A Million Swords Dark Ferret [Marybeth Mareski] ((Spoilers for 38-9, I suppose. Positively incoherent independent from the episodes.)) You are afraid to see me. You should be. If I had my druthers, I would rend you limb from limb. The floor would be a delicious crimson, coated solely in your blood. I am not a violent person, but I relish the idea of your death, slow and agonizing. Each sword of the million poking through your flesh, tasting the rusty scarlet of your lifeblood, none of them sated, all wanting more. Each causing particularly excruciating pain, a dazzling tempest of pain in each blow. A million is not enough. If I could, I would relish biting each piece of flesh from your bones and spitting it aside for the jackals to eat. The pain would last an eternity of sharp teeth tearing soft tissue from the bone, clinging tenaciously and hurting all the more for the effort. Can you imagine it? You would hardly be able to see for all the stars in your eyes, if you didn't faint, sobbing from the pain of it. And when I was done with the flesh, and only your innards remained, you would spend every moment in delicious terror as the jackals and I ripped cord and muscle from inside the beast, each string pulling in spectacular anguish. And still it would not be enough to repay for what you have done. I have no concern about myself. I have not, from the beginning. It is simply the idea of what you did to her, how each of those million swords ached for your blood and received hers instead. Can you understand? Surely you can't. You can't imagine the agony of it, of the steel cutting into soft, helpless flesh, greedily drinking the blood of life. A million times. Do you hear me? A MILLION TIMES. You can't comprehend the number. The first time, going straight through the stomach, severing the spinal cord. Feeling the blood flow down your stomach, sheer and sticky. Feeling it flow down your legs. You didn't bargain on still feeling your legs, did you? But no, the swords will not let you die, for then you would miss out on the spectacular agony. And another is coming for your blood. The second time, right through the center of you. It strikes like a vicious kick, slamming the body against the apex upon which it hangs, cutting the wrists until it becomes a wonder that you don't fall from the lack of resistance. The only thing that holds you there is your wrists, broken from the impact, cut from the sword. Mere sheets of skin, unyielding so that the agony can continue, hold you in place. Your skin, being cut into by the fierce blade. The third, right through the heart. The blood there slams throughout the body, a hot explosion like gunpowder searing the veins. And even with the steel in it, the heart still beats, so that your agony might continue. With each beat, the fractured container explodes scorching heat through you, so that you wonder how your veins are not melted. The fourth, fracturing your jaw, unhinging it. It hangs, swinging, each breath incredible pain with it, for it sways like a pendulum in a grandfather clock, dripping with blood. You can taste it, sour heat pumping into your mouth, nearly suffocating you. The fifth, through the lung, lustily severing ribs as it goes in, sheathing the steel in your flesh. Each breath is pure misery, and yet without breathing your heart pumps more searing agony through the veins, and you still choke with the blood flowing like a river from your jaw. Every breath sets you sobbing, for it opens the flesh around the sword and closes it again, a new wound every time. And sobbing sets you breathing more. You pray for death but cannot get the words out for your jaw cannot move. The breath still comes out in effort, but it splutters in the gathering blood in your mouth. You take solace, silently, that at least it can hurt no more than this. You are wrong. The sixth slams through your skull. For a brief moment, you cry tears of joy, for now it must end. And then the frigid agony has your lungs afire from screaming so loudly. All of the previous pain is mere tickles in comparison. Blood streams down the sides of your face as your throat is instantly raw from the volume of the screams. Your voice cracks several times in one scream, a paragon of anguish. You thrash in misery and the sword jerks, causing fresh wails. You distantly feel the sword cutting into your lung, the two pieces of your rib grating against each other, the excruciating suffering of the searing blood pumping through your raw veins, the rags of skin -- all that remains of your wrists -- cutting against the sword. Your fractured jaw sends piercing pain throughout your entire head, feeding on the apex of utter agony that is your fractured skull and impaled brains. Another sword slams into your throat, stopping the screaming. You can feel the warmth of the blood choking you, can hear the wet gasps that will continue on forever. Until the millionth blow. This is the seventh. You cannot comprehend a million. The number is too large. It cloaks the truth. It assigns only one value to again and again and again and again and again. You should not be afraid to see me. You should be terrified. I will have an eternity to think of retribution for what you did to her, each idea more gruesome than the last. And I will implement them for an eternity. Do you understand? Can you try to grasp that, to comprehend it? To briefly forget your ego and struggle to realize how I hate you? You were not afraid because I did not feel for myself. You understood me as meek because I had no concern for myself. But you did this to HER. And I will make you suffer a million times what she suffered. But first, I am going to find her. I am going to whisper sweet nothings into her ear, going to tell her how much I love her, how much I've missed her, going to claim what we never had. We could spend eternity doing this, sharing each other for the sake of each other. But when the eternity ends, I will find you, and I will make you understand this hate in my eyes. I hate you, Oniisama. Words cannot express my hatred for you. But one day, I will return, and I will make you understand. In the meantime, ponder what you have done. -end shortfic- Shoujo Kakumei Utena does not belong to me, but if it did I'd make a lot of neat merchandise based off the show and go around wearing it constantly. And the movie, too. I want Juri's uniform. And hair. I think the fic speaks for itself, so there's no author's notes required. I hope you enjoyed it like the sick little kid you are. If not, I hope you didn't vomit or anything. I don't want to be sued for your weak stomach. "She knows if you die, then we all do. Everything's underground. We gotta dig it up somehow." - Radiohead, Banana Co.