Love Lost, Love Found

Warnings: Yes. A Karasu/Kurama deal. A three parter. ^^ Part one has… poetry in it. O.o; The original Ninja Froggy Yaoi goodness is in part two. Yaoi, sadomasochism, and the sadistic yet loving side of Karasu that you see tormenting Kurama in the Dark Tournament is in the third part. Somewhat dark and morbid. Readers beware; part three’s a song fic!!! Muahahaha!!! *CoughGag*

Disclaimer: I still do not own Yu Yu Hakusho and I doubt I ever will. But I can still hope! You should know how it would be if I did. No one would ever see Kurama and Karasu (for reasons I still wont disclose, but I bet you have an idea) and all it would be is Hiei running around killing people and bashing Kuwabara. Silly Hiei. ^^ Also, Karasu would never have died. It would have been so much interesting if they “buddied up” in the show. Meep. ^^
I also don’t own “The Raven.” Edgar Allen Poe wrote it… though I’m sure you already knew that. Nor do I own IOWA. That song would be property of Slipknot. Shows how much talent I have, huh?
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1 The Raven

Kurama sat reading through the many volumes of fiction at his desk, tiredly perfecting his poetry exposition for his language course at school. He had been working on this paper nonstop ever since he had arrived home, and the clock had recently chimed midnight minutes ago. Setting his bookmark in one of his numerous books and shutting it, he leaned back and stretched in an attempt to drive the sleep away. With a yawn he rubbed his eyes, only to be interrupted by a tapping muffled by loud claps of thunder. It was faint but it was clearly a tapping, as if someone was gently rapping his or her finger against his window or door.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore -
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door…

Kurama looked up from his tedious writings and to the door. ‘No one should be here. I was left alone for the night. Maybe it is Hiei entreating entrance at my window?’ He turned his emerald gaze to the window. It was very atypical weather for a December. Instead of the usual snow, rain was pouring from the darkened heavens in sheets, only luminated by the sharp streaks of lightning. The outside world seemed unwelcoming compared to the warmth of his room. A small fire blazed contained, ash flicking off the tongues of flame as if a dragon breathing onto the floor. ‘A mess to clean later, along with a heater to fix.’ The scene outside was drab and desolate, save for the shorter form precariously perched on his windowsill. Hurriedly, he brushed away a few strands of his mildly unkempt red hair as he unlocked the window and opened it, allowing the damp Jaganchi access into his dry room. Hiei swiftly hopped in, perching in his usual spot within his room.
“Hiei, I had a feeling you would visit tonight.”
“Hn. It’s raining.”
“Yes. It has been for some time now. Would you like anything?”
Hiei, by now, had sat down and was shaking some of the clinging water droplets from his clothes. “No.” Hiei was studying him, scarlet eyes looking him over. “Are you feeling alright, Kurama?”
“Hmm… I’m fine.” He sat down next to his smaller friend, leaning against him. The fire apparition’s warmth was a welcoming feeling to his cold body. “I’ve been feeling a bit… lonely, that’s all.”
“You feel feverish to me.” Hiei was eyeing him oddly, edging away from him. “You sure your fine?”
“Of course. Is something wrong?”
“Hn. I dislike being around people when they’re in heat. Maybe I should go.” The Jaganchi stood up and reopened the window, climbing out.
“Hiei, I’m not in heat.”
Hiei glanced at him momentarily before leaping out of the window, back into the downpour, and looked for a different place to find shelter. He stood at the vacant window, staring out into the gloom.
“Hiei…”
He shut the window, now partially drenched from the intruding rain. Alone again. He sighed and drew the curtains together, closing himself off from the rest of the world. Somewhat reluctantly he turned away, heading towards his bed, only to be stopped by his own reflection. He looked horrible. To him the world had lost its original luster, his appearance reflecting his feelings, his clothed disheveled, hair dulled, eyes glossy. He turned away from himself, heading past his bed and out of his room. A shower. He needed a shower.
He slouched his way through the hall, walking into the bathroom and turning the faucet on. He tested the water and tugged off his clothes, the material falling limply around his ankles as he stepped into the bathtub. The water was warm but the shower was only slightly comforting. The water cascaded down his body as he stood there motionlessly, eyes closed. ‘When did I start feeling this way? Was it after the last tournament? That was when everyone went their separate ways… and left me alone. When did this start to bother me? Solitude never had this effect on me. I had been in groups before when I was Yoko, and my separation from them never meant anything to me like this. Maybe Hiei was right, my isolation with humans has made me soft…’
He turned the faucet off, standing there a moment longer in thought. Why must I be like this? He wrung out the excess water from his hair and stepped out of the bath. He scooped up his dirty clothes and carried them back to his room, dropping them in his clothes hamper. The house was dark and vacant, excluding him, so when he neglected to bring his nightclothes to the shower with him, there was no problem. He walked to his night table and collected his clothes. An oversized shirt sufficed as nightclothes for him. He slipped it over his head, slipping his arms in their appropriate openings, letting the light fabric flutter down his body. He pulled his damp, limp hair from his shirt and slid his brush through it, teasing out any soggy knots and tangles. He looked back at his reflection. Now he appeared both damp and lifeless. A zombie. He sighed again and turned back to his bed, falling face down into the sheets. ‘Maybe if I get some sleep I’ll feel better in the morning.’ He drew the covers around him, burrowing into the comforters. He lie there for some time, curled into a ball, tears gathering in his closed eyes.
Then the tapping began again. He peeked over his covers and peered between the curtains. He saw no silhouette of the Jaganshi. He hadn’t expected to be paid a return visit. ‘Most likely it was merely the wind blowing branches against the window, nothing more.’

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor…

But the wind was not blowing, no branches were moving, and the tapping repeated itself once more. ‘What is the meaning of this? An unseen visitor then?’ He could sense no spirit energy. The tapping continued, louder than before. ‘It is at my window.’ His curtains fluttered, a real breath of air wafting in through the small crack of an opening he had allowed his window. Kurama’s heart fluttered, a small thrill possibly entering his life after the years of traveling with the spirit detective and his entourage, years before entering college.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before…

Kurama rose from his bed, quietly walking to the window. Here he drew back the curtains, and opened the window fully. At first it seemed as if no one was truly there, until, with a feathery flutter, a great ebony bird perched onto his forearm. The moment was brief, the majestic bird gliding to his book of poetry. There it perched and fluffed it feathers by the small fire, warming itself away from the cold outside.

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Kurama gazed at the visiting bird and closed the window halfway, shutting out most the cold gusts of winter. The raven merely sat fluffed and returned his gaze. He turned his back to the window and released the curtains. ‘A better visitor than what I expected.’ A small smile graced his featured, despite the fatigue and depression he felt. “Do you have a name, dear Raven?” He stepped closer towards the flying beast, a hand outreached to stroke the delicate, glossy feathers it bore. The bird boldly sat still, despite the approaching hand. ‘How foolish I must seem, asking a bird it’s name as if expecting a response. Only trained parrots and cockatoos can speak in a human language. A common wild raven cannot.’ His finger barely brushed against the soft down of the bird’s wing before he was interrupted by the raven’s reply.
“Nevermore.”

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“The thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

Kurama drew his hand away in surprise. The curious bird had replied with a clear, understandable word. ‘Although an answer like that is irrelevant. After all, who has ever had a raven guest perch upon a book of poetry with the name “Nevermore?” It is as if this bird is strait from the pages of that very book. The Raven named Nevermore.’

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
With such a name as “Nevermore.”

The magnificent raven merely sat by the fire, silent. ‘The way that single word was said sounded so pleading, but so sure. As if the bird could only utter that one word, but knows that all will be understood.’ Kurama watched his feathered guest, full of interest and curiosity. The bird sat unmoving, watching him just as intently. He sighed as he sullenly spoke to himself under his breath. “Everyone moves on, including this little bird. When I wake tomorrow, he will fly off and migrate with all the others.”
“Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered, “Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”

The raven’s reply startled him, not expecting the stillness around him to be broken by another. His emerald green eyes blinked at the ebony bird. He quietly huffed, composure quickly regained, leaving him all the more intrigued by the visiting passerine bird. “A pet most likely. That must be the only word it learned. A tragedy that is can sing nothing more than ‘nevermore.’”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore -
Of ‘Never - nevermore.’”

Kurama continued smiling at his intriguing guest, taking his seat at his study in front of the bird. He leaned back into the chair and pondered what meaning this one word may have to him, coming from this foreboding bird of many legends. What could it mean in saying ‘nevermore?’

But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
Strait I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

Kurama gazed intently at the gloomy bird, contemplating silently. His gazed was being returned by said bird, whose eyes appeared if captured in flame, the table lamp casting its shadow onto him. Dark violet eyes burning into his own, seeming to pierce his soul. He had seen those eyes before. But where?

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er…

He took a sharp intake of breath in recognition. Those eyes. They were the eyes of a demon. A demon he slew years ago… or so he had thought. The air felt strangely thick, the raven’s familiar scent now wafting throughout the room. “Fiend, back from hell? What brings you to this world?”

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from some unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he hath sent thee…”

“Tell me truthfully why you’re here. Tell me your true name.“ The bird’s welcome had expired along with Kurama’s faint smile. The raven merely sat on top of his volumes of poetry, ebony feathers fluffed beside the fire that its eyes rivaled in brilliance. Then it spoke, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home be Horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore -…
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

Kurama rose from his chair and hovered over the bird’s smaller form. “Leave. Go back to where ever you came from! I wish to see no trace or feather of you. Leave me alone. Leave my books and fly, fiend!”
And just like the raven from his studies, it quoted itself. “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting -
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie the soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

The demon bird didn’t move. On his book of poetry it perched, gazing dreamily at his form, the small desk lamp shining down on its feathered frame and casting its shadow onto the floor. In that shadow he stood fixed in disbelief as the bird faded from view. Emerald eyes quickly scanned the room. The disappearance was no after image. The demon was nowhere to be seen, as if it had faded from existence, leaving him standing there, downcast, afraid, and confused, unsure if he could recover.

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!