Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Why do people do the things that they do?

That was the main question on fourteen-year-old Chrollo Lucilfer’s mind as he dipped his blood-soaked hands in the bucket of lukewarm water. What, exactly, made them choose the paths that they took? What pushed and pulled them from one point to the next, closing off the universe’s multitude of possibilities one-by-one? What was it, precisely, that made them tick?

Was it sheer human ambition that drove a father to abandon his family in pursuit of riches unforetold, or fate that decreed he waste away his acquired wealth before the people he should have cared for saw even a single coin?

Was it years of heartache and despair that forced a mother to forfeit her own life, or had destiny always intended for her to swing like a pendulum from the wooden beams of the dingy hovel she had tried so hard to make her home?

Was it pure hatred that compelled a son upon finding his mother’s body to finally dispose of that wretch he called father, or merely the cycle of time, turning ever forwards from a bitter dusk to an empty dawn?

Or perhaps… Perhaps it wasn’t hatred at all, but rational self-interest. The hands of fate reduced to simple mathematics-- the needs of the individual weighted against that of the collective. Could that have served as an adequate driving force, without the need for such pesky predetermination? He wasn’t quite sure. Human behaviour certainly vexed Chrollo. His own was no exception.

Sighing, he withdrew his hands from the bucket and pressed them into the old rag that had been draped over the wood stove. In the dim light of the flickering lightbulb that hung in the centre of the room, he could barely make out the imprint of embroidered roses, decorated along the edge. The motif was instantly recognizable to the boy. It was his mother’s favourite dishcloth.

She had been so happy when she had first pulled it from the heap of scraps someone had carelessly tossed within the boundaries of Meteor City. A blessing, she had called it, back when her face used to light up with joy-- an expression Chrollo hadn’t seen since the moment the man who dared call himself her husband abruptly re-entered their lives, burdened her with another child, and drank himself to oblivion before the sun sank each night. Fate had a strange sense of humour that it was that very same cloth he was using to remove the last remnants of that accursed man from his pale hands as if doing so would completely wipe him from history.

A blessing, indeed.

Chrollo’s footsteps creaked as his bare feet pressed down on the rotten wood flooring. He moved swiftly around the tiny room, careful to avoid stumbling over the slumped figure that lay like a ragdoll near the front door. The dim light glinted off the dull silver handle of the knife protruding from the large man’s head, blood still pooling around his matted black hair as it slowly drained beneath the floorboards. With his neck twisted awkwardly to the side, it was easy to see the look of shock and horror that was chiselled into his statuesque features, fated to remain as such until time welcomed him into the earth and out of living memory.

As the boy passed by, he stopped and pressed his toe into the corpse’s frigid cheek, the sudden pressure drawing a burst of blood from his parted lips. He released the damp rag from his hands, watching as it fluttered down, coming to rest over the dead man’s twisted face like a burial shroud.

Chrollo was about to move away from the body when a glint of gold caught his eye. Bending down, his gaze narrowed in on the man’s wrist. Pulling back the sleeve of the corpse’s shirt, he lifted the arm up, exposing a shiny golden watch, diamonds embedded into the face of the timepiece. Disgust bubbled in his chest as he unclasped the fancy device and held it up in the air, turning it over to reveal the familiar initials in ornate lettering that had been carved onto the back.

What a sick, selfish individual, putting his own desires over that of the family. Whether it was fate’s will or my own, he has certainly met the end he deserves.

When he could bear to look at it no longer, he stuffed the watch into his pocket and turned away, his attention now fixed on the old door made of decaying wood and rusted hinges at the very back of the house. From behind it, he could barely make out the faint sound of a child’s voice, carrying a soft melody. His ears tuned to the noise, he walked towards the door, keeping his footsteps light so as to avoid the creaky floorboards. Grasping the doorknob, he carefully opened it.

On the other side of the door was a tiny bedroom, consisting only of a single mattress made of straw-- complete with a hole-ridden blanket draped atop it-- and a lopsided broken dresser that had been left to rot in the corner. Sitting on the dirt floor was a small dark-haired figure wearing a dress of tattered linens, hunched over with her back facing him. She hummed quietly to herself as she played with a doll fashioned from a corn husk, navigating it across the edge of the straw mattress.

“Lilletz,” he called softly.

She put the doll down on the floor, shifting her body in the direction of his voice, her head tilted curiously. “Chrollo?”

Entering the room, he knelt down beside her, giving her a gentle smile. “Did you hear any unusual noises coming from outside?”

“No,” she answered plainly. “Just yelling. But there’s always yelling.”

“Ah, I see. Don’t worry. There will be no more yelling, I’m sure of it.” Reaching forwards, he swept her bangs out of her big grey eyes. “Now, Lilli, I need you to listen to me. We’re going to play a new game right now, okay?”

“A new game?”

“Yes. It’ll be fun, I promise. In this game I am going to carry you out of the house, but I need you to keep your eyes closed the whole time. Can you do that for me?”

The little girl nodded slowly. “Where are Mama and Papa? Are they playing, too?”

Chrollo shook his head. “Mama and Papa are… busy. They can’t play with us anymore. From now on, it’s just going to be you and me.”

Her confused expression told him that she didn’t quite understand, but even at the tender age of five, the girl knew better than to question the words of her older brother. Instead, when he opened his arms, she latched tightly onto him, allowing him to scoop her up.

“Close your eyes,” he whispered in her ear, lightly pressing her face into his shoulder. He kept a firm hand on the back of her neck as he rose to his feet, feeling the way her tiny fists balled around the cloth of his loose shirt. “Close your eyes and trust me, little one. As long as you do that… no harm will ever befall you.”