“I-It was just a bad dream…”

Allen drifted off.

Lenalee was reaching up to pull his hand away from his left eye.

“Is it your left eye, Allen-kun…?”

The throbbing in Allen’s eye ceased as Lenalee asked this question, and Allen felt it deactivate.

She pulled his hand away from his face and Allen quickly wiped the blood in one swift motion as he brought his hand down.

He looked at Lenalee with his clear blue-gray orbs, locking gazes with her.

“Good morning the two of you!”

Allen jumped, startled by Komui’s sudden entrance.

He tumbled off the couch and hit the floor hard, sending a shockwave buzzing through his left arm.

The teen groaned, rubbing his head so that Lenalee wouldn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.

Besides, he’d landed on his head too.

It didn’t hurt as much though.

You get used to your head getting knocked into things with a barbaric master like Cross Marian.

-

That's all for now. (;

moonrise.♥

The Devil’s Symphony

Disclaimer: Look, if I owned D.Gray-Man, we’d be seeing all this crap down here in the anime itself. Especially the violin bits.

Prologue.

His heart beats faster, races, accelerates, adrenaline rushing through his system.

Light filtered out from a large window, lighting his face as he stood in the shower of rain.

He’d been walking around in the cold darkness for so long, that this ray of light blinded him.

Being out at night was something dangerous to do at the end of fall, just when winter was approaching, especially since there was the evident risk of frostbite.

The boy pretty much figured he’d already contracted it.

The ice-cold needle-like feel that the rain pounding on his back disappeared, replaced by the numb feeling of nothingness.

A figure stared out of the window, cup of hot, steaming coffee held loosely in his hands.

His breathing is laboured, and glimmering gemstones of sweat bead on his forehead, where creases line pale skin.

Ugh. It's this dream again. When will it ever be different?

He staggered up the sidewalk, arms tightly curled around the ivory-white instrument in a protective embrace. Blood continued to run its way down his cheek and neck soaking into the wooden instrument, giving it a bronze-red tint.

His left arm was burnt, left eye blinded, as he reached out to press the doorbell adjacent to the gold-rimmed teak door. His arm was already blood red with savage burns that were raw without treatment, and it trembled as more red liquid trickled down the short length of it, the forearm moving upwards to push the button. The stench of iron was lost in the rain.

He remembers the distinct smell of blood. He remembers the texture of the violin he held that had been soaked in water, tainted in blood. His blood.

His right eye was dull, blank, and the door opened moments after the sound of the bell rang, sketchy against the sound of rain beating against the windows. A small figure is revealed from behind the white-painted door, a silhouette against the light that shines from within the hall behind her.

“Nii-san, Nii-san!”             

Her high, soprano voice barely reached him. But he noticed the worry in her tone.

It’s the sound of wind chimes, he was sure, the sound of wind chimes and bells.

The voice of an angel.

Even in this hallucination, in this memory that is brought to the foregrounds of his mind every night, he can hear it loud and clear, echoing in his ears.

A man came to stand behind her, and his determination dissolved into nothingness, as he staggered further forward, loss of blood and fatigue taking its toll. He collapsed, slumping forward, earning a startled cry from the girl.

A drastic change.

The nightmare turns into a dream here, he’s certain; he’s memorized its every scene, its every insignificant detail.

The girl ran forward quickly to catch him in an embrace as the older man dived to make a grab for the delicate, fragile instrument that fell from his arms.

As much as he loves his rare white violin now that he can finally play it, how grateful he is that the man had caught his violin before it had managed to get damaged with the impact from the fall, he is more attentive towards the feeling of the girl’s touch in the dream, more sensitive to the fact that she had actually been nicer than the other people he’s seen before that encounter, to have caught him when he fell.

He remembers her warm, gentle hands as they caressed his face, stroking his cheek that night.

He was dripping, water trickling down his face, streaming from his hair onto the floor in tiny beads as it blended with the blood and mud that had been slowly washing away when he’d been outside in the rain, searching for shelter. The tainted liquid continued to dribble down the length of his arms and upper torso as they advanced.

He was fast losing consciousness, and he found it strange that the man carrying him didn’t seem to care about the dirt and grime on his clothes, much less the water that seeped and was absorbed by his own clean, dry clothes.

The boy was tired, but he looked around him, head dizzy from fatigue, eyelids heavy, as he attempted to recognize the surroundings, possibly identify the place.

But his weary silver eyes searched in a blur mosaic of bright lights and the brownish highlights of wooden furniture that whizzed by, the only figure he could really identify as a person being the girl that ran ahead of them, her lithe form standing out of the blurred vision that irritated his eyes. From her height, he could roughly guess that she was only slightly older than he.

He was being carried, and his vision was a blur, the only thing he saw being bright lights and the silhouette of the little girl that clutched his violin. He was brought into a room, and there were lots of children he could see, ranging from toddlers to young teenagers of about 13. They were staring at him, sending worried glances his way, he could see, as his vision cleared up, little by little.

The man sets him down in a tub as their little convoy arrives at the bathroom and disappears, taking the violin the girl had been carrying with him. The girl receives a fast request from the older man that is barely audible to him, and he hears it as “Clean him up and put him to bed. I’ll clean up the violin.”

One of the rather embarrassing moments in his life, yes, but also one of the sweetest.

Her hands were gentle on his skin, comforting, warm and soothing at touch. The left arm still seared, burned, and he knew how deep they went; the skin would never heal completely, and the scars would hurt for as long as he lived. The tub of warm water shattered his nerves, and he couldn’t help but cry as she tried as gently as she could to wash the blood and infectious bacteria away with a sponge.

He flinches in his sleep, knowing for sure that the next scene will renew the jabs of pain he feels tearing at the seams of his loosely sewn heart since the first time he’s had this dream.

She dabbed at his eye, and it flicked open like a switch, and a blood red pupil stared her down. He felt its undisputed individual will, felt her cringe away from the piercing stare it gave her. He tried his best, willed it closed, and his trembling hands were torn away from their frozen positions at his sides to take away the pain the stare gave the girl.

He first saw her face then, her angelic face, the violet orbs that were her eyes, those glittering amethyst gemstones that betrayed every feeling in her mind. He saw the beautiful features of her youthful face, the ebony bangs that fell on her forehead and long tresses that trickled down from her head, over her shoulders, spilling onto her back.

“I-I’m sorry…” he squeaked out in a weak voice, a voice gentle and careful, traumatized at the same time.

She was quickly out of her stupor, shaking her head, her eyes nervous, guard still up as she replied shakily in her high-octave voice, “It’s o-okay...”

He remembers her fearful voice, and it pains him, a gasp escapes his pale pink lips, eyes still shut tight.

He’d been put to bed, but was too anxious to sleep. Her pained expression haunted him. But then, he heard voices in the hallway; voices of the girl and, as he’d recently learned, her brother.

He tip-toed to the door, eavesdropping on the people speaking in hushed voices.

“It’s a wonderful instrument. It’s got over 500 years of time put into it. I can’t imagine who could have possibly given this child such an instrument!”

“Nii-san, do we have to give it to the police station?”

There was a short period of silence again before the conversation continued; the boy guessed a head gesture from the older brother. He was right. But there was more to be said.

“It came with that child, so we can’t do anything with it, since it should belong to him. We’ll ask him in the morning.”

“Oh.”

He could hear the smile in her voice.

Did this girl like violins?

“I’d like to try this violin out, though you’re the better musician, Lenalee.”

Some quiet, muted laughter was heard. They were probably trying not to wake the other children here.

“We’ll give it some time to dry up completely. I’d say that’d be tomorrow morning, at the rate this thing is drying up. It’s extraordinary!”

Giggles.

“Okay, Nii-san. Let’s play Canon in C Major tomorrow morning.”

No replies were heard and the shutting of doors as their locks clicked into place filled the silence that had quickly taken its place in the boy’s sensitive ears.

He grits his teeth. He really can’t escape this nightmare. There’s the turn for the worst here, the part where he realizes that his foster father’s death hadn’t been just a dream.

He blinked. He couldn’t remember where he was.

There was sunlight filtering in through a window.

And he’d had the weirdest of dreams.

Mana dying… And that angel…

It was brighter then, and now he could look around the room that he was in.

Dark-wood tables and a writing desk, a small armchair, a large wooden wardrobe decorated the room.  A dark red carpet that was strewn under it all, to match with the satin curtains that hung beside the large glass window.

This wasn’t his room!

Memories flashed in his head.

It hadn’t been a dream!

Mana was dead!

Mana was dead…

He was numb now.

Tears spilt over the dams in his eyes (wetting the bandage that was wrapped around his left eye socket), and his hands fell from where they had been attempting to wrench his hair out of his head.

“M-Mana…”

He snuffled, sobbed, the tears running down the length of his face steadily now, some even sneaking out from under the red-tinted white bandages.

He was the orphan he had been before the circus now…

His breathing slows, and he’s calmer now, as the dream continues on. He knows the best part-besides the girl catching him- is coming. He smiles in his sleep.

Music echoed in the silence of morning, and the chirping of birds outside stilled.

Violin.

A violin.

Another softer sound made its way to his ears, a more subtle, fluid sound.

There was a soft gasp of awe, and he guessed it to be the older man.

It was a beautiful sound, and the music swelled in his chest, a warm feeling engulfing him.

The sound is still perfectly comprehensive despite the years it has been since then, and he is pleased. He doesn’t want this dream to end.

But this is where things took a weird turn and landed him where he is now. He frowns.

The peace that had accrued from the long tranquil notes played on the two violins shattered with loud banging on the doors.

The boy’s right eye flew open and he gasped.

The music stopped as footsteps thudded loudly on the wooden panelled floor.

He couldn’t make out the conversation between the new guest and the girl’s older brother.

As the footsteps paused briefly, he heard a very distressed voice: “Please, what are you looking for?”

Then the footsteps continued loudly as the new visitor stormed down the hallway, approaching his room, little by little.

He could hear the booming voice of the man as he approached.

“This is his room, right?” the voice demanded, and the younger of the two men replied shakily, “Yes, but…”

He never got to finish his sentence.

He lets a groan escape him, and is whacked harshly, the same noisy voice from back then telling him to shut up because ‘some people want to sleep’.

But this did not pull him out of the dream as it usually did, surprisingly.

The boy sat petrified with horror as a red haired man slammed the door against the wall noisily, hearing the younger man behind him jumping at the sound.

It was from his first impression did he decide to label this man ‘brute’.

The man was intimidating and held the mannerisms of an alcoholic, which the boy was smart enough to tell, considering the obvious stench of the foul-smelling chemical that exuded from the man.

And as he stalked towards him, the small boy clambered down from his bed to hide under it.

The man made an annoyed noise, and lifted the bed up effortlessly despite its size and weight, much to the small boy’s bewilderment.

The red-haired ‘brute’ made a disgusted noise at the sight of him, and the boy thought he heard something about him being muttered under his breath. Something like, “His hair is silver too.”

This shocked the boy pretty much.

How could he have not noticed the light silver bangs that ran along the length of his forehead? They were utterly conspicuous!

The boy pondered this fact, and before he actually realized it, he was being picked up by his collar, choking.

He was too busy trying to breathe to hear it when the younger of the two adults in the room protested against the brute’s actions.

He’s surprised. The dreams didn’t usually escalate to this scene.

The protests continued, but this time, the boy actually heard what the man said.

“What are you doing, Cross?! You may be one of the elite trusted by the Council of Elders, but you do not have the right to take this boy away! He only arrived here last night, and he is not a student of this institution!”

This time, the boy was released, and landed on the floor with a light thud; he hadn’t been hanging too high from the ground for it to be dangerous.

“Don’t argue with me Komui. This boy is the holder of the fabled white violin, which I have been tasked to find, and train.”

The one named Komui seemed to back down, shrinking away as the boy was picked up once more and hauled away.

“Where’s the bloody instrument, Komui?”

He is amused again, even in his slumber, at the irony of this question.

A mutter that was barely audible escaped the bespectacled man’s lips.

The brute then marched into a room, liberating the boy from his hold for a moment at the door as he entered the room quietly, much to his surprise. He emerged from the room just as quietly, shutting the door behind him just as reticently, a small violin case in his hands.

The boy stared at him, silver eye wide; the other eye was covered in bandages. The man grunted.

“What are you looking at?” he barked, and the silver haired boy shuddered, his eye closing instantly.

The brute lit a cigarette, and Komui’s voice came again, protesting and intolerant, telling the red-haired brute not to smoke inside the dorms of the children.

And before he knew it, the boy had been dragged out of the building, again by the collar, and then, they were gone.

The train jerks to a stop and two large silver eyes fly open as the doors unbolt automatically and wind rushes into the train from outside. He’s thankful for the coat he has. That idiotic master of his hadn’t bothered to get him one. What kind of idiot wastes money and accumulates debts from non-essentials like beer instead of the fundamental stuff like clothes?!

He runs a hand through his unkempt white hair, aggravated. He’s usually paying off those debts afterwards after all. He sighs, hoping that the train ride will go by quickly and they can get off at their next destination.

As if he’d read his mind, Cross Marian pulls him to his feet, muttering “Wish granted.”

A violin case is thrust into his arms and he is kicked outside harshly, the wind knocked out of his lungs.

He lands on his back, just as his ‘assailant’ had intended, shielding the violin from the hard impact that awaited him.

He groans as he gets up slowly, and, with his free hand, rubs the back of his head, which has also, unfortunately, come painfully in contact with the cement floor of the train platform.

A map is then thrown into his face, and a sickening thud follows.

“Jeez…”

Allen rubs his nose as he picks up both the map and the violin case, getting to his feet.

But just as he stops rubbing his nose, yet another object is hurled at him. A compass is flung at him, smacking with full force into his face.

And just as the train doors close, he sees his master smiling wickedly at him, eye-the one that isn’t hidden by the mask covering the right side of his face- minimized to a single line that curved upwards in the middle.

The train leaves the station as the snow-haired boy gets up, dusting himself off.

And finally, once it is out of sight, he sighs, the blank expression on his face dissolving into a half-scowl-half-sigh expression.

He’ll have to find this place himself.

"Are you alright?"

He looks up to see the heart-shaped face of a girl. She’s smiling.

'She doesn't look like a local...'

"Er, yeah, I'm fine. Thanks."

Violet eyes, light porcelain skin, and ebony bangs.

There’s a slight dark blush creeping across her cheeks as well, he notes.

‘That sure confirms it. Usually the locals have adapted to the cold weather in their countries or regions. If her face is still showing some form of a dark shade of pink, that must mean she’s not accustomed to the temperature. Besides..’

He looks her up and down, scanning her features as she turns to face away from him walking away.

'…she looks Asian.'

'Hmn.'

Where has he seen her before...?

He calls after her.

“Hey, wait! Do you know how I can get to the Latitude Euphonic Faculty?”