Lucilfer (ChrolloxReader)

Chapter 91

Demon.

Does the story ever become so hazy and muddled with plot lines, and love, and love lost, that it no longer seems to be a story? When does the border of morality become so crossed that the structure which upheld such a story is entirely obliterated? Gone with even the weakest gust of breeze? I was always under the impression that stories held clear ideologies, clear choices, and that the characters within those stories were often stupid or blindsided when they made the wrong choice, stepped over too many lines, or betrayed the one they loved. Or rather, I used to be under that impression—in reality, I'd learned long ago that "good things" didn't usually happen to the innocents, and that, within society, thriving was extracted from the torture and torment administered to hard-working innocents. Moral lines were always crossed. I, myself, cared not to uphold them.

So, why did this sudden freedom hurt so terribly? Not for my sake, and not for Chrollo's sake, but for Kurapika's sake—what had he ever done to deserve the hell I had rained down upon his mind? Perhaps I was thinking a bit more logically now, since the unidentifiable catalyst of irrational events had been fully spent, and I was already calmed and accepting of what would be dealt over my existence.

But it hadn't been dealt. And as I looked frantically into his eyes, scarlet and bloody they remained, I could see more anguish there than I had ever seen before, though it wasn't even to my fault. Kurapika, one of justice and rightful vengeance, had merely realized how fragile the construct of morality truly is, and it had broken him down into thousands of hopeless pieces. His foundation had been nothing but a feeble state of mind, yet he wished to continue to follow it, and that very foundation had forced him to free his own tormentor.

Disbelief sent a tremble to my soul; shock slowed the previously quickened rhythm of my pulse. For my end of fate, it seemed too promising to be realistic—so much had happened already, so much tragedy and heartbreak, and I had fully expected to hear those last words escape Chrollo's lips, words which would've forever become a vice, a wretched reminder of the moment that I watched his life flicker away into the dust of the earth by the hateful wrath of one who swore their love to me.

The Judgement Chain wasn't struck. Those words weren't spoken. His chains are shattered.

Chrollo is free.

Our blurred love was no more being ripped away before my eyes too soon; what I had been bestowed, hardly a year of release from the prison and degradation of my past, was not the end. My lover was free to live; my lover was no longer under the punishment of death.

But at what cost?

No matter the weight of the cost, for me, it was worth it. And perhaps I was selfish for only just bothering to consider how deeply this tragedy had damaged Kurapika after he'd finally been broken down enough to relent, after I'd been given back my Chrollo, but I wasn't so selfish as not to recognize it at all. I wished I was—it would be so much easier if I could ignore the jagged edges of the heart I'd left in ruins when they sliced through my skin and drew just enough blood to keep me aware of their presence, but not enough to change anything.

And what could I possibly change, even if I was driven to the point of wanting things to change? After this moment, I doubted Kurapika would ever wish to see my face again—to him, the pain of letting his tormentor go must've been as great as the pain of losing Chrollo was to me, but not simply because he would never be able to put his lust for vengeance at peace. Had he ultimately accepted that he would never possess my returned love for him?

A lamb to its slaughter.

I'd been wrong before, in hindsight, since my lover hadn't been the one to die. Kurapika had been the one to lead himself to his own slaughter, but I'd always known that. I'd always been able to understand that his mission would only serve to destroy him, that the chains he'd built for his tormentors would be the instrument of final decimation to everything he could've embodied, every righteousness he wished to uphold. And the blood which was shed on that day was not the blood of my lover, nor was it spilled from my bleeding heart. Scarlet became the shade of those drab stone walls—I never wanted to see them again.