Friends, a storm hawks fanfic

Title: Friends
Author: Keeper of Tomes
Song: None
Summary: 21 of the 100 Challenge. "At fourteen, Machiavelli has become my constant and close companion." Lark Cyclonis' friends have never truly been animate.
Words: 4,864
Rating: T
Warnings: Spoilers for Hamlet and Machiavelli and a host of other books. Yah, as if I wasn't enough of a nerd already...

Hey. Remember me? Left, chilled, got bored, decided to dip her toe into fandom for a bit? Not that I ever really left. I've lurked. I've lurked so much, I've practically made an art form out of it.

I'm in a DA/MC mode. Because no one's ever done that before, right? Sue me, go on. I dare you.

PS: Just for the record, I'm not BACK back. I'm semi-back. As in, I won't be participating as actively, (not that I was really 'active' in the first place,) but I might upload the occasional thing or two. Kapish? GOOD.

Friends, or,

Eight very good reasons why love is a stupid idea.

Today, I've decided that the only thing separating Snipe from a single-celled protozoa is the fact that he's several thousand times larger, and that the center of his menial operations is called a brain, not a nucleus. Although sometimes I doubt he has even that.

My biology teacher was lecturing today about creatures such as bacteria and the like, microscopic organisms that burrow beneath one's skin and slide in upon one's breath to settle and destroy. I found it all rather amusing.

The reason I haven't written in this blasted journal for several months now is that there's been an irregular jolt in activity in the palace of late, consisting mostly of changes in staff. The aforementioned biology teacher is my seventh in three weeks; if I do not fire them first, surely my grandmother will, and for a multitude of reasons.

There has been a lot of rain and grandmother has stated that it must mean something, the stupendous amount of storms we've been having lately. She's so dreadfully old that every change on the barometer immediately transfers to some part of her body in the form of aches and pains.

Everyone's expecting her to die soon; they all hate her. Really, I can't say I blame them. It takes a great deal of acting to pretend one still loves or respects her. I should know; I've made an art out of it.

It is a nice afternoon; or, it would be, were it not for the ominous clouds in the distance, lit up by intermittent flashes of white lightning, followed closely by rolling thunder. And sometimes there comes acidic rain, burning down the windows and walls.

Lark is watching Snipe lumber down the hallway from a very safe distance, smiling at the abundance of remarkable inside-jokes that have settled in various spots on her mind. If he weren't so large, she would declare him some sort of dumb microorganism.

She must admit that there is a great beauty to the bacteria and viruses she has just been taught about, especially in the way they kill with such efficiency. Cholera, draining the body of all fluids until a person dies of dehydration. Or influenza, so common yet so hard to kill. And next week, parasites, oh—

I was in the library earlier today, sometime before the biology lesson, and I found a book of old Mythos. I suppose it's rather silly of me, a full-grown person of twelve, to be thumbing through tales meant for children, but it's always amused me, how exaggerated the ancients managed to make their stories.

Odd, how Cronus managed to fit all those little children of his into his belly. I understand his mindset, of course; he ate them to maintain power. I suppose that's why grandmother gave my father the shove. I don't think she really thought it through, though; killing him made me the next in line for the throne, and she was always saying how incompetent I was and if only I had brothers.

Sometimes I wonder if she's changed her mind. When she lets me sit on the throne with her, it's always rather grudgingly, because she knows she's got little choice in the matter. She's boxed herself into a rather uncomfortable situation. Foolish old woman.

Everyone treats the going-ons in my family like some Shakespearean play, what with depositions and murders and incestuous marriages. I wonder what it says about me when I say how used to it I am. In fact, I find it positively boring.

The library smells like aging paper and dust. Lark stands on tip-toe to retrieve the book of mythology, feeling guilty as she tugs it loose, before retreating hastily to an armchair. The whole room is dismally lit, so she pulls out an Illumination Crystal from her pocket and sets it on the armrest.

It casts a sharp, white light.

Cronus eating his children, she decides, was a very smart move on his part. What was dumb was not chewing thoroughly before swallowing. A dry laugh escapes her lips at this macabre "joke."

She's reminded distantly of her father. She never knew him, really. He was killed when she was rather small, a "tragic accident," but everyone knew what had really happened. Lark doesn't know it, but Master Cyclonis was quite willing to murder her son if it meant being able to decide what kind of ruler would take the throne after her death. Lark was so malleable and young, free to be molded into an overlord that could maintain the Master's grand vision of world domination.

Lark slams the book shut and a puff of dust rises into the air. It's actually quite satisfactory, the ending of the myth. Zeus wins and Cronus gets hacked into tiny pieces. Cliché, but satisfactory nonetheless.

I don't know why I bother writing these entries, anymore. It's such a childish thing to do. And I've never been good at maintaining a consistent rate of updating, either. But every now and again I feel obligated.

Maybe I should just burn

"God, where's an eraser when you need one?" she mumbles, scratching out a line with vigor, before turning to the beginning of the notebook and cautiously reading her baby-letters, one by one.

Flipping through the first half of this thing is like playing a very badly narrated documentary over in my head.

Tomorrow I'm putting the book back. The myths, I mean. I've decided that reality has no place for such nonsense.

I'm not sure why it is I want to grow up so… I suppose 'desperately' would be the right word, but I am fairly certain the reason has something to do with what grandmother would say is the "blue blood" inside me.

Fat lot of good that will do me when I die; I'll still bleed red, just like everyone else.

Or perhaps it'd be better to say "if" I die.

"Ha!"

II.

I thought about giving up on this whole journal business, but I'm so bored I just might weep, and subsequently must turn to writing once more.

Finally the clouds have parted for the first time in what seems like months, and there's actually a blue sky behind all that disgusting smog. It's summer, so I suppose the heat-wave we're experiencing shouldn't be all that surprising, but I hate it nonetheless. Just today my literature teacher was complaining about how the cooling system was broken again. I suppose no one has time to repair it.

I feel as if I am forgetting to mention something rather important.

The weather is hot, but it's a clean and dry heat, one where a person does not sweat, just bakes to a crisp. Dirt, thin yet compact, rises with each step and breath; generalizations of movement incite subtle hints of stillness, and suddenly, nothing makes sense. All in all:

A perfect day for a funeral.

A note:

Grandmother died last night.

Lark finds it odd, how such a (supposedly) monumental event could have slipped her mind. She supposes it says quite a lot about how much she cared for her grandmother. In terms of their mutual love and devotion, there is not much to be said. It could be summed up in a phrase--, no a senten--, no, a word:

Nonexistent.

It is, as stated previously, a perfect day for a funeral. After the traditional parade through the streets of Cyclonia, (only the clean ones, of course, which makes things much quicker,) a small congregation consisting of those who are forced to care gathers around a hole dug in the yellow-dust ground.

Lark looks rather frail in black, an ebony parasol twirling in gloved fingers. She's baking, of course, but that's a minor detail.

The parasol is perforated about the edges, and thin cylinders of golden light filter through, splattering her face with splotches of yellow. It is not enough to change her skin tone by any measure, of course. On Cyclonia, pale complexions are valued most highly.

Lark purses her lips. She traces lines in the dust with the tip of her boot, symbols that make sense to no mind, not even her own, not unless—

There was a priest at the proceedings, which I, of course, found rather ironic. He read out that "dust to dust" passage from the Christian Bible, and I felt strangely out of place. Like I was wearing someone else's skin.

The holy words have a wanted (unwanted) effect on Lark, one that sends shivers and chills all down her skin. Demons standing in churches must feel something similar, right before they shrivel up and boil.

Every now and again, at the brief but divine (or is it sinful?) mention of God's name, Lark smiles. She has the delightfully uncomfortable sensation of wearing someone else's skin.

At least the weather was nice.

All the faces are unfamiliar. Watching from beneath the shadows, Lark decides that this just isn't her scene. Sometimes… Sometimes…

Sometimes I just wish I could forget.

The Dark Ace walks her back to the palace in peaceful silence, the noise of the unrightfully dead. Lark spins the parasol and it (nearly hits him) brushes past his face, cool wind on a hot summer's eve.

"I suppose," Lark says, "This makes me queen."

And sometimes the whole story has to begin with a funeral, but you can't help feeling like it's an end, too.

Tomorrow, should I still have classes, my teacher has promised me—

"Hamlet?"

"Hm. Oh? Oh, yes, yes. Hamlet." Lark looks up at him and frowns. "What, don't tell me you've never read it."

"Well, I suppose I have." Talking to the girl always makes the Dark Ace feel as if he's taking an ice bath with all his clothes off and everybody's watching. It's uncomfortable but he can't exactly just get up and run away.

" 'To be or…' " She begins to quote, then catches herself with, "I don't want to just be, though." Great, she's going to go up and be philosophical. But just when he begins to tune her out, she surprises him and says, "I think I don't know you at all, Dark Ace."

"Huh?" Decorum flies out the window, (metaphorically speaking, of course,) and he stops walking. She halts as well, the large party of "mourners" skirting them as they slowly walk up towards home.

Lark smiles at the reaction she has combed from this usually stoic and emotionless man. She lowers her parasol and folds it in on itself, all the patterns of thin shadows suddenly gone from her lovely, child-sweet face.

She weaves a thin hand about his arm.

"Walk us home, Dark Ace."

I suppose that's why I have always been so utterly uninterested in myself. I've seen me all before, in all the pathetic royal tragedies written by the bard.

Hamlet is no small exception; I'll wager the only original spark in it is the incestuous implications, and even then, it's rather… dull.

You notice things when it's eight in the evening and you're walking home after a funeral. You realize it's a long way back, but it's an even longer way forward.

III.

Grandmother was a fool.

Right now, for me, it's an endless stream of possibilities. The chance for Cyclonia to be great, important, powerful again!

I've disposed of everything that reminds me of what used to be, Grandmother's disgustingly old-fashioned throne included, and replaced it with a crystal-center.

Because that's practicality.

The Dark Ace appears to be with me on my decision to re-claim Atmos. Conquer a world, conquer yourself, it doesn't matter, it's all on par with itself.

Sometimes, Master Cyclonis wonders where everything went wrong. Or right.

The Dark Ace finds her curled into a graceful ball of flesh and royalty and robes, at the base of her desk.

"Master, I believe the purpose of a chair is to be sat upon."

"Mhmm, yes, go away, I'm busy." She's reading, and he tilts his head at the awkwardest of angles until he can take in the title. Machiavelli. The Prince.

The Dark Ace frowns and wonders if she'll start tackling The Art of War next, at such an age, at such a time as fourteen.

Of course, it's all extremely cliché. I'm not even sure why I'm doing it. But I feel as if someone's expected me to, and I've got nothing better to accomplish. I can hardly make peace. It's not in my blood.

I've been doing some reading and I think that grandmother got something right as queen: It's more important to be feared than to be loved. Although having both would do as well, I suppose. But fear is such an easy emotion to manipulate. I don't think love even deserves to be called an emotion in the first place. I think it's more of a disease.

"Dark Ace, do you fear me?"

She doesn't even look up as she asks. Quietly, he shifts his weight. "Yes," he says at last, "But only because—"

"I don't think I asked for a liturgy." She finally glances at him and shrugs. "It's important for me to know these things, you know? I'm fairly positive Ravess fears me, and Snipe is terrified of anything that isn't food or a low-ranking Talon."

"And so that just leaves me."

She smiles, wry and thin. "I suppose I should make you feel better and say I saved the best for last."

"That would be compromising with me, Master."

"My thoughts exactly," she murmurs. Suddenly she's next to him and leading him, on an invisible rope, from her office to the throne room. "Come on then, I've some business to discuss with you."

I am getting used to being the one in control.

The library is dark and cold. Master Cyclonis finds an armchair and sits, book in hand, trying not to feel too guilty as she opens the frail and yellowed pages with pale fingers.

She's grinning, quite wide and sly and dishonest.

This, this she is trying quite hard to enjoy.

I rather enjoy it.

She's very good, Cyclonis, at lying to herself. Once upon a time, she was indeed, Lark, but Larks don't do well in cages. Empresses, well. Well. Well.

Every now and again, she'll open up, flip inside out, spread herself for no one in particular. Every now and again, the Dark Ace finds himself (un) lucky enough to see her, all of her, child, woman, ruler, whatever she may be.

The whole palace smells like newness, oldness. Master Cyclonis sprawls on her chair, (not a throne, a chair,) at the end of the day, legs over the left armrest and back over the right. Book guiltily resting on her belly.

Sometimes, but she'd never admit to it, never, she falls asleep there.

And rarely, so rare that it can barely qualify as a "sometime," "anytime," "thin time," Dark Ace considers picking her up and depositing her in her bed.

Of late, I've been so tired. I suppose this is what made grandmother drop dead eventually, burning the candle at both ends and in the middle. Beneath, above, all around. I can't wait for the fire to start, though.

I fall asleep sometimes, on my chair. I'm so ashamed to admit it.

I hope—

But he never does.

I hope the Dark Ace doesn't know. What would he think of me?

Sometimes I go for walks, out in the boondocks and the surrounding areas, where nothing grows, and it never rains, or snows, or anything, and yet: I can imagine grandeur, power, beauty, all in the destruction, waiting to be pulled out by the head.

It is a very long walk up to the stronghold, especially after funerals, but even more so, when you know that there is no one there to wait for your return.

IV.

I can't believe I ever thought this was going to be simple. I suppose it was rather childish of me, to make such silly presumptions. Over-confidence.

He can't help considering her a child.

Really, he can't.

It's burrowed so deep into the fabric of his consciousness he can't remove it.

Of course, she makes him squirm. But it isn't fear. It's awkwardness.

He'll oblige her every whim and then some, but only because she's his master.

But in light of recent events, I have been forced to readjust my view on leadership.

She's had it, though. Up to her neck. Temple. Crown. Whatever.

The Storm Engine should have worked. But I suppose I put too much hope into it, that was my fault.

What wasn't my fault was the sheer incompetence of my subordinates.

Snipe cannot fight, Ravess cannot obey, and Dark Ace doesn't seem to realize the meaning of "No MERCY."

Really, she's done quite well.

Master Cyclonis has no patience for failure. She does not tolerate it. She will be cool about it, especially with her knight in black and bloody armor, but she will not tolerate it.

She berates him with a look.

He wonders how long it took her to perfect that icy, steely glare.

He also questions his own loyalty. He followed her grandmother around like a dog, out of gratitude for rescuing him from the Sky Knights, men and women who sweated self-righteousness from every pore and orifice of their body. Burrowed into situations, stuck their noses where they weren't wanted, and they all felt as if everyone needed fixing. Except for themselves.

What… what was…

Hypocrisy, that's the word.

I suppose there will always be another chance, another invention, and another great possibility for failure. Success. I don't know. I can't concentrate.

Those Storm Hawks, they can't be much older than I am.

I wonder who the brains of their operations is; it most certainly isn't the Wallop, or the squirrel-boy. And that idiot, that so-called "Sky Knight," Aerrow, he's too busy being perfect to be tactful.

I think I'm going to go read Kafka.

There are giant bugs to be squashed, metaphorically and otherwise.

But what keeps him serving La— his new Master? You cannot merely hand someone the crown and expect them to wear it well.

She has potential, he'll grant her that.

He does not ache to please her, however.

He has a numbing feeling of wanting to take her by the hand, lead her to a school yard, dump her there, then pick her up at a quarter to four.

And then he turns and sees himself right in there, beneath her skin, behind her eyes, and he shudders, because the last thing he needs is to start getting sentimental, like a woman.

He supposes, if he can't change who his boss will be, he'll try to change what kind of boss she'll be.

I've given up on smiling; I think that's an improvement.

She's stopped smiling, he notes, which could be a good thing, you never know.

Sometimes he dies for her, deep inside, a little piece of him, falling off his dignity and shriveling. He can't believe himself.

If there was a henchmen convention, somewhere in the corner of the universe, and they all went around saying who their bosses were, and he mentioned that his Master was hardly a day over—

Well.

Kafka has no taste for readability. He's rather droll and surreal. "Metamorphosis" isn't a story at all; it's a twisted simile about what he thinks is human nature. And "The Colony." I shan't even go there.

I don't know how I can possibly find the time for books, or even writing in this old thing. The cover's peeling and it should have been burned years ago.

I note the entries are getting shorter.

I suppose it says something about my work ethic.

He greets her, bowing, whispering, murmuring, reverent and sagely and yet, yet…

She sits on her chair-throne. Begins to curl her knees up to her chin, but resists the urge. Instead, the Master straightens her back, smirks wryly. (No, smirks are not smiles. They are different. They are dry.)

"Notice something different?"

The newly acquired birds' feathers 'round her head uncurl and show her pale features off to him and only him. Should he feel privileged or—

"I'm ordering you to go to Gale. There's a resistance there, small, but it needs to be dealt with.

"Can you handle it?"

He glares, then realizes he's glaring, and dims his eyes down to a mere simmer. Sometimes, sometimes, oh, he hates that word. All the time, he feels like she's a monster and she's just playing with him until dinner. But a child monster, one who doesn't quite know how to use her claws just yet.

He's going to stop molding her, now. He's going to give up.

It's a pointless venture, anyhow.

Is it insane of me to say good-night to a book?

"Yes, Master."

Winter. Getting cold.

The heat of the factories doesn't quite permeate the castle walls, and so Master and servants are left shivering, fending for themselves against what will turn out to be a long winter, indeed. It will never snow, or sleet, or rain. It will only be cold.

I've never pretended to be able to love anyone, except for grandmother. I certainly don't love my people. I feel a sense of duty for them. Machiavelli stressed the idea of fear, and I intend to adhere to that one principle of his.

Denial.

"It's not just a river on Terra Afrikaa, you know."

"Um."

She's at her crystal station, fingers sliding, limp yet stiff, aimless, over the keys. Dark Ace watches her, resigned to a fate of losing.

"You do realize he's only a boy."

And she is only a girl. Then again, so are yo—

"Yes, Master."

She wants to probe a little more: Why didn't he kill him to begin with, what was his purpose in letting the child live. But her mind is suddenly filled with white-hot images of cinnamon and forget-me-not-blue, all over and over, under, together, fusing into:

Sensations, thoughts, (and-or-images.) For the first time in a long time, the Master is dreaming.

Dark Ace watches, placid. Calm. He doesn't just know, he knows.

Understands, even.

(Or at least, tries to. It's difficult. He doesn't know what it's like, to be young and so desperately in love.)

Piper:

She's almost my age. She's intelligent; she managed to learn almost as much as I have with no books whatsoever. And she's strong. She would have been a valuable asset for Cyclonia, had I been able to sway her.

One crystal, all she needs, one sick and yellow glow, to illuminate the thin and hesitant words, written at the bottom of the page:

All I wanted was a friend.

At the end of the day, it all amounts to bitter tastes in her mouth. She's sworn revenge. The plan has changed. Somewhere, in the back of her regretful mind—

The Dark Ace is at the door.

"Master, you said you would meet—"

"Yes, well, I suppose I was a little, erm, distracted." She looks up and sees him waiting.

"I'm sorry it didn't work." He really does look sincere. She's so very little, so delicate. Pointed features, pale, white, translucent. He sighs. It is a hard thing, to lose.

What if I grow old and die alone, the way grandmother did, a shell, a nothing, a nobody?

The library, rarely used, suddenly finds itself lit up around the section containing ancient classics. And a gentle touch against the spines of age-old books, a shudder, a rumble.

The displacement of one book, (Odyssey, by Homer, hard-cover, published 1842, Atmosian Press,) and everything seems to sigh. Something must be going wrong, for such a book to be slid from its place. Such a story. Such a tale.

So much losing of oneself, over and over.

Or maybe, maybe… Dare it… Dare she…

She finds one page, one quote for which she has been searching, and it washes all over her, warm air.

"Who love too much hate in the like extreme."

"Who love… What nonsense."

The cold returns, stiff and stifling.

The doors are opened, the light put out, the book replaced, and there she stands, center stage. "Dark Ace?"

His intercom buzzes, three floors up and five doors over.

"Yes, Master?"

"Meet me in the throne room. I've something to discuss with you."

VI.

All the crystals in the world are not enough, and I miss my soul.

I have decided I never loved her. How can one love if one does not even know what love is? No, it wasn't love, nor was it lust, or anything above dark appreciation and urge to be.

I have a war to win, a new world to discover.

The dirt moves, loose and quick beneath her feet. Somewhere behind her is Dark Ace, staring, gazing at this, this brave new world.

And Master Cyclonis, eyes darting quick about the sky, just knows, all of a sudden, what it is she must do.

The Far Side is nothing short of beautiful.

She is nothing short of beautiful. So young, so delightfully thin and delicate and bold. A woman at last. Dark Ace smirks as he notes the date. Eighteen, full grown, not so little as she was before, but never destined to be tall.

His fingers ache with the urge to reach out, touch her shoulder.

She spins around.

"Dark Ace, the view is spectacular. Stop glaring holes into my back and look."

He looks.

I believe Dark Ace and Ravess have struck up a sort of 'relationship' with one another. If I weren't so busy being disgusted, I'd have them break it off, but its nature seems to be purely physical, as it were.

It is taking a good amount of control for me to not hurl all over this page, right now. There mere thought—

Maybe she just doesn't like the idea of sharing.

--has me in stitches and gags.

Dark Ace has decided that he has needs, and what goes on behind closed doors, no one has to know.

Truth be told, he doesn't even like Ravess, but when they're both drunk and the lights are dim and Dark Ace recalls just how long it's been, "like" and "dislike" both become objective and downright stupid, anyways, so why the hell not.

That's what he always tells himself the morning after, when he dresses hurriedly, covers his face, and slips from her quarters, shame on his heels.

But back to business.

He's decided it's not really her business.

She's his boss, after all. Not his mother.

(She's also somuchmore, but he hasn't the conscience necessary to admit this to himself.)

We have now the key. And we have now the door. It is a matter of baiting them here, now, of drawing a thin little trail up to our threshold. Or perhaps, we could bring the threshold to them.

Oh, yes, I like the sound of that.

Counquer Atmos, then the world.

There is no putting the cart before the horse.

The library, cold and dark, has not felt her presence for many a moon.

It is as it should be.

VII.

"A watched sun never sets."

The terra floats and groans. Somewhere out there is a place to start over, gleaming new and cold, glass not yet tainted with childish fingerprints, foolish mistakes.

Later, standing next to him in the dark throne room, with him sulking miserably at not being able to join the ranks in the sky, she turns towards him with succinct anger. Brusquely, she snaps, "Dark Ace, I have always hated you very, very much. You are dismissed."

And she stalks into the dark.

He is a hinderance. He has been around for too long.

I must do this alone. All the old traces of the empire of my ancestors must be wiped away, and that includes him.

But now I keep on asking myself questions. Silly ones, ones that Shakespeare might have composed a sonnet over.

Will I miss him.

How do you think he'll feel about the whole thing.

But the Dark Ace has no feelings. I'm sure he'll understand later when I kill him.

She readies her armor. It is cool, scratched, dented.

The sun turns the metal bright vermillion, makes it blaze like the forges of Cyclonia.

The Master decides that she has always hated the heat.

It'll all work out in the end; it has to.

The Dark Ace walks down a deserted hallway, chewing his lip until it bleeds into his mouth, rivulets of crimson, and he swallows the sweet-salty liquid, bile circling at the back of his throat.

Pretty Lark, whom he'd walked home from her grandmother's funeral. Silly Lark, who pined for a lovely girl with skin the color of cinnamon. Wretched, wretched Lark, the woman with whom he'd had the misfortune to… to…

Something. He doesn't know. He doesn't know anything anymore.

The Dark Ace finds himself outside the library doors, ornate and made of ancient wood, from a time when this terra was still anchored to the earth and forests spread themselves across hills of green grass.

The books sigh.

He sighs.

And then he marches to battle, regal as always.

Time to win, one more time, one last push.

Once more into the breach.

It is comforting to know:

My kingdom is worth far more than a silly little horse.

VIII.

Sunrises in the Far Side are sweet and slow, succulent, gradual.

Shadows dissipate and the world rights itself always.

Lark steps into this new realm and sighs.

Looks back, watches the portal close.

The blood on her hands is colorless, the guilt barely there. A swallow, a blink, and fwit, it's gone, evaporated from her hands. She waits for them to follow her, as she knows they will. She waits and she considers throwing herself off the cliff, learning to fly, missing the ground.

Decides to take the long way down instead, and starts to walk, one foot in front of the other.

Lark Cyclonis' friends have never truly been animate.

Already dead, destined to die.

It all adds up to the exact same thing.