Author: Vane
Fandom: Saint Seiya
Characters: Deathmask Cancer, OC
Genre: Dark, Drama, Family
Rating: NC-17 (for violence)
Warnings: Violence; gore; grotesque scenes; potentially disturbing imagery; bad parenting
Status: (if applied)
Summary: A Silver Saint teaches precious life lessons to his son.
Notes: Story written for the Fanfiction Secret Santa promoted by the community Saint Seiya Superfics Journal.
LOVELY DAD, LOVELY SON
By Vane
Pour Aurore
"Saint Seiya" belongs to Masami Kurumada, Shueisha, Akita Shoten and Toei Animation.
Story written for the Fanfiction Secret Santa promoted by the community Saint Seiya Superfics Journal.
"Pierluigi!"
Upon hearing the familiar call, the boy knew to leave the room's corner where he had been hiding while his father slaughtered the party's guests.
"Let's begin with this one," Lepus Achille said, pointing at a male corpse on his feet and waiting for his son to come closer.
Pierluigi went down on his knees and opened the beige fabric bag he brought with him. From the huge tote he took out a translucent plastic container.
The Silver Saint kneeled down as well and raised his right arm. He flared up his cosmo in a quite subtle fashion, which contrasted with the potent explosions of energy Pierluigi witnessed a minute before. What his father was about to do now wouldn't require much strength--not for a Saint's standards anyway.
A fast descending movement of his naked hand was enough: Achille tore open the dead man's abdomen. What Pierluigi opened on his turn was a much prosaic container lid.
"Now..."
Pierluigi knew what to do; his father didn't even have to utter a complete sentence.
The child frowned and held his breath as he dove both hands into the bleeding wound and closed them onto an indistinct mass of human organs. He wanted to finish that task as fast as possible. However, the innards would slide through his fingers, forcing him to repeat the procedure several times, until his father was happy with the amount of viscera collected.
"Good," Achille said, patting his son on the shoulder. "But I still don't like your face," he pointed out.
Pierluigi had to suppress an impatient sigh as he wondered whether his father would ever say otherwise.
In fact, impatience was a feeling the eight-year-old boy experienced quite often. Whenever he and his father travelled to the Sanctuary in Greece, he felt as if there was an acid liquid burning him from inside while he watched the other children training, for he was eager to be in their place. He wanted to live a normal apprentice's life, with daily training sessions during which he would learn the techniques that would allow him to develop typical Saint skills: superhuman strength, outstanding speed and, above all, the ability to attack opponents and remove obstacles through the use of the cosmo-energy.
Much to his frustration, his father insisted that he wasn't "quite ready for a regular training schedule." Achille claimed that mental strength was by far the most important asset a warrior could have. Consequently, he wouldn't let Pierluigi's formal apprenticeship begin until he felt the boy was able to control himself amidst the toughest situations. He expected his son to show clear signs that he would be able to endure pain, exhaustion and sickness. Most importantly, he wanted to be sure Pierluigi would be able to fulfil whatever duties he was assigned to without feeling remorse, compassion or any other inconvenient emotion.
From what Pierluigi had learned by watching other trainees and talking to them, his father's approach was unheard of. No other Saints waited for their pupils to develop their mental toughness before enrolling them in the training. Instead, teachers hoped that their students would grow strong and brave as a direct result of the hardships they would face in the course of their preparation. Nevertheless, it was useless to argue with Achille: as much as Pierluigi tried to make him see that his training--or lack thereof--didn't have to be so different from that of the other children he met at the Sanctuary, his father would always counter that "I don't want you to be like the other children."
Pierluigi closed the container and put it back into his bag. As he rubbed his forearms against his brown short tunic, hoping to clean at least part of the blood and the fluids stuck on his skin, Achille said:
"Follow me."
When Pierluigi realised to where his father was heading, he pursed his lips and swallowed. "Dad's going to punish me because I disobeyed him yesterday," he thought.
With no choice left, he dragged himself up to where his father stood now.
- = - = - = - = - = - = -
After having lunch with his son, Achille told him he would spend the next few hours resting in their tent. He allowed Pierluigi to play a bit in the woods, to the boy's delight.
Finding himself alone, which was a rarity, Pierluigi initially limited himself to wandering around. He wasn't used to freedom; his father would always tell him what to do, when and how, controlling every aspect of his life.
However, he knew his father wasn't entirely free either. After all, like any other Saint, he was supposed to subject himself to the Sanctuary's regulations and orders. Yet, Pierluigi never saw his father complaining about this. Perhaps because, as Achille would always emphasise, "things are much better now that the Pope seems to have gone through a personality transplant."
According to Achille, the Pope had changed his mind on many subjects over the course of the last six years. At the time Pierluigi was born--and his mother died, for reasons never revealed by Achille--it would be impossible to do what his father did nowadays: kill not only the enemies he'd had been assigned to eliminate, but also as many people as he saw fit, as long as he felt it was necessary. "Back in the old days, the Pope didn't trust us; too many rules, too many don'ts. Now he let us use our best judgement when we fulfil our missions. These are good times for being a Saint," the warrior would say, excited.
How could Pierluigi share his father's excitement about the "good times for being a Saint," being subject to as many rules and don'ts as Achille had been? How could his father criticise the Pope's past strict behaviour if he was so strict himself?
"I'm alone now. Dad's sleeping," Pierluigi remembered.
That was not an opportunity to be missed, he realised.
The boy stepped further into the woods, trying to place what he judged to be a safe distance between his father and himself. After some minutes of hurried walking, Pierluigi decided he was far away enough from the tent.
He chose one of the trees around him as his target. Closing his eyes, he concentrated in his breath and sent to his mind the messages his father had taught him during their rare training sessions.
There it was: the warmth that flowed from his soul to his brain, his flesh, his skin, enveloping him thoroughly.
While immersed in his flaring cosmo, Pierluigi felt he was very close to what the grown-ups would call "happiness." Why did his father had to deny him such a joy? Wasn't he destined to become a Saint someday? So, what was wrong with training like a future Saint was supposed to? Didn't his father recognise he had a naturally strong cosmo? So, why not use it?
Determined to explore his own energy, Pierluigi pointed a finger at the chosen tree and told himself he should try to open a hole on its trunk. Instants later, a thin luminous thread came out of the tip of his finger, reaching the tree.
He kept entirely concentrated as the initially tiny hole grew wider in a slow but steady pace.
"Pierluigi."
The boy had a start as he heard the perfectly calm voice coming from his back. He turned around, to meet his father's eyes. And in those eyes Pierluigi saw a clear spark of... pride.
Yes, his father was proud of him. Proud of his power. Achille would never say a word about it, but Pierluigi could sense his satisfaction.
After a few seconds of total silence, the Silver Saint announced:
"No dinner tonight."
Pierluigi wasn't surprised. That was a common punishment: no dinner, no lunch, no breakfast. There were also times when his father would let him starve for a totally different reason: "Because a truly strong Saint must be able to ignore his own hunger and thirst." As a result, Pierluigi was used to missing meals. Or at least, his mind was used to this permanent prospect. His body, on the other hand, would always rebel against privation; his stomach was particularly rebel, aching furiously when denied food, and there was nothing Pierluigi could do about it.
Anyway, right at that moment, what mattered to Pierluigi was that the spark of pride still shone in his father's eyes. The boy clung to it, full of hopes that going without dinner would be his sole punishment that time.
It wasn't though:
"Let's see what else I can arrange when we get to the next town."
Upon hearing Achille's words, Pierluigi understood he had something to worry for.
- = - = - = - = - = - = -
"Don't you want to use your cosmo? Now you can. I'll let you do it," Achille said, his serene voice sounding slightly ironic.
Pierluigi stared at him, but looked down two seconds later. Of course he wanted to use his cosmo; he longed for such opportunities. However, the act he was about to perform would never be something he'd look forward to.
The child sat on the cold floor. Repeating what he had done the previous day to open a hole in a tree, he burnt his cosmo and channeled it to the tip of his index finger. This time the target was entirely different though: with the thin ray of golden light he produced, Pierluigi opened a dead woman's womb.
When he finished the cut, he looked up at his father, who stood by his side. Achille just gave him a nearly imperceptible nod. Pierluigi would have to continue.
He closed his eyes and took some deep breaths, in an attempt to tame his body, which now rebelled against him in another way: by making him shudder uncontrollably.
Panting heavily, Pierluigi opened his eyes and inserted his trembling hands in the tore womb, reaching for a tiny mass of flesh. As soon as he grabbed it, he pulled it out.
He didn't want to look at the foetus. But what he wanted didn't make any difference; it was what his father wanted that mattered. So Pierluigi forced himself to spend some seconds staring at the little female corpse in his hands. Much to his chagrin, he noticed his cosmo had destroyed part of the baby's body while cutting the mother's belly. The feet were missing, as well as half a leg.
Collecting viscera was disgusting enough; collecting foetuses was even worse. At least, entrails were formless; they barely looked human, although they were extracted from men and women. Foetuses did look human. Too human.
"It's enough. Put it in the container. We're leaving now."
Pierluigi sighed in relief and promptly did as his father told him, although he knew now it was too late: he wouldn't have a single peaceful night for the next several days. The baby would certainly stalk him in his nightmares, like all of her predecessors had done.
Sometimes, the foetuses just tried to chat with Pierluigi; other times, they sang him some unknown lullaby. There were some who came to visit him in the company of their mums. There had been one who claimed to have met Pierluigi's mother.
The boy couldn't make any comments about such night visitors; his father wouldn't want to hear a single word on the subject. After all, Pierluigi was supposed to grow mentally tough; being scared by mere nightmares wasn't something a future Saint could allow to happen to himself.
- = - = - = - = - = - = -
They had been travelling on foot for five days in a row, resting only for a few hours every night and making quick pauses for the meals. Achille wouldn't stop until they arrived to the nearer principality, where he would fulfil another mission.
Pierluigi's father could very well make use of his superhuman speed to reach any destination he wanted in a matter of minutes, even seconds. He could also carry his son, so as to spare the child from unnecessary efforts. The problem for Pierluigi was that Achille didn't view those as "unecessary efforts." As always, he'd say the boy had to go through those exhausting journeys because they would eventually make him stronger.
As they spotted the bluish house at the end of the clay road, Pierluigi felt the urge to run as fast as his could and ask his father to do the same, so they would reach the small building at once and finally bring the current expedition to its end. Nevertheless, his body wouldn't obey him. His muscles were so heavy that Pierluigi thought maybe they weren't made of flesh, but rather of lead. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that if he could chop off his legs--or at least one of them--he'd feel much lighter.
About fifteen minutes later, they stopped before the silent house. Achille took Pierluigi to the backyard, telling him to stay there and wait.
Two more minutes, and Pierluigi could hear his father calling for him. It was time to collect more viscera and gather more blood stains on his tunic. The boy only hoped there weren't any pregnant women on sight.
That same day, father and son travelled back home to Sicily. As the expedition had been successfully completed, even Achille had to agree that prolonging their journey any longer would be pointless. So Pierluigi had the rare pleasure of being carried on his father's arms, as the Silver Saint crossed enormous distances in a nearly unreal speed, until they found themselves in their scarcely furnished living room.
The time for Pierluigi to rest hadn't come yet though. Before he could take a proper bath and finally let his body bask in the comfort of his mattress, he had one more task to perform: transferring the contents of the plastic containers he had brought home to glass jars. So he went to "Life's Museum," as his father called the room where he stored all the human remains collected in the course of his missions.
Pierluigi secretly called it the "Lecture's Museum," because that was the place where Achille would often lecture him on the meaninglessness of human life.
- = - = - = - = - = - = -
Cancer Deathmask stood before a wall covered by all types of human heads.
His head collection differed from his father's viscera and foetus museum in at least two respects. First of all, Deathmask didn't have a child to raise and lecture on, nor did he had any plans for this. Unlike Lepus Achille, he weren't interested in educating future Saints. Secondly, his father kept innards and aborted babies because this worked as an intimidation tactic; weaker enemies would fear such a savage man and sometimes would surrender without posing any resistance. Deathmask, on his turn, kept the heads of the people he slaughtered as trophies or souvenirs.
The very first trophy in his collection had been the head of his father's murderer. The warrior Achille had been assigned to eliminate that day was totally uncooperative; instead of dying in the Silver Saint's hands as expected, the man actually beheaded him.
Pierluigi was eleven years-old then. To the enemy's disgrace, the boy, who had been so used to following orders, didn't need anyone to tell him what to do that time. He simply got out from behind the curtains where he had been hiding and killed the man the same way he had killed Achille.
Now nine years older, and going by an epithet rather than his actual name, Deathmask could recognise his deceased father as a quite wise Saint. His lessons about mental strength hadn't remained unused after all; much on the contrary: Deathmask freely admitted he had been an incredibly silly boy. Achille had been right all along. It was a pity his training methods weren't largely adopted amongst Saints who took apprentices under their care. The Cancer Gold Saint was sure the Sanctuary would have a much stronger generation of warriors in a few years time, should his father's ideals be embraced by teachers.
Not that he was willing to fight to preserve his father's memory. Deathmask knew his father wouldn't have approved it; after all, such an attitude would be an unmistakable sign of mental weakness. Besides, if Deathmask was to be honest to himself--and he had no problems with being honest to himself--he'd say he wouldn't lift a finger to pay homage to Achille even if that had been the Silver Saint's wish.
Yes, his father had taught him everything he needed to become what he was nowadays. But he certainly wasn't supposed to spend the rest of his life crying over Achille's tomb and thanking him profusely. Deathmask had better ways to spend his time.
He cast a glance at the head of his father's murderer, stuck at the wall and conserved as if the man had died the day before. That was a little trick Deathmask owed to his father too: the cosmo could be used to keep corpses--or parts of corpses, such as heads and viscera--fresh for many years. However, the head he was looking at didn't deserve any sort of "special post mortem treatment" on his part. It was as important as the next head in his vast collection.
Had that man killed his father? Yes, he had. And for some time, this very fact made that be the most precious of all his war trophies.
But at the present, this didn't mean anything anymore. Deathmask just didn't care.
Fanfic finished on January, 2010.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Dear Aurore, I really, really hope you liked it! I tried to follow your request as faithfully as possible: dark fic, Deathmask's master giving him a hard time, unhappy ending. I only hope I haven't crossed any lines with all this violence. ^^U
It was a joy to write for you. Thank you for the inspiring prompt! I should also thank you for participating in our Fanfiction Secret Santa. It was so good to have you with us!
May 2010 be the best year of your life!
Abraços,
Vane, your delighted secret santa
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