Chapter Text
For all rhyme and reason, Douma should have been dead. Douma should have died over a century ago.
And yet he hadn’t. Not when his head was butchered from his body, not when his Master died, subsequently followed by his ‘successor’ being reverted back to human, and not when he walked into the sun after being offered the blue spider lily by one of his followers.
It was pitiful. Perhaps, if his Master had been more patient and not attacked the corps at the first opportunity, he would have gained this immunity he craved oh so desperately. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…
The Faith of Paradise had changed over the decades. He fled Japan after returning to his true temple and collecting his following, before paying quite the handsome sum to sail east over to the Americas without fanfare. It was easy to explain the change to his followers. Easy to make them leave their life behind and follow him into the sunset…
“A better future; new opportunities, more lost souls to save.”
They had landed in the North American continent, those poor patriotic souls welcoming his gathering with welcome arms. It wasn’t long before the small harbour town that homed them had become a part of his community without even realising. How funny it was, that the blue treasure his late Master had so desperately seeked, came in on an importation from Japan, being bought and given to him by one of his elderly followers.
Curious, he ate it, and the instinctive fear that lay dormant in his blood flared to life with a vengeance before withering off and dying. It was if he knew, then, that he would be safe from the executioner that once hated him so. From there, it only took a bribe here, and an associate there before he had a fully fledged identity.
His Faith never saw to it that they had legal identities, as it was a mere decade or two later that had seen the town razed to the ground in a burning fire by the same patriots that once boasted their friendly association with Japan so happily. How quick they were to change, how fickle their unenlightened loyalties were.
And for what? Because of the country his followers came from, and the fact that their children were tainted by that impurity too?
Douma had rebuilt it, when the fires of war had waned, for what else could he do? People needed saving, and he grew hungrier each day without the warmth of human flesh gracing his canines.
It was sometime in between that the growth of his town had spiralled out of his control, and all of a sudden the faith had become a secondary importance to the new members, and Douma, for all his experience dissecting what makes the human mind tick, could not understand why.
He rarely ever wore his ceremonial robes anymore, with them being laid out in his house with an almost reverent care. Meanwhile, the clothes he had worn as a demon had become ‘in fashion’, so he usually wore that, or some variation of the outfit.
(He craved use. He craved being something people needed again.)
Douma got a job in a cafe. The people in which he caught familiar features were often kinder than those that he didn’t. A curious affair, really, how the echoes of his past dedication to the individuals of the town were seen in their descendents. It all but reinforced his belief that humans needed to be saved by him.
Meals often consisted of those who needed saving from the life they clearly resented, though the occasional delicacy of those worthy of paradise was also an indulgence of his. The town members rarely reached the point of old age, and they stopped questioning it long ago.
Then things changed overnight.
Cold skin was warmed under the gentle heat of the sun, the sky seemed as vast as the ocean, still, steadfast and unmoving in its power. A light hum, carried by the wind, accompanied Douma in his walk to the main town area. The laid stone pathway padded out with dirt was a familiar trek to him by this point, it was lined by trees that blossomed pink once a year, yet for now were vibrant, green and alive with a rustling with life. His house was the only one this far out, and yet, small old buildings, shrines were hidden under moss and leaves in an old memory of what once was.
Something was different in the air.
As he approached the outskirts of town, ducking through the plants that seemed thicker on the edges of the pathway, as if obscuring the path that leads to his house, something seemed to be blocking his way into the town. It seemed as tall as a building, wide as a hall, smaller additions dotting the clearing as a subtle, repetitive song seemed to drift from the bundles of pinned up fabrics of black and different colours. Through the gaps in between the tents, Douma could spot wooden stalls, empty yet advertising different sugary foods and treats.
Douma’s eyes were widened, a bead of sweat rolling down his face.
‘Eh? Eh? What is this?’
A vague memory flashed through his head. Was this a circus?
It must have been, for what else could it be? From his experiences they usually weren’t this…large, solid, permanent, but he could infer that, like many other things, they had advanced without his knowledge. He wondered if the attractions had changed at all, if they still housed and abused exotic animals, if they still had daring acrobats and freaks of human nature. Pitiful things, circuses were, but fascinating nonetheless.
Ah, he would have to walk through it to get to work, wouldn’t he? How bothersome.
Only moments after he began his walk through the circus grounds, a hand rested upon his shoulder. He hadn’t detected their presence earlier. His immediate thought, despairingly, was that it must have been a hashira.
The hashira had been dead for decades.
“You’re trespassing. The circus is not open to visitors yet.”
Douma turned, a welcoming, innocent smile on his face.
“Ah? Is it not? I truly do apologise, in that case. You see, the circus blocks my way into town.”
The man, who appeared to be wearing a mask and was clad in an attire similar to a business man or something of sort, seemed to pause, as if considering his words.
“I see. We surveyed the areas and didn’t see any buildings past this point that seemed…inhabited.”
“Yes, the town stopped visiting a long time ago, so it is not in the best condition. Further down there is a temple. That is where I reside, and where my family has lived for generations.”
Having turned to face the man, who had relaxed from his tense posture, disarmed from Douma’s nonchalant attitude, Douma noticed something peculiar. He didn’t smell…right. The masked man smelt human, but in a distant way. In the way the blood of monkeys or pigs could be mistaken for human by a less experienced, freshblood demon. It wasn’t as noticeable as those animals, however.
How odd.
“A temple. Is the town particularly religious?”
Douma’s smile faded slightly, waning with an almost pitiful air.
“Not anymore. However, some of the principals of the faith can still be seen in the attitudes of some of the older families here. If you’re interested, feel free to visit! It’s been so long since someone has, beyond the odd group of rebellious teenagers, of course.”
“Perhaps I will. It must be far out if I didn’t see it.”
“It depends who you ask. I must be off now, my work starts soon. Thank you for indulging me in conversation...”
“Ticket Taker. It was my pleasure. I will have to escort you to the ground’s entrance, however. Circus rules.”
Douma nodded, and the two began to walk.
“You set up rather quickly! I didn’t even realise a circus would be visiting until I spotted the big top over the trees.”
Ticket Taker walked with a familiar ease, with the comfortability of a predator in their own den who believes themselves invulnerable.
“Yes- we often set up in the night for the sense of surprise it allows any visitors. We are a circus of horrors, after all.”
“What an interesting concept. Perhaps I'll visit after work some time.”
“You should. We always welcome visitors, whether they have visited once, twice or never before. Do you work at a cafe?”
Douma nodded, and pointed to the logo on his apron. He should have been wearing his nametag, but he found it was easier to forget if he brought it home with him.
“Yes! It's hard to miss.”
They seemed to be approaching the entrance to the circus, and Douma could spot what seemed to be chaos in the main street. Pink jesters hoarded the streets, catching people on their morning commute to work and pushing posters to the circus into the hands of passersby and such. The posters themselves were stuck messily to walls, lampposts and the windows of different shops along the market street, as well as littered across the floor and treaded in by all the hustle.
Hm.
Ticket Taker seemed to be used to the sorry sight before him, as he merely sighed and shook his head at it, before muttering something about a ‘Harlequin’ and ‘tossing posters everywhere again’. Douma chuckled lightly, drawing attention back to himself.
“It’s nice! Usually people are so dreary this time in the morning! Well, I suppose I’ll see you again soon?”
The refined man nodded politely, bowing slightly as the demon moved to exit.
“Indeed. I will have someone to lead you back to the other side of the forest on your way back.”
“Thank you so much! Ah- in that case, my name is Douma. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ticket Taker. Have a splendid day!”
As Douma turned to leave, humming once again as eyes seemed to pierce the back of his head, he wondered absentmindedly if the circus will be as good as it looks from the glance he got. Perhaps it will, perhaps it won’t. Either way, Douma has a job to do.
Up ahead, not too far from the demon’s place of work, a man shoved a jester clad in red to the floor, shouting accusations of how their actions are going to disturb the lull in disappearances and death the town has finally reached. Unknown to the aggressive man- his actions were going to lead to complications in this story, and, inevitably, lead to his own untimely demise.