I let my fingers roam through the pile on the desk, bestowing the same treatment on a dozen others. Darkness has become a fad among my silly, naive schoolmates, it would seem. Or perhaps it has always been so, amongst these third levels who think themselves so grown up. But I am in my second year, now, and if it had been a fad before, surely I would have received some notice until then. My year mates have known of my other side since first level.

I stand, pushing away from my desk and pace to the other side of my room, staring into the mirror above my dresser. Fingers roaming idly through the scent bottles and jewellery scattered across the glossy black surface, I examine my reflection. It holds the answer, I realize, as I stare at the image of myself. I lift my hand from amongst the uninteresting trinkets upon my dressed and touch my cheek lightly. The moonlight dancing through the window lends my unusually pale skin a silver glow. I caress a high cheek bone, then allow my fingers to roam down and touch my lips. I smile at myself, the smile I show my classmates. It’s soft and warm, perhaps even alluring to some. It vanishes and I tilt my head to one side, considering this. Then I allow myself to think of something that brings my true smile to my lips. Even I am startled by the result. The expression brings such light to my face that I would surely put my namesake to shame. I touch one of the deep dimples in my cheeks with bemused fingers, before they travel up to touch the corner of one of my eyes. I blink softly, once, and know the deep, shining blue of my eyes has been temporarily hidden in a veil of black silk, although I cannot see it. When I open my eyes, I touch my hair lightly. It’s short, contrary to the fashion of the second, which favours the slightly long, silken look my older brother sports. Naturally. I run my fingers through my hair and watch the silver moonlight turn the black strands into gleaming midnight blue, then lower my hand back to the top of the dresser. The explanation for the odd attention I’ve been receiving in something so simple as a mirror. I suppose I must be one of those late bloomers.

I chuckle softly to myself, low and rough and full of a more bitter emotion than I’d ever allow my family or my schoolmates to hear. Was this what my all-knowing uncle saw in me that no one else did, six years ago? This beauty of shadows and moonlight and youth? Was this why he said those horrible words to his partner, when he thought no one else was in the room?

“That one scares me, Dragon. I look into those blue eyes and I see such darkness . . . I worry . . . I worry that That Person has come back, someone, in his body, to get revenge for something that happened all those years ago . . . He looks innocent but I remember That One did as well. It would explain where he got that magic from . . .”

I shut my eyes at the memory. Six years and it still brings tears to my eyes, remember one of my favourite uncle’s words. I now know I should not have been hurt, he had been merely unsettled by a nearly successful assassination on my father . . . Hadn’t he? I shiver, my fingers curling into fists as I remember running from the room where I’d been hiding from one of my sister’s in a game of hide-and-seek, ignoring my uncle’s wide, startled golden gaze and soft curses, running past him with tears in my eyes, running to my grandfather - Was Grandfather still Here then? He must have been, because I can remember running until my legs collapsed and burying my face in his lap, that soft lap, covered in black velvet, and crying like an infant and not a child of a full ten years. I can remember my acute embarrassment, my shame at letting Grandfather see me so week, yet being unable to stop the flow of tears, even as he lifted me in his arms and held me close, listening in his quiet way as I sobbed out those hurtful words I had heard my uncle murmuring.

I can remember, vaguely, that Grandfather said nothing, merely shared a look with Grandpa, who left without a word. I never did find out what Grandpa left to do. I suspect he may have gone and spoken to my father. And Father - Father must have spoken to my uncle. I certainly have no memories of him for several weeks after that incident.

I drift from my mirror and the dresser, over to my bed. I sit down on it, lightly, barely creasing the blankets. I stroke my pillow, my eyes narrowed in thought. I remember Grandfather bringing me here as I continued to cry, and sitting on the bed with such lightness that he probably wasn’t even touching it. He made soft, soothing noises, more serious than he usually did, which I suspected, even as a child, were always a little bit amused at the expressive, easily moved emotions of children. He got me to stop crying, eventually, and set me down carefully on my bed, pulling the blankets over me for a warmth I hadn’t been aware I needed. I put my head in his lap and he didn’t move away, merely stroked my hair with long, gentle fingers, and from somewhere, produced the worn blue baby blanket with the yellow and green designs on it that I’d been wrapped in as an infant and a worn terry-cloth rabbit with black eyes made out of old buttons. I remember both things quite distinctly, because at the time the maid who cleaned my room was an old battle axe of a woman who didn’t believe big boys should need stuffed animals or old blankets. Or that princes should ever own such things. I remember myself, feeling very grown-up, refusing to cry at the removal of my precious childhood toys, and firmly agreeing with her actions. Until the moment Grandfather produced them, at least, and I clutched both tightly, barely resisting the urge to begin sobbing again.

I remember laying there for quite awhile, wide awake while my grandfather no doubt wished I would sleep. Not that he would ever say such a thing. He merely stroked my hair lightly until my grandpa returned and settled on my other side. For a minute, my grandfather’s fingers stilled in my hair. I remember raising my eyes to Grandpa and he giving me one of those wide, brilliant white smiles that glowed in his dark face, before pulling out a story book with the beautifully elaborate pictures I’ve always loved. Grandfather began stroking my hair again. I curled up promptly under my blankets, although my head remained on Grandfather’s lap, and I watched my grandpa open the story book with fine, dark fingers, and begin reading in a beautiful, light voice until Grandfather’s warmth and soft fingers, Grandpa’s gentle voice, and the beautiful pictures in the story book lulled me into sleep.

The fingers that stroked my hair so gently, and those that held the book gently at just the right angle for me to see everything, I remember both sets quite well. When I looked at them a certain way, they glistened with blood. I suppose I remember the way the glistened with it at those times when my gift flashed off and on like lightning because they were such a great contrast to my parents. My parents at those times would glow with light and purity. My grandparents were dark with blood staining their hands.

When I saw my uncle again, I had forgiven him his hurtful words. Days after my tears I had spoken with Grandfather about them and I knew I wasn’t That Person. Grandfather loved me too much to be That Person and I knew even then that Grandfather would never love anyone who would have hurt Father the way That Person is said to have hurt him. If I had That Person’s spirit, Grandfather would have seen the day I was born. He has the power to, I knew even as a child. I remember hugging my uncle tightly and asking him for stories of pirates and swordsmen and great sorcerers and to sing me songs, like I always had before. And he did. I knew he was relieved that I seemed to have forgotten the words he had spoken in anger and frustration.

But I hadn’t. I never have. I know he was right, partially. Behind the smile everyone sees, behind my clear blue eyes, I know there is darkness in me. I can even name it. It is yin. I’ve known about it for ten years, by name. Longer, perhaps, in my soul. Ten years ago was when Father tested me for any signs of a potential omnyoujitsu power. And found my talents lay the opposite of his. My father controls yang. The male, the light, the sun, the good. I’ve always found it depressingly ironic that the two of my siblings who also have the power can control yang. And are female. Of course, Father taught me everything he knew of his branch of omnyoujitsu and I learnt it quite well but . . . My talents have always lain on the other side. The side of yin. The dark, the moon, secret. Female. I grin helplessly to myself, without amusement, as my fingers roam the surface of my bed and find the form of my old terry-cloth rabbit. I life it and examine it without taking anything in, and stroke it’s faded ears.

Theoretically, I am an onmyouji. A Yin-Yang Magician. I have been one for four years. I have practised those things my father taught me as part of the yang side. I can do them quite easily, it takes little effort on my part. But how can I ever practise the other side? I’ve had no master to teach me, I know only what I’ve studied in books. Which is not enough, I know. Sometimes yin surfaces, and it is not even in the form of magic, which, while often shocking, is also awe-inspiring and instills respect. Often my darkness comes to the surface when I am laughing and talking with my foolish classmates. Trying to be normal.

Normal. I laugh bitterly, tears stringing at my eyes. I clutch the rabbit in my hands more tightly, wishing for the days when my grandparents were still Here. Without normalcy of some sort, life as an adolescent is painful beyond the memories of those adults who have long left their years of wild, rollicking hormones and bitter angst behind. I am accustomed to being ignored, to being held in contempt or avoided because of my status. I am used to being mocked or unable to participate properly in groups which laugh and delight in the things that those of my age should. This, however . . . This new desire on the part of my year mates, who can remember the times the darkness have surfaced, and now wish to - What? Own my darkness? Own me? Experience it? Wish for it to rub off on them? All because of this . . . this new face, still soft and innocent with full cheeks and dimples, but with a certain sharpness to it as well? This new body, slim and supple and alien to me? How could I have not noticed it, my transformation from awkward child to something of graceful beauty that does not feel like my own? I wonder when it happened and I hug my legs, thinking of my grandparents. There was never any need to be anything but true with them, while they were Here. They were all-knowing and unjudgemental.

They, too, I know, had darkness in them. Greater darkness than my own. Not only a darkness of power, but one that has long stained them by their past actions. They’re dark, far darker than I am. And yet, it seems to cause them no difficulty at all. Grandpa could easily convince almost anyone in the country that his decisions were correct, even ones that I’m sure they held in great suspicion. Like his marriage to Grandfather. Neither are plagued by confusion or fear of their darkness. They do not fear the darkness they see in each other. They seem to almost embrace it. They control their darkness.

I uncurl my legs. Every since that day I heard my uncle’s words and was comforted by my grandparents, I know what I’ve wanted. I want to be like Grandfather. He is the darkest person I know. Looking at him through the eyes of an omnyouji, he is someone of such darkness that he is barely more than a shadow. Yet at the same time he glows, more brightly, more intensely than my parents ever have. I want to be like him. I want to control my darkness, to embrace it, to make it part of myself, to let it make me as strong as he is. Gently, I set my old toy upon the covers of my bed and I stand.

Spinning on my heel, I go to my wardrobe and remove my dressing gown and pulling on my black, high-collared school uniform. The soft, tight material clings oddly to my new body. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to it. I stare down at myself, in the moonlight, at the stretch of too-long, curving leg below me. I shake my head, half in disbelief, half in bemusement. I know where to find my grandparents, although they haven’t been Here in years. I wonder if Grandfather will recognize this strange, unearthly creature I’ve turned into over night. Perhaps my new self will even spark a look of surprise in his eyes. I smile helplessly at the thought, my real smile, complete with ridiculously deep dimples and return reluctantly to my desk.

Swiftly, my thin, graceful hands sort through the envelopes and letters lying there to remove the one I wish to see. The rest erupt in soft blue flames that bring no light to the room. I lean against the window frame, silver moonlight illuminating my form. This one - This one matters. It is not like the others. I can feel my pulse begin to quicken, my heart beating so quickly I fear it may smash my new, lean chest to pieces. Colour floods my face as I finger the envelope. I feel as silly and stupid as the most imbecilic of my classmates.

I know it is silly, but I believe in Fate. In true love. I believe there is someone, somewhere, who is bound to only one person by those red threads. I am not as foolish as some of my siblings and do not go searching for this person. I know fate will bring us together when the time is right. I stroke the envelope uncertainly. This one has been coming since before my body must have changed. I don’t even have to look at it to know the way the pen has stroked out the kanji of my name. I’ve seen it frequently since I was in second level, a small, silent shadow to my tall, boisterous year mates, covered in baby fat. This one, I feel, may be a dreamseer. Who has seen the creature I have now become, and, perhaps, the person I may one day be. Who knows that we are bound by destiny. But every time I get an invitation from this person who can see the future, I reject it. Each time I know, with a pained heart, that I am not the person who the dreamseer has fallen in love with in the dreams of the future.

I finger the invitation and open it, as I always do, to read the words it contains. They’re very beautiful words. The dreamseer’s words have been beautiful since the first time. A poet as well as a dreamseer, it would seem, growing in talent with each passing year. One of my real smiles turns my lips at the way the words flow in my mind and make my cheeks glow. I stare out the window, up at the moon. The moon, full and glowing. A symbol of yin. I look from it to the slim paper in my hand, and shut my eyes.

I open them reluctantly and put the paper on my desk, picking up an ofuda with my symbol upon it. The inverted pentagram. I lift a quill from the pen and dip it in ink. Quickly, I scrawl the script I need for this spell on the blank side. Then, before the magic takes effect, I scrawl my response to my dreamseer on the other side. Lifting the rectangular bit of paper in my hand and toss it out the window as it takes the form of my shikigami and flies to wherever the dreamseer may be. I watch the shape of the drakani, made from shadows and moonlight, disappear beyond my view.

One day, I’m sure, the dreamseer will finally give up. Certainly, now, after this refusal of his invitation, I will never receive another of those simple invitations with those poetic words again. My chest tightens at the thought and I nearly call my shikigami back. I clench my hands into fists and turn to one of the walls of my room quickly, eyes scanning the pictures that decorate it. No, the photographs. The person I want to see the image of has never had a good picture painted of him. They never get the darkness. I find it.

I touch the frame lightly and stare at the picture of my grandparents. I fix their images in my mind, one stoic and one wickedly laughing. The photograph isn’t as good as it could be, but it doesn’t matter. It’s from life and I can see their darkness in it. I caress the frame, searching for confidence for what I’m going to do. I stare at the grandfather in the photograph, and his narrow, secretly amused purple eyes, and the grandpa, with his wickedly laughing mouth and emerald bright eyes. I set my jaw firmly and turn. I can do nothing else to sooth the nervous beating of my heart. I know if I don’t do this, I will never learn how to control my darkness.

I clasp my hands under my chin and arrange my fingers into the position of power. I chant quietly, softly, until I see a faint line of infinite blackness before me, in the shape of a door. I Walk forward as bravely as possible, and go to see my grandparents.