? Wufei knew he could not
alert the police or take the man to a hospital. There would be questions.
He turned his head and glanced at his victim. That man still lived,
as Wufei knew he would. But half his blood was gone, and there would
certainly be questions. No, he could not take the injured young
man to the authorities. Wufei would have to leave him, then, hope
he awakened and could make his way to safety. Wufei stood and felt the strength coursing through his
limbs, so unfamiliar of late, so satisfying. And as he'd sworn, he
had fed on one who deserved what he had gotten. Wufei would wager
that the man, once recovered, would think twice before preying
on a helpless person again. Unusual justice, but justice nonetheless.
It was unfortunate, however, that the young man was harmed. Wufei stood over him and frowned. The student moaned
but did not open his eyes. "Wake up," Wufei said. "Wake
up, man, for Nataku's sake, you cannot stay here in this cold rain."
He only moaned again and shifted a little, his torn green uniform
shirt hitched beneath him, riding high on his pale stomach. Wufei emitted an irritated sigh and bent over, trying
to adjust the thin brown coat that was spread beneath the man. He
would freeze to death. After Wufei had rescued him from the scum who
had attacked him, he would perish if left out here. "Wake up," Wufei said again, commandingly,
and then he tried touching him, his long-fingered hand on his chin.
He noticed then how pale the man was, how plain and pale, his delicate
features drawn in pain. After a minute or two his eyelids finally
fluttered a little and he sighed raggedly. "There, there," Wufei said, relieved, "wake
up now. You are all right." And then the student seemed to come back to his senses
all at once and sat bolt upright, flailing out against Wufei. Wufei held his arms with care and told him that it was
he who'd come to his rescue. "It is all right now," Wufei
said over and over, "you are quite safe." Safe, yes, Wufei knew, but the young man was terrified
and obviously not in his right mind. "Can you stand?" Wufei asked, but the man’s
struggles, which had stopped, had weakened him even further. "You
must try to stand up." It was no use. After a time Wufei helped him up, but
he sagged against him, and Wufei knew he had to at least get him out
of this park. The rain had started again, too, a thin cold drizzle
that soaked them both. Of course Wufei had not felt the effect of
cold or heat or rain in five centuries, so he stripped off his heavy
black overcoat and draped it over the man’s thin brown one. The medical student leaned against him, and Wufei began
to steer him along, back to the path he'd been on, back toward the
western edge of the park. Perhaps there he could find a bench, sit
him down—eventually someone, even at this late hour, would come
along. A taxicab. A police vehicle. Or, Wufei thought grimly, another
thug or two. They reached Central Park West and Wufei cast about,
but there was no one in sight. A single car streaked by, splashing
oily rain from the street onto the sidewalk, and then its taillights
disappeared, shimmering dots of red. Wufei stood there and tipped the man’s face up to his rain dripping off his sleek dark hair onto the other’s pale brow. Wufei stared at the droplets dumbly for a long moment before he realized he must act. "Where do you live?" Wufei asked, but the man only huddled closer to him and moaned something he could not comprehend. Wufei thought again of a hospital. There were several
not far away, but there would be those questions: Name, address, workplace,
questions he could not answer. An alien sense of frustration swept over him. He was
saddled with this man. Unless he came fully awake, Wufei had only
one option. They started across the street; Wufei moving quickly,
the male pressing himself to his side, stumbling along so that
Wufei had to half carry him. Wufei did not like it, and had no idea of how to react
to this ludicrous role of protector he'd somehow taken on. And yet
the mortal was hurt, out of his head, relying on him. What irony!
Crushed to his side, a man, a flesh-and-blood mortal whom he had rescued.
It was unthinkable. Wufei steered them into an alley, across another street.
Into another alley. A car or two swept past them. A cat cried forlornly
from behind a trash Dumpster. On a corner two drunks lingered, passing
a bottle between them, noticing the drenched man in the black turtleneck
sweater with another man bundled against his side. Wufei eyed them
as he passed, and the two quickly turned away, frightened. Wufei walked on into the night, the rain dripping from eaves and gutters and puddling in the alleys, the male warm and oh so close. Wufei moved rapidly and with a curious ease, the mist closing in behind him, the shadows ahead a beacon of comfort. To be continued……….
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