Beautiful Inferno

- Igne natura renovatur integra -

Disclaimer/Notes: This is my first Trinity Blood story, so I'd love any suggestions or constructive crit. I've only just gathered the courage to write a fic to this fandom after watching the series through multiple times. Anyway, since I naturally tend toward the darker aspects of a show, this story is told from Cain's first person point of view, and it follows the fight in episode 24. No, it's not yaoi. But yes...Cain is extremely twisted. Oh—and I don't own Trinity Blood.


We are angels of the earth, created and used by the inhabitants of a planet that should have died centuries ago. We were children—poked and prodded and experimented upon—who grew into demons. We're the flames of retribution that will bring the humans to their knees.

We were, we are, and we will remain, long after these wretched human cities have crumbled to ashes.

"Damn you, Abel."

I lift myself into a sitting position, gaze moving lazily over the empty landscape spread around me. Warm blood sinks into the mud, coating my once spotless white clothing that is now in filthy tatters. One hand grasps the dust beside me for support I wish I didn't need, and I lean a bit too far forward, cradling what I'm sure are a good amount of broken ribs. Every breath feels like my lungs are being systematically shredded.

I will heal quickly. This is surely nothing life-threatening. The bleeding will stop. The bones will mend.

It hurts like fire, though.

I realize my phrasing and a twisted smile crosses my lips. Fire is supposed to cleanse, right? It's hell. At least it's telling me my nerves are connected. Or perhaps...reconnected?

How long have I been out? Glancing around with half-closed eyes, I give the land around me a more detailed inspection. Gentle lavender sunlight caresses the deep emerald countryside grass. It was night when the two of us fell from the dark skies, and now dawn is on its way. A few hours at least. Silently I swear at Abel. So weak and yet so strong. So stubborn. Rest is what he desires, so why does he not take it? Within me, he would forever be at peace. Those conflicting ideals of his would never clash again. No more blood, no more pain.

Pain.

My left hand braces a very slow attempt at standing. More organs protest and a few bones join in the chorus of agony. How nice.

It feels a bit like back then.

"How do you like that, Abel? Twice you've done this, and twice you've failed. Pitiful, isn't it?"

Spiteful satisfaction is really a wonderful thing; it helps with the pain. I finally reach a standing position, and test my balance with a few careful steps. Deep red blood leaves macabre polka-dots in the clean dust outside of my blood-stained resting place as I walk outward.

There's a truly unique scent to a Crusnik's blood. It's much less bitter and vile than that of a Terran, and sweeter and more metallic than Methuselah blood. It's quite distinctive.

I find Abel over the crest of the next hill, his body strewn haphazardly at its base. There's no dust beneath him, only spattered patches of grass that's grown far too long jutting from jagged rocks that all look black from dried blood.

I sigh. He always has to overcomplicate things, doesn't he? This whole issue of Terrans and Methuselah...of peace—it's all useless. Simply put, they are flawed. All of them. This peace he seeks will not last. What is needed is change, and change cannot be wrought in this world. To bring about change, a new world must be created.

It's that simple.

A steadily dripping line of scarlet obscures my vision, and I wipe it away, rubbing the wetness until it disperses across my palm. Abel. So much more trouble than you're worth. I once asked him what kind of future he desired. He'd been so torn then, just as he is now. Didn't he see as I pressed my palm against the glass separating us that I had already made up my mind? I wanted him to see. The power we have is the power that shapes worlds.

To use power wrongly is truly a grievous sin, but to have it and not put such a thing to use is unforgivable.

I chuckle softly and a stream of blood slips from my mouth. "In that way, you're a worse sinner than I, Abel."

The direct route to the bottom of this hill is too steep, so I take the longer walk until I'm beside him. There's not much reason to remain standing, so I lower myself to the ground. His face is upturned, back arched in pain. Sharp teeth clench together without tenderness, those closed blue eyes moving restlessly. He might be conscious, but I don't think he's aware of me. The fool would try to move if he was.

In him I can see the uncertainty that possessed him so long ago. He wants peace without killing, but his desire is a contradiction, because peace can sometimes only be obtained through war. I will change him back to what he was, where he could find his peace and his smile through the deaths of those that harmed us.

He gasps and stops moving abruptly, and I curiously lower my face to his chest. At the very least, he's still breathing. I gently lift a piece of long ash-colored hair from his eyes and wipe spatters of blood from his white, sweaty face. He feels feverish.

He'll live. I don't have any doubt that he'll be in agony for a long time—the effects of suddenly allowing the Crusnik to take control at one hundred percent can be quite harsh on one's body at first—but he'll make it through.

I lift bloodied fingers to my lips and taste his life, and then I spread his blood over the streaks of mine on my right hand. Together, just like it's supposed to be. Wouldn't he like that.

I smile softly as he bleeds and gasps for breath. "This is where your revenge and your ideals get you, brother."

Reacting to my voice, Abel subconsciously shies away, trying to move a body that obviously screams against it. He chokes and his mouth opens in a cry he can't utter as he falls back to the blackish blood-stained grass.

I spare him a quick glance as I stand to go. Soon enough he will regain consciousness, and it's best that I not be here when that happens. We both need time. I will see him when the time is right.

I can hear a child's frantic call on the warm wind.

It matters little. In one way or in another, we'll meet again soon.


Author's Notes: So...how was it? Any thoughts would be loved and hugged, dubbed "George" and eternally cherished. I hope to write some Abel x Esther soon, but I have no idea how that's going to go...or if I trust myself enough with the characters of the series to attempt anything else. How was my characterization? Any thoughts? (pushes the review button forward) Pretty please? With Crusniks on top?