Lucilfer (ChrolloxReader)

Chapter 67

What would I say? Feeler was harmless enough, and though it was related to the way Exorcist worked, it was far from an auric-draining ability. Was there a way I could split its range in two? Perhaps I could name its fatal characteristics as an entirely separate technique, and keep the name Feeler for its emotional range.

What would I call it, though...?

Constrictor?

"Really original, (Y/n)," I scoffed mutedly to myself, rolling my own eyes and turning to hang the towels up on the hooks.

That was possible, however, and the best path to take when introducing my Nen to Kurapika. Once again, I felt a pinch in my chest at lying to him, a reaction to already having lied plenty to an individual who deserved none of it. My teeth gritted slightly, my jaw tightening, and I swallowed forcibly, shoving back those guilting emotions and burying them under the mental weight of numbness.

I've lied so much to him.

Or, for the benefit of my selfish, frail mind, I could call it withholding the truth. I wasn't exactly making up stories, but such was hardly a moral replacement. Either way, I was being deceitful.

I didn't know when I'd ask him for help with Feeler, but it needed to be soon—practicing alone was too scarring, and it brought back too many memories with the loosening of my hardened, frozen and hidden inner thoughts and emotions. Even though I'd made progress, I could see that the continuation of progress would only mean more pain, more memories I didn't wish to recall, things I'd utterly blocked out as an automatic defense mechanism learned by a defenseless young girl. For this, too, I would be leaning on Kurapika for strength, for steadfastness and stability.

Maybe in doing, I can learn more about what it is that he hides.

That was hardly fair. I kept so much from him, but still assumed it was my right to intrude on his emotions and what he didn't understand. No, I couldn't—in these last months of being his friend, someone he trusted, I couldn't expect any extra effort from him. If there came a time when he found it necessary to divulge to me the extent of his feelings, I would listen, but only then would I dare to try to understand them.

"I don't want you to die, Kurapika."

My own words floated through my head and mocked the decision I'd made. It was still true; I didn't want him to die. But fate was a bastard when it truly wished to be, and I was at the end of my rope for holding onto this secret.

What was forgiveness? What was unforgiveness? In its most simple terms, the former was an outstretched hand towards those one deemed deserving of mercy, of grace, of a second chance. The latter, however, was a purposeful and conscious relinquishing of all such mannerisms towards one who might be the target of another's vendetta, or one who had committed an atrocious act against the other. Unforgiveness was perhaps as simple as the concept of love or of hatred, but like love and hatred, it is woefully underestimated under a vague ideology and violently turbulent when applied to the life of an individual. It boils and it grows behind everything else, and soon, there is nothing else but unforgiveness.

Was forgiveness, then, simply the act of releasing the vice of unforgiveness? Perhaps it wasn't consciously reaching out and extending grace; perhaps it was letting go. I certainly hadn't extended grace towards those who abused me, those who tormented me and haunted me, but I didn't carry the burning flames of unforgiveness anymore. Or rather, the flames I carried weren't quite as stifling anymore—they were manageable, and diminishing still with every moment I spent loving Chrollo. I would never offer grace or mercy; such creatures couldn't deserve as much, not in this life, nor the next. But I could gradually forget the identity they assigned to me, and build my own in the arms of my lover.