Title: Jocasta Dark
Pairing: Sakurazuka Setsuka/Sakurazuka Seishirou
Summary: As Sakurazukamori, Setsuka moved lightly through life sure that love would never catch her.
Beta Reader: Nzomniac
Word Count: 1345
Warnings: Violence, decorative gore, mother/son incest, chan.
Author’s Note: In classical mythology, Jocasta is the mother and wife of Oedipus. This story is a companion piece to Jocasta Fair, a Narcissa Malfoy/Draco Malfoy story set in the Harry Potter fandom. This story is being used for prompt #026- Blood at 100_women. Click here to view my 100_women progress chart.
It was reckless of Setsuka to carry the child.
The father, a man who had loved her above all else, had been the head of the Sakurazuka clan—the assassin of the cherry blossoms, the Sakurazukamori. She had killed him; she was now the Sakurazukamori. Surely the fetal life she carried within her would be her successor, the one to take her place.
And still she brought the pregnancy to term. She bore a son and let the boy live. Reckless, yes, but Setsuka moved through life lightly. She thought nothing of taking dangerous risks, of toying with death. Bright and nubile, sweet and deadly, she believed that nothing could catch her.
She had been a high school girl when her predecessor, Sakurazuka Hiram, first laid eyes on her. She was young but far from innocent. As a daughter of the Sakurazuka clan, she was a dark sorceress in her own right, brought up to have a nonchalant awareness of death, a certain disregard for human life. Yet, she was not grim. No, Setsuka was carefree, as playful as a kitten with blood on its claws.
Hiram was earnest and serious-minded. All his life, his duties had weighed heavily upon him. He saw in Setsuka the vivacious amorality he should have had but didn’t.
He had loved her. He should have been no more capable of love than he was of pain, and yet he loved her. He came to her with blood on his hands, and she laughed with delight and painted her lips bright red and teased him about how solemn he was.
They conceived the child together, and one day when she was four months along she felt the baby moving inside her and taking her lover’s hand placed it on her belly so he could feel it as well. At that moment, he had looked up at her with a boundless love shining in his eyes. He would never love another as he loved her.
At that moment, Setsuka learned the most hidden secret of her clan. That each Sakurazukamori chose their own successor—the person they loved the most. Because Hiram loved her, the ancient power he had wielded belonged to her. The power sang for her to take it.
“Beloved little sister,” he had said as her hand pierced his heart, “I am happy at last.”
That day, Setsuka became the Sakurazukamori.
She accepted it gladly. She wished only for her life to be filled with beauty, joy and laughter. If her work in life was to kill, she would kill with joy; she would relish her power. She would create for her victims bright illusions, sweet dreams that ended in death.
The power was hers so long as she did not surrender to love. At sixteen, she was arrogant enough to believe this would never happen. And because she was a flirt, she flirted with love and so with her own death. She did not avoid the traps of love but played near love’s flames.
The darkest flame—the greatest danger to her—was her son, Seishirou. Yet, it quickly became apparent to her that she had no maternal feelings towards the boy. He was born, and then he was gone … taken elsewhere to train in murder and magic. She did not miss the infant; it did not sadden her that she had never held him, never suckled the child at her breast. She dismissed him; he would not be a threat to her.
When they were reunited nine years later, she thought nothing of making a pet of the boy. Why not? Pets were common enough around the Sakurazuka house—cute little animals that were petted and played with until it was time for a spell to be cast. Then they were killed and replaced. Setsuka was confident that Seishirou would never be more to her than another pet.
Really, he was a charming little boy: polite, obedient, and devoted to his studies. His ability as an onmyoji was quite extraordinary for one so young. Yet, he was never serious or gloomy. Like his mother, he was always smiling, cheerful, and light-hearted.
And he adored his mother. Of course, he did; his pretty little woman who was so affectionate, so much fun, and so important in the world. Setsuka never hid from the boy who she was, what she did. After she killed, she would come to him, her victim’s blood coating her arms like long, scarlet gloves. He would wash the blood away, careful not to stain her gown, and she would tell him all the details of what she had done. He always asked intelligent questions. When her hands were clean, he would bring her tea.
A truly delightful boy, a clever little pet.
Yet, as he grew older, thirteen and fourteen, something changed. She began to realize she did not know her son at all—that there was a part of him he kept from her, a part of him that she could not fathom. When he was with her, he gave her his undivided attention as always. Yet, there were other times when he didn’t know she was watching that he would be elsewhere, gazing into illusions of his own creation that only he could see, whispering to the great black bird that perched on his shoulder.
He was not a child any longer; it was natural that his mother should recede in importance. Yet, it did not seem right to her that she did not have access to the whole of him, that she was no longer his entire world. She knew what she needed to do to rectify this. If he was no longer a child, then he was a man. Setsuka knew how to own a man.
It was easy enough for Setsuka to seduce her son. He still adored her, after all. She was a beautiful woman, her face and body unchanged from the time Hiram had gazed upon her and lost himself. It was easy enough to do, and she did not ask why she did it until it was too late.
Feeling for the first time his lips, his tongue upon her breasts, she buried her fingers in his hair; she smiled and she cried. When she lay upon a carpet of cherry blossoms, looking up through the branches of the trees, and he was inside her, her arms, her bare legs clasping him to her with all her strength, she knew she would die by his hand. He was special to her.
On a winter night when Seishirou was fifteen, she dreamed he reached into her and tore out her heart. When she woke in the gray dawn, he was beside her—her lover and her son. He was still sleeping, and she might have killed him then, but she only gazed at his face. To be so close to him, she was happy.
She would never love another like she loved him at that moment.
He opened his eyes, and she recognized in them the knowledge she had once known. The power was calling for him to claim it. All the time she had imagined he was her pet, she had been his.
As the Sakurazukamori, Setsuka had a job to do that morning. She went with joy. With joy, she performed her final assassination. Then she returned to her son.
He was waiting; it had begun to snow. He waited for her amidst the beautiful snow and swirling cherry blossoms. At first, he pretended he did not know … but she smiled, and with joy she offered him her life and her power. He took them both.
She had never understood her predecessor. She had imagined Hiram was weak and foolish to die as he did. Yet, in the last seconds of her life, she knew what he had known, and her only wish for her son was that a day would come when he might know (as she finally did) the bliss of death in love.