Prologue:

Three Old Tales

Words Never to be Said

Long, long ago, the people of olden days kissed tar to seal their lips. They wore leather around their mouths, that they only took off to eat or kiss. Everything was written down, inscribed in papers, wood, or stone. The scratch of the pen, the chipping of tablets, and the smell of ink were welcomed guests. They brought no danger, no horror in their wake.

Unlike the evil syllables of the mouth.

Yes, the people of old feared… spoken words. But not just any words. They feared the words of the heart. For it was in these words that they shared fragments of their soul fueled by emotion so pure and dark, that as these words escaped their lips, they brought out mists of human cores to wreak havoc upon the earth. The people's fear was so deep rooted that they'd willingly bleed for ink just to escape the horror of uttering these evil sounds.

… but the longer these words cooked in their chests, the more powerful and sinister they became… and harder to contain.

Angry words were red words. Angry words were …beasts.

They were great dragons that burned down villages and castles to ash with hellfire from the sky. Red words were the clouds of locusts that ravaged the land's crops and animals, leaving hungry men to starve dry in the summer drought. They were the trolls in the mountains, ready to eat unsuspecting travelers and abandoned babes. Red words were the krakens that lurked the great deep, awaiting ships to sink into the pits of jealous seas. Angry words were living beasts lurking in every dark corner of the known world.

And those who spoke them once were skewered to speak them never again.

Then, jealous words. Jealous words were green words. Jealous words were the wraths of gods.

Jealous words were the shaking of the land, crumbling castle walls, burying civilizations that have long since forgotten to worship the earth for its good deeds. Green words were storms, children of envious rain, lightning, and the bellowing thunder of the skies as the angels complained about mankind. They were sudden forest fires, urged by the heat of the summer sun, and green with envy for the life they can never make with their flames. Jealous words were mistresses of the deep. Blue-green seas enraged as their loving sailors passed them from shore to shore. They were angered that their lovers never stayed for long…so the waves made them.

Those who spoke jealous words once were skinned, drawn and quartered, heads mounted on a spike by the city gates, never to speak them again.

So, how about love words? Love words were pink words. Love words were… cold, burning… decaying.

Love words were omens of death. They were butterflies burned by the flames of envious forest fire, for love burned with jealousy's ember. They were the little bird houses squashed underneath the foot of mountain trolls, for love bended for anger's wrath. Pink words were the last leaves of windy autumn days as the cold winds of winter came. Because love was that lingering, fleeting ephemeral hope. And love words were… never meant to stay long. Pink words always turned stale. Always.

Lovers, parents, siblings never spoke of pink words no matter how much they wished they could. But they held the other too dear to lose over simple sounds. And for those who did, well… they count the sands on the hourglass or measure the burning wick of candle clock as their mourning robes lay on their beds, waiting for their hour. And it was soon. They knew it was soon. And that was enough of a punishment.

Then, joyful words. Joyful words were yellow words.

Joyful words were the silver and golden coins in your pockets after a long day's work. They were the roof over your head, the warmth of your bed, and the fullness of your belly as you lay down to rest. They were the beauty of flowers in spring as the snow slowly melted into evergreen. They were the coolness of ocean water in the summer sun, and the last warm winds of autumn on a contemplative afternoon walk.

Joyful words were… what light was to insects on a dark night.

They were the trolls in the night, awaiting you down the road in your mountain home to stab and rob and eat you, for joyful men angered the suffering others. They were the jealous rain and thunder, banging on your door and sending your home flying through the air on a cold winter night. For why should you lay down and rest in your cozy warm bed while others were shivering in their frozen wasteland homes? Joyful words were the stinging bumbling bees of spring. They were the blistering heat of summer days inviting droughts and locust clouds. They were the gloom and darkness of autumn afternoons awaiting the icy clutches of snowy winter storms.

Joyful words made all the ugly words come together. No one spoke them. No one dared. And the fools who did—fools, indeed—they were never to be found… Unless you look for the fallen bits in the sea or follow the trail of blood into troll caves. In which case, you must have loved the fool.

Not all words were horrid and miserable. There was… a beacon of light—an exception—to the grim words of the heart.

They were sad words.

Sad words were blue words. Sad words did nothing. And for this, they easily became everyone's favourite. Sad words were… precious and bare. But no one ever cared to share them with others. No one wanted to. After all, to bare your soul to others… it was the only thing more frightening than red, green, pink, or yellow words.

So, the people kept sad words to themselves…

… and to the listening wells.

The Five Lying Men

Once upon a time, five lying men journeyed to the listening wells to share their blue secrets.

The first man arrived as the sun was beginning to wake, and the darkness of the night made way for the light of day. The first man leaned onto the well with trembling hands. His sunken eyes looked into the unending abyss below. Then he spoke with a tremor in his voice. And then he spoke:

How pitiful am I? How pitiful am I! How pitiful, indeed. For these innocent hands, once white pristine, are now red with that child's death.

Yes, red. Red with their crimes. Oh, I pity myself. I pity myself, indeed. For I have been used, abused, and misused to fulfill their evil deeds. Had I just seen—had I just SEEN—that glint of evil in his eyes as I handed them that sweet babe, I would not have dared let them touch one straw of his sky-ed hair. Oh, but alas, I am but a poor, poor blind man.

How pitiful. How pitiful am I? And now my hands are stained red.

And the first man fell unto his knees and wept. His arms lay motionless in between his legs, as his eyes looked at the bluing sky that reminded him of that babe's hair. And he wept, and he wept for his hands stained red. And when he could cry no longer, he stood and walked away, down the hill once more. In his heart, he promised that man shall never be blind…not anymore. Not anymore. Blind not anymore.

The second man arrived, in the middle of the sun's climb in the sky. He listened to the bird's song and the wind's lullaby to the dancing grass as he walked towards the well. Trembling hands traced the cold stone, and he leaned forward and the well echoed his welcome. Then he spoke—afraid of his words—but then he spoke:

Mercy! Mercy upon my poor soul. Upon my poor soul, mercy I beseech! Hands white clean, now red blood stained of a babe's crimson heart.

Had I just heard the screams, the cry, the anguish, I may not have given the dagger to the evil man. And my hands would not be red. Had I heard—oh, had I just HEARD—that child may still be by the living's side.

But, alas! Alas, this task was given to a deaf man. And my hands would not be red if I had not been deaf. And the sweet babe's eyes would not be red with anger, as he breathed his final breathe.

Oh, but have mercy. Have mercy on my poor soul. For now, once pristine, my hands are stained red.

And the second man bowed and wailed into the well. And he listened, he listened as the abyss echoed his anguish. And he cried, and he cried for his dirty hands, until his swollen eyes turned red like the child's. And when tears no longer came, the second man stood and wiped his cheeks as he left. No more. No more—he swore—no more was man to be deaf. No more.

The third man came as the sun was at its peak. He hummed the music of the world in his lips. A string of beautiful, yellow and pink words escaped him, but his eyes sang of a blue sadness in his heart. The third man came upon the well and greeted it with an enchanting lullaby. And the well echoed his beautiful music back. Then the man leaned forward, and with a trembling voice he spoke, a blue tune:

I ask for no mercy. I ask for no pardon nor pity. I've come to confess for the crime I've committed. Yes, oh listening well, I have come to confess my red stained hands.

I knew a child, a babe barely walking, whose soul came to me once to tell me his tale. I sat and listened, but that was all that I did. That was all I could do. That was all this mute man could do. I gave the child no justice, no light, no peace. I gave the child's tale no voice, no right for a trial for a ticket to heaven.

And now I've confessed, and my punishment begins.

The third man didn't cry, not a tear left his eye. And he repeated his confession, over and over until it was all the well could say. Then he prayed for the babe, he prayed for the life lost. And when this was done… he left. No song escaped his lips, only the mourning of the dead and the promise he made. No more. No longer would man be mute. No more…

The fourth man came as the sun descended its peak. He had with him a long and heavy sword attached to his hip. In his arms, he held a small coffin, so tiny and delicate. The fourth man knelt and laid it down on the green grass. And with trembling hands, he opened it.

Then he spoke:

Hear me. Hear me, oh child, and find now your peace. All that you've suffered, all that has pained you, let them now be all released. For at your journey's end, sweet death shall mend, all the broken pieces of your soul. All your dreams unfulfilled, all your hopes unanswered, to realize them shall be my journey's goal.

I am a weak man. I am a weak man. But this shall no longer hold me still. For if it is my weakness that has killed you, then weak I no longer will.

The fourth man embraced the child's sleeping form, dressed in black robes. Silent tears fell from his eyes, as he whispered his prayer:

Hear me, little warrior. Hear me.

Little warrior, can you hear?

Sleep and be at peace. I am a strong man. I am a strong man. So, set your mind at ease. I was a weak man. I was weak, it's true. But hear my words, brave warrior. Hear my words, for now I will be strong for you.

There once were four men who came to the listening well to confess. And when they left, they vowed to change. But there was no need for change. For what they vowed they always were.

Only now… they chose to be.

Dilemma of the Three Ants

Once upon a time, there were three ants…

[ Kamni City, Outer Mountain Gates]

"I'm sorry, sir. Unauthorized personnel aren't allowed to carry weapons in the city."

Shoto's chest burned. Not literally, but it might as well have. His hand reached protectively to the sword strapped to his hip. His Mother's sword. There was no way he was going to let it out of his sight.

"Sir?" The city gate watcher, a woman more frog than human, ribbited. Her big round eyes jumped between Shoto's face and the hand on the sword in question. "Your sword please?" She held out her webbed hands, slightly trembling.

The people in line behind Shoto started to inch away. Whispers, murmurs, and even curses erupted behind his back, both worried and just downright pissed at the commotion the lordling was stirring. The summer sun was too high and too hot in the sky. Too early for such trouble. Behind the woman, a much toad-like man was making his way towards them.

Calm. Calm. A frightened animal is difficult to persuade.

"I'm here to join the Order," Shoto explained, regaining his composure. He removed his hand from the sword yet kept it close enough to ward others from taking it by force. "I heard there was going to be a test of skill. My technique uses the sword," he said. "Please, ma'am. I mean no harm."

The frog-like woman blinked and let out an adorable smile. A new recruit... "I see." Her webbed hands rested once again on her swollen stomach. Her husband joined her. His webbed hand was on her shoulder and she leaned into it.

Shoto looked at the toad-man. His slitted eyes were dead set on him as he massaged the frog woman's shoulder. He was a silent but gruff man, Shoto figured. And the boy averted his eyes from looking at the man's inflating and deflating throat. A warning of some sorts.

"Then may I suggest my husband take it to the White Keep for you?" The gate keeper ribbited. "There's going to be a test scheduled for tomorrow morning and you could—"

"No," Shoto half-exclaimed.

The toad-man's eyes widened in alarm. He readied to move his wife away, but the woman merely held unto the hand on her shoulder, waiting for the boy to explain himself.

"I—," Shoto paused. His cooling chest burned once more. His hand found its way back to the crystal on his mother's sword.

Shoto's eyes trailed the tall intimidating white outer walls of the city. His goal—his mother's second-home—was just beyond these stones. And yet, here he was, blocked by the gates because he didn't want to let go of her memento. It was silly. So silly, but the fire in his chest burned blue at the thought of letting go… of leaving her side once more.

He should never have let her go.

"Come now. We haven't got all day." The toad-man's voice was deeper and more echoing than he expected but befitting a toad all the same.

It's just a sword.

"No, it's not…" Shoto whispered to his conscience.

It's just one night. You can trust this people. They're her people. Let go and trust them as she did. Let go…

The fire moved to his fingertips as he slowly pulled his mother's memento from his belt. The toad-man held out his hand. Shoto looked at the webbed fingers then at the sword. Just for tonight. Just for toni—

"Why don't I just escort him there, Beru-san?"

Shoto froze and looked at the taller boy beside him.

Beru—as she was called—ribbited at the sight of the arrow-eyebrowed boy. Her lips curled to a heartwarming smile. "Welcome back, my boy."

The boy returned the smile with a salute. "I'm home," he said. "That is, if I may, Ganma-san? Escort him I mean." He turned to the larger human amphibian for consent.

Ganma croaked, throat inflating and deflating as he looked between Shoto and the new boy. Then he squinted his eyes. "Make sure he doesn't cause trouble." He conceded, earning a gentle tap from his froggy wife.

"No problem!" The boy smacked Shoto's back in an overly friendly manner. It made the lordling cough. "I'm sure uhh… um."

"Shoto," the lordling supplied as he removed the other's hand from his back.

The arrow eyebrowed boy grinned and he extended his hand.

"Tensei. Tensei Iida. Let's get along."

AHOY! That's about it for the Prologue :) How was it? Did you like it?

I know, I know, kinda too long for a prologue, yeah? But these are stories the characters in our story have grown up with and are in fact really, really, REALLY (I cannot stress this enough) important clues for the future of this cantata. That, and I wanted to set the tone and atmosphere.

You must be wondering, are Tensei and Shoto the same age? Yes, fourteen in this scene, to be precise. You're going to find a lot of different ages in this fanfic, simply because I'd rather use characters you already know and can therefore already visualize than my OCs. I apparently hike up the word count with character descriptions. :|

Other things you should expect? Genderbends, I guess. Although at the moment, there's only really one, who I will be introducing in the next chapter. Then… well, I'd rather not spoil. ;)

Find any mistakes? DM me to change it! And yes, there really were five men.

Here's a treat for the next chapter:

"We are safe."

"Tensei-"

"We're all so happy now. But I'm afraid. I'm so fucking afraid, because what if—fate be good—what if this war is not done?"

Shoto didn't really believe in all these promises the Blind Seers made, but he did believe in the promises of words.

And it was a good thing he did. They were the only things true in this world.

-winterfrappe signing out!