Soukoku One-Shots

White Wings and Wicked Heavens Pt. 2

Many Lifetimes Later

When Dazai Osamu was sent away, he was fifteen decades old.

He stood in the center of the tall, round council hall, eyes trained on the ground and wings tucked neatly against his back as he pretended not to feel the fifty pairs of cold eyes boring into him. The six council members watched from their rows of seats high above him, silent.

"Dazai Osamu," one of the councilmen boomed. Dazai didn't know which one, but his hair was grey and his voice echoed through the room, thick like honey and rich with contempt. "The council has summoned you to fulfill your duty to the Heavens."

Dazai didn't let his surprise show. Fulfill his duty? He wasn't supposed to be sent away for at least three more decades. What were they talking about? He still didn't know how to find what he needed, let alone handle duty on top of that.

The sound of shuffling interrupted the quiet before Dazai looked up to see a servant shuffling toward him, carrying a knotted wooden staff attached to the largest scythe Dazai had ever seen. The servant held it out to him in a precarious hold, like she was frightened to be touching it.

Dazai stared. He did not move.

"It is time for you to take your scythe and descend to the mortal realm," the councilman announced, holding his hands out wide on either side of him. Dazai did not miss the way his chin was tilted up, eyes narrowed. Scorn oozed from him like sweet berry wine.

Dazai could not have spoken if he wanted to. He didn't know nearly enough about the mortal realm or how to navigate it and even if he did, it was too soon. Were they really so eager to rid themselves of him?

"You will fulfill this duty by collecting mortal souls and sending them to the afterlife. When the council deems your work complete, we will summon you. Only then may you return to the Heavens."

The servant held the scythe out for him, wide-eyed and pale-faced. Dazai reached for it slowly, sluggishly, and she dropped it into his hands as if it burned her before bolting out of the room again.

The moment he touched the knotted wood of the handle, Dazai felt that ever-present curse in his chest flare up. He winced as it spread, hooking onto his ribs and the arteries on his heart and pulling, far more acute than usual. The familiar draw that came with it was still there, though, like always. That he needed to find that missing piece of himself.

Dazai looked up at the councilman seated in front of him, craning his neck. "Thank you," was all he could think to say.

The councilman did not look pleased, but Dazai caught a flicker of satisfaction in his expression. "Have you any final words for the council before you take your leave?"

Dazai looked around at the fifty other Angels glaring down at him, hands folded and lips pulled back in sneers. He could hear the whispers, poorly disguised by tilted cheeks and cupped palms. Look at those bandages—what do you think he's hiding? Some sort of ugly affliction? And someone else would whisper: I hear he does it to himself, isn't that sad? Sometimes they would stare, sometimes they wouldn't. Just look at those eyes, they'll swallow you right up! Someone nearby would chuckle and say: I'm so relieved they're banishing—oh, silly me, sending him early, and the others would snicker, shaking their heads and crooning: I just can't bear the creature any longer!

Dazai shifted from one foot to the other, ruffling his big black wings—too big for him, he thought. They swallowed him up like a little star in the nighttime, suffocating any shred of innocence he could have had with the ink of centuries past. The curse he bore from someone he never even knew.