Palette Series: Achromatic [AkaKuro Fanfiction]

First Part - Achromatic

Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroko no Basuke. Fujimaki Tadatoshi-sensei owns it. The only thing I own is this story.

I do not own the cover photo either. (Just my lame editing skills lol)

Warning: Grammatical errors, limited vocabulary, unbetaed. :3

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A certain winter night.

Dead silent was the hour of darkness. The air was cold, crisp, prickling the skin. The ground was soggy from the moist brought about by the fog. The surrounding was shrouded with a dreadful mist––mysterious, minacious.

The chilling wind of wintertide howled like the ghastly whisper of a creature of the night. The distant flapping of fabric carried by the billowing air swept in tune with the wind, breaking the otherworldly quietude.

A ghostly scene rolled behind the thick fog.

A male of youthful age stood in the middle of a clearing, shivering with each blow of the wind, dressed in a pure white robe so thin and wispy that it didn't appear to give him any protection from the gelid season at all. The cloth was as white as snow, and the poor boy's skin being pallid created an eerie semblance to that of a porcelain doll's––one so fragile, nobody would risk touching.

The boy's teal hair accentuated the mystic atmosphere surrounding him as each strand fluidly swayed with every breath of the wind. All it did was stress his frangibility.

His frail hands were bound with thick ropes so tight that it gnawed through his skin. His fingers were tightly clasped together as if in prayer. The ropes tautly secured his wrist, bruising with each knot, marring his once smooth forearm with multiple cuts and burns.

His eyes were blindfolded with a black fabric with golden writings of what seemed to be some sort of ancient scriptures––a dead language spoken only by the gods.

Shallow puffs of breath slipped past the young boy's purple lips as he trembled. The coldness of the night made his entire body quiver.

Left.

Abandoned.

Forsaken.

He wanted to cry, but that would only anger the gods. Or so, that was what the elders from the village taught––brainwashed, rather––him with.

"You were born to become a sacrifice. Nothing else." The tormenting voice spoke in the back of his mind. The only reason he lived this long was because of this––he was a sacrifice to the gods, so his village could prosper. If it were what it would take for him to be free, then he would gladly play the role.

But it was cruel.

He wanted to scream, to let out series of curses, but even that was out of option, since his mouth was gagged with fabric similar to the one covering his eyes. It was tied just enough behind his head to make sure that he was still capable of breathing––capable of breathing until the end of the ritual, for after the ceremony, he would be nothing more but a soul case deprived of life. He swallowed the bile that formed in his throat at the thought.

Terrifyingly, the sound of the bells chimed. His heart stopped. It was the horrifying signal; the beginning of the ritual.

The fog gradually lifted as small flickers, one by one, materialized. Flames flickered, enclosing the tealette boy in a circling glow. The minute luster from the candles revealed a number of hooded figures around the boy. They were all wearing velvet black robes, contrasting the white one the boy was wearing. The robes reached the ground, and shadows were cast upon the hooded figures, because of the candles' flames.