Part One of Two
Ever since he was a child they'd said that his footfall had been swallowed whole, whether by demons or by the divine, they were unsure. They gave the boy a wide berth, the future asset of the court, the young Empress' secret weapon in the ongoing effort to rid themselves of the North.
Kurogane's first footsteps barely echoed on the floor, resounding only weakly and displaying none of the bounding childish energy contained within his young body. Whether this was some exaggerated folk tale or popular bullshit, as some called it, spread so thin that the boy could practically walk on water by the time his neighbours' lips had stilled, the village was also uncertain. The only thing that could be said with utmost truth, exalted in its reality, was that the boy could stalk a deer with barely a creature recognising his presence. It was fabled and perhaps it was destined but either way the story of this young man with the hunt running through his blood, so natural to him he needn't think of his actions, allowing his limbs to be taken over by cautionary carnal instinct, reached the royalty's ears. And when they saw this young man, strung rabbits lying dead and limp across his chest, bloody necks snapped in his hands, as they carefully watched his movements, deliberate and succinct despite his young precociousness, they saw hope, they felt a requirement lying hollow and vulnerable and saw a means of filling it.
And so Kurogane became a spy.
_ _ _
He'd seen many magicians before. He'd seen their knowing smiles and certain eyes. He could practically smell the reek of their pomp and ceremony, their inflated self-importance bounding through the decorated halls of Her Majesty's palace with such self-centred indulgence it rendered the jade tiles, the beautiful shining vases, each immaculate silken stitch and square of finely polished and stained wooden furnishing as over-blown foreign tack, a culture substandard. He had little respect for their art, a lust for power crippling those that had none. Even countries.
He'd seen magicians and learnt their thoughts and movements. They were men and women wise enough to tell you that your humble ways were wrong so that Kurogane was taught loathe for them. And in so many cases the stereotype fitted which suited him fine. A mind riddled with self-certainly barely has time to recognise the blade, a final order, a desperate attempt to relinquish the gleaming traditional empire from an increasingly dominant Northern grasp, a land of written word and progress, of underlying notions lying stealthily beneath a veil, falling with an assuring breath on their magic to tide them by any issues or problems. Their people did not seem to know hardship or blood to Kurogane, or at the very least this impression was given from their representatives he stalked under royal order and occasionally decapitated with an overly zealous blade.
The head magician was the defining exception.
_ _ _
They'd arrived by their own means, this man and his king, stepping forth from a flurry of light and air so bold and unnatural to Kurogane, watching their immaculate boots stepping from a deft and curled whirl of glittering air, sweeping like artful brushstrokes, shimmering wildly before the court's eyes. And once the magic had disappeared, worn and dissolved into the air, as if it had never even existed, they emerged once more from more natural coverings, removing coats, richly textured, dripping down in expensive trails and lined with fur, wondrously soft and desired, revealing themselves to the thick and hot air of this country.
Kurogane had seen the king before, caught glimpses of him many years ago, narrowed eyes hovering critically in constant vigil. The sight of him was barely a surprise, merely a reminder of his resent, an unblemished body in silken attire, troubles lying distantly from his mind, head crowned in gold and jewels. The head magician, his name scrawled on the parchment order in Kurogane's palm, was a greater surprise, something Kurogane had never seen before.
He removed his hood, he slipped off his jacket, and beneath lay a mop of golden hair, loose strands lying delicately like a beautiful mistake, untended, curling softly against his skin, smooth, white and youthful. This man was young, perhaps the youngest magician Kurogane had ever found and followed, young enough to persuade Kurogane that it might be a lie, an image woven immaculately from words, spells, worn books hidden somewhere deep in a library, echoing coldly and sadly in a frozen world. And yet his eyes spoke a strange truth, dark and mystifying, something Kurogane had never experienced.
He hid in the shadows, a solid and strong body lying in perfect balance against rafters, an art honed to a fine instinct from harsh and punishing practice and experience, behind each smooth, marble column and in the reassurance of darkly cloaked corners, beholding those eyes, sparkling softly in uncertainty, in regret so astoundingly vast it caused Kurogane to pause, his breath to halt and to consider whether this was a magician like those many others whose lips had curled in pompous self-assurance, or whether this man standing solidly, tall and lithe against the tiles, was merely a pool of wonderfully perfected lies.
_ _ _
His consideration continued throughout that day, with every silent and carefully chosen footstep about the palace, watching this magician as he was guided about Tomoyo-hime's grand home, standing proudly as a symbol of the effort and union of the people of this land, each woven strand of tatami mat, every slender shoji panel or tall, oppressive and warmly earthen wall pieced together by rough hands, by those who loved their country, who were thankful for everything their country gave in return.
He watched the silent and curious admiration of this man, sizing him up with a suspicious eye, watching every movement of his lips, a polite remark or question, a brilliant mind seeking answers, every casual drift of his eyes, each clipped step or tiny utterance in a smooth voice, tongue casually unravelling and winding its way around a language far different from his own. Kurogane could hear syllables pronounced and restrained, his throat favouring thicker noises, skimming lightly from his mouth, rolling words into a beautiful, rounded picture. His cheeks were hued red, unaccustomed to the climate, his delicate shirt, gold rimmed and a dulled glacial blue, clinging limply to his frame in the heat although he seemed to persevere the heavy and suffocating air silently, with a humbled acceptance. It struck Kurogane as strange. Magicians are crafters of their own worlds and their own ideals, forming lies from their fingers with such ease endurance became a meaningless irritation.
This train of thought soon became tangled searching vainly for a reason why this man of so many others, this man of great talent and ability would choose to accept these heavy and pressing annoyances of the world, taking each on his back with a natural understanding. It was one of the more shallow mysteries he pondered that day, clinging to rare darkness, his footsteps silently carrying him behind walls and doors, expertly crafted furniture, details protruding gently and amiably, smooth and cherished, in the halls and unseen rooms of eloquent design and purpose.
Each smile the magician gave was not paralleled in his eyes, cold and hard, flowing with a strangely sorrowful edge. They resounded deeply, strange pools of an emotion so dense and lost Kurogane found himself remarking each glimmer within them, each flicker of light played over them, glittering poetically over a sealed wealth of emotion. Something he'd never seen before within a magician. It had always seemed to him, his silent footsteps carrying him threateningly about the back of each magician swathed in velvet, adorned in jewels and precious metals, lavishly polished and shone, sparkling pompously against their unprotected skin, that their lives were rounded and content, that their thoughts were reserved for the present, for the current set of events and politics and pillaging, rather than the past, a mournful breath held in reverence. But at the same time this man, more like a shadow or a ghost as he passed with ethereal presence through Her Majesty's grand halls, perfected in each fine and cherished craft, seemed to live without devotion to the past, without care or thought for the present or future. He merely seemed to breathe, allowing each movement to carry him forward, gradually, surely, carefully as though granted precious knowledge of the future, each footstep painstakingly mapped before him, so attuned to this mournful pace that his body no longer feared the inevitable current, dragging him steadily onwards to his fate. It was an acceptance difficult to take on any set of shoulders whether wide and muscled, thick boned and rough-skinned, nor slender and perfected marble skin lying tender beneath his shirt, decked in a beautiful simplicity previously unknown to his kind.
He was pure and unhidden, he was effortless, shunning the luxury of gold and jewels, of silks and fur, his beauty carried simply in his unimposing grace, wisps of hair and breath, a smile so light and tender it sent chills, a sparkle in his eyes so deep and detached that the world may become questionable, hidden in its subtle nuances. He was refined but he was unprotected.
Kurogane gritted his teeth, feeling his leg muscles tense strenuously, taking the pain with obsessive glee, with commitment and patience, realising sharply how distracted he had become. This man was defenceless and it suddenly became clear to Kurogane this could only signify a threat. His skin was unprotected, wide-open. The spaces where at times the shirt clung limply to his skin proved that his vital organs were uncovered, laid next to bare for the blade, sinking in delightfully, piercing soft and spoilt skin, reaching and clawing deeply until he was wrecked and destroyed, his precious body leaking, shredded. This country was dangerous for his kind. The fact that he didn't attempt to protect his body did not bode well for the assassin, informed him, cunning and yet over-confident, that any attempt made on his life would result in death. Perhaps he'd die on the spot, perhaps ripped to shreds, maybe crumbling to dust to be scattered on the wind, but still to Kurogane this magician held no air of malcontent, no malice capable of achieving the act.
Watching his movements, slow and thoughtful, he perceived a soul free from bitterness, so kind it was perhaps hindered, giving more than it took, wasting away, leaving behind only a single pleasant smile, devoid of emotion. It was the single part of the man that made Kurogane wary, an unnerving twist settling cautiously in his stomach, captivated entirely by the movements of his lips, their lies and their individual meanings. He spent a great deal of time reading his expression, attempting to interpret the significance of each look, of each illusion simply and cunningly crafted without use of magic.
When he was still, when nothing around him pressed for his attention or response then he simply gazed, staring with a quaint tweak in his lips, humble and melancholy. Suddenly the guide would turn to him, perhaps pointing out an antique craft, the shining jade laid pristinely and painstakingly upon the roof, glistening sharply in the sunset glow, gleaming gold along the horizon, a delicate silver box, tiny people drawn lovingly on to its surface, each figure holding its own unique charm on the surface, perhaps towards a blade, its edge glowing with majestic threat, a chill linked intimately with blood. His lips would perk, rising impeccably, politely. His eyes would suddenly sparkle, his face would warm… and then freeze again in a matter of seconds. The lie fascinated Kurogane. It sharpened his eyes, tensed his muscles, watching the magician with care and with awe, disgusted with him but at the same time incredibly cautious.
Through to the gardens, the stones raked with patience and a steady hand, the pacing flow of the world reflected in its lines, an ornamental pond lying pristinely as though bathing itself in the sun, not a single ripple on its glass surface, a depth of green glowing richly. Trees that swayed gentle, whispering softly in the wind under the heat, individual leaves sitting like an array upon their aged and twisted branches, sitting and watching wisely as the magician passed by, placing a smooth hand, long-fingered, fine and delicate, exhibiting both hesitance and strength as it ran gently over the bark, slow and absorbed. Kurogane watched as a faint smile tweaked at his lips, different this time, containing quietened fascination, gazing upon this new world with both interest and respect. And he seemed to have not a single idea of what impact such a simple and gracious movement could hold.
Kurogane's breath caught, his mind flying in circles, spinning wildly and confusedly as he wondered whether he should be suspicious of such an act, of such reverence he was unaccustomed to beholding as he stalked them, self-righteous dictators adorned in gold and wealth, or whether he should be warmed, whether he should embrace this emotion spilling wonderfully in his chest, touching each nerve softly as he gritted his teeth down and focused, sweeping unseen behind columns, each footstep against the wooden walkway silent in the dusk, graciously swallowed as a meal for some guardian demon or god. He did not doubt for a moment that he was a monster, a human who lived solely for blood. Such was what he could give, to both empress and country.
His right hand lay perpetually against the hilt, worn metal corroded against his touch, a slick and dank smell in his sweat as his eyes followed the magician's, taking in their pauses and reflections, paying attention through courtesy, flicking smoothly to the side in thoughtful distraction, drifting upwards as a bird flew by, a beautiful ringing song in its voice, resounding comfortably within the garden, and then shooting firmly over to where Kurogane hid, narrowing darkly and warily…
Kurogane cursed beneath his breath, his heart pounding fiercely, teeth gritted, hand curling tightly around the assuring sword hilt. He pressed himself further into the darkness, blanketing himself with its cold depths in the shadows, listening for footsteps, delicate clicks carrying that light body, hearing out for an incantation, a murmur of the spell that could mean the end of him… He chances a look after a few heavy and tense moments have passed by, throbbing forcefully within his body, gazing into the gardens to watch the magician follow his guide placidly back into the palace.
There was no doubt in Kurogane's mind now that Fye was strong, that Fye was clever… he was the opponent who would challenge his gift, a game that would end in either victory or death.
a/n: Stay tuned for part two ;)
Hope you enjoyed it. Please review if you enjoyed it, it's only fair really… Plus I'm not sure whether to be proud of this or not so show your support lol
Sorry about the reference to my own name, it's terrible xD Also when I describe the way Fye speaks, I was thinking of and listening to Icelandic. It's a beautiful language really, they roll their r's for so long!