bouquet of iron poison
first loves, broken promises, a star that lost its owners, gray confusion and the path to recovery. – Jin x Syl, Eckhart x Syl
Inspiration: The Big Bang Webtoon, kran's Senbonzakura English ICBM remix, JubyPhonic's Lonely Hide & Seek English cover, Life Reset Button by kemu feat. Gumi.
They're lying in the never-ending field of wildflowers and grass that tickles and itches with blades like green silk and petals of rough velvet, staring up at the black velvet sky after a day of hard training and –
And –
The stars are shining down on them like smiling guardian angels with hands folded over their hearts in an ever-blessing way, looking down upon and over two young lovers who are rogues at heart but are so innocent and naïve about the world's ways lying in the grass with their hairs intertwining like their rough, calloused fingers –
(but they wouldn't have each other be any other way)
Who thinks the future is perfect just like this moment and they laugh at a joke that's not even funny, the sound of their harmonized laugh shattering the silence in a way so wonderful her breath gets taken away.
(Or maybe it's just him, him and his effect on her. That's very likely.)
He points to one star in the millions that sparkle like fireflies. "That one," he says to her.
And despite the large cluster of numerous stars that lie at the end of his fingers, she knows just which star he happens to be pointing to because they are both rogues with rogue eyes and they learnt from the same man and they love each other. "That one?" she asks for clarification regarding his statement, not confirmation.
"That one," he agrees. Not too bright but not too dim, of a size that isn't outstandingly large or small, it is one star that is exactly like nearly every other star. "That's our star."
"I see," she hums.
The normal star is no longer normal now. It's special. Extraordinary. Singular. Exceptional. Outstanding.
It's their star.
. . .
Love and hate are interchangeable. Hot passion, the overwhelming yearn to feel his skin under her hands, the desperate need to be near him so she can –
Kiss? Kill?
Only a slight change between the two.
The burning feeling in her heart, the passion to kill him, to make him suffer, the ungrateful bastard traitor –
His neck under her hands, strong due to the training her father gave her, her dead father who was murdered by him, his breath failing and his life leaving and her hands feeling it all throughout –
Or, as soon as she's near him, in his presence, she'll grab the two mismatching blades that used to be her father's favourite and rip into his throat and release his blood and dance, twirling in the red with her arms out laughing like its spring rain in a period of drought –
Oh, love, hate, there is such a small difference between the two, a difference as thin and fragile as a piece of paper.
She does believe that the boundaries have been crossed in her case.
. . .
She trusted him. Gods and goddesses, she trusted him. She loved him, for god's-fucking-sake.
. . .
No more of Syl, the long-haired girl who was a rogue and yet was still so naïve.
Syl the woman with the cold heart and the passion for revenge runs a hand through her newly-cut hair and plots.
. . .
Her forces gather under her. If the Dark Lord –
(she spits out the title with bitterness)
Notices, he does not make a move.
Perhaps he knows that karma will come to him in the form of two deadly blades tearing into his throat.
. . .
The youth that she saw so much potential in comes and unravels the shadows hiding the truth.
And she gets a happy ending now, yes? She reconciles with her former lover and the two of them go skipping off into the sunset, yes? That's how it works, yes?
Like hell it is.
. . .
She knows it isn't his fault. It never was.
(Okay, so keeping the truth away from her – that was definitely his stupid, arrogant fault.)
He was just being Jin, the boy who foolishly thought that she was afraid of lightning and spiders and tried to protect her, the youth who mistakenly thought that she needed his help to complete the seemingly impossible quests her father prepared for her to finish, the man who stupidly thought that she needed a reason to live for after her father had died and made himself the scapegoat for her hatred. He was just being his ridiculously caring self.
But that care and mistaken empathy cost them their love.
Nothing is going to change or restore that.
. . .
The Cygnus Knights. What a bunch of odd ones, swelled with the power promised by the empress with her dainty white fingers like silk and shy smiles –
The empress who is still a child and who fills her followers with hope until they are like overfilled balloons, all air and no real fight. They'll pop if they get touched with the sharp point of a needle, or a blade.
A dual blade, she muses and laughs silently to herself.
. . .
It's a moment of boredom that does it. Or perhaps it's the atmosphere, or the lack of burning hate directed towards one person because even though she still hates the Black Mage and his followers after learning the truth, she never loved them like she once loved Jin.
Whatever it is, when there is the suggestion of a sparring match between the members of the Alliance the small child empress created, she shrugs and gives her consent.
It's a good opportunity to show off the skills of her Dual Bladers, all of whom she taught just like her own father once taught her and Jin. Pirates fight pirates, warriors fight warriors, magicians fight magicians, the archers watch and laugh, but the rogues –
Her people do wonderfully. They hold their own ground, win almost every round and make her heart swell with pride under a mask of calm amusement until the Chief of the Night Walkers from the Cygnus Knights joins the fight after some convincing –
(annoying nudges and comments from his fellow male Chiefs of the Cygnus Knights)
And single-handedly takes out every rogue, including her people.
Naturally it's unfair simply because he's one of the best – no, one of the best of the best of the best – and therefore he's gotten a colossal advantage over every other participant. Even her best prodigy – the almost-idealistic one that unveiled the truth for her and tried to cool her heart burning for vengeance – falls after an intense fight where the teasing goddess of victory could have smiled down upon either side.
The spotlight falls upon her. Well, her and Jin. Masters of the other rogue classes. Invisible eyes, silent unasked questions all burn and heat until the atmosphere burns with the inquiry.
Jin laughs. He says he'll sit this one out. "My rogues have bested Night Walkers many a time."
So have her Dual Bladers. She's about to pull the same excuse as Jin and sit out this one because the head really shouldn't stoop to the levels of those below them but her prodigy and her followers all look at her and while they all respect her to the point where they would never outright demand for her to show the strength of those that wield blades in both hands, they do wish to see her in action.
They respect her, they follow her and they are all loyal to her, every last one of them, to the point where they would slit their throats if she asked them to without a second thought.
And she's gotten attached again, hasn't she? She's got to return the favour and make them proud for a change.
Supposing she's brought this upon herself, she sighs and tosses her coat to one of her attendants, both blades already secure in her hands.
Her loyal followers do not cheer – ironically, they are too well-trained for that. Instead, they give discreet hand signals and gleaming glances that are silent but just as supportive as any loud whoop.
And then she's facing him, both of them with their shifting feet and calculating eyes roaming around on the impromptu arena. Little dust swirls get thrown up into the air but the shoes guilty of the dust's disruption do not get sullied – dancing feet have gone over and across the field before the grime floating around settles down.
Somewhere a signal to begin starts and the blades start to flash and clash in a cacophony of singing steel.
. . .
Dodge. Strike. Damn, he's gone. Duck. Move the arm before he - ! Block with the blade.
Don't look so tired or fierce or invested. The world is a whirlwind and you are like clear water running past rocks in a stream, like the bamboo swaying in the strong wind who mistakenly believes itself to be playful. Water and bamboo sway, they appear tranquil but in reality their cores and true self happen to be strong and centered. Keep your composure, hide your inner emotions and turmoil and let them be washed away by tranquility.
That is what her father once told her and that's what she tells herself now. This is a dance, and the two of them are partners who are performing a graceful waltz in the dead of the night, between the folds of shadows and cloaks of darkness to the music of their increasing heartbeats and nothing else. Synchronicity, predict the moves of the partner and do not make mistakes in the performance.
She gains an edge and strikes, so close to ending this all –
He throws his head back at the last second and all her left blade does is wrench his black-white-gold mask from his face. Caught, the blade's continuous movement throws it off the tip and the monochrome visor flies, air born for a few seconds before someone in their audience catches it.
Behind his mask there is another mask, a façade of a rogue. His face composes itself and shows nothing about himself, no emotions or personal thoughts reflected for all to see.
It is like he is sitting on a branch in a tree and watching clouds drift by in the sky.
Her spies have told her about his fancy tricks. Tricks involving more than blades and throwing stars, tricks that require the extra touch.
He does not use them. He plans on taking her out on her own turf.
She won't give him that satisfaction.
Their composure never slips once and their dance of darkness and stealth increases in tempo continuously.
It's absolutely exhilarating, and the dance gives her a liberating release of emotions in a way she thought would never happen.
But then again, she hasn't had a partner like him in a very long time.
. . .
A whirlwind is brought to a stop abruptly, so abruptly that the leaves that had been caught up on the blades of lashing air begins to float down towards the steady earth before they realize what has happened.
Their audience blinks. Gasps. No more is there movement too quick for the untrained eye to catch. No more dodges, feints, slashes, jabs, attacks or blocks.
She has a blade at his throat. A small twitch and he'd be lying on the ground, his precious red lifeblood flooding out from a cut like liquid rubies soaking into the dirt and dust.
He has a blade at her throat. A small movement and she'd have the cold hard point of a dagger ripping through her blood vessels and airways.
The dance ends in a synchronized finish, a stalemate that's almost unacceptable.
Neither of them puts down their weapons. Their composures are perfect – poker face – and they mirror each other's.
The applause starts, hesitant at first and throughout, curiosity running through the crowd gathered around to watch them – when are they going to put down their blades?
A stalemate. Such a disappointing denouement. She had hoped to take him down, especially after he defeated her favourite student.
What are you going to do? It's a question asked through looks and subtle shifts in facial expression.
Oh, I don't know, her answer is coy, as is her delivery. I do hate to lose.
A smirk shatters his composure. Or maybe it doesn't – maybe the smirk is his new poker face. It certainly does the job, conveying only his intended message and nothing else. You're not the only one.
Rematch?
One day. Not today. I need to have a word with my Night Walkers.
A second is all it takes for her to consider. Agreed.
Simultaneously, they lower their blades and the audience gives a louder, relieved applause.
. . .
He says he's come for his rematch. Her attendant brings him to a small patch of grass behind the Secret Garden where she's lying carelessly in the tangles of overgrown blades that don't slice her skin just like she used to do when she was younger, when she was going through her first love and everything was so right.
Does she care about grass stains on pristine white clothes? No, not at the moment. Her head is amongst the night clouds with the stars, intertwining the past feelings of happiness with the present's content satisfaction paralleled with the ambition for more.
"Tell me," she says because she's drunk on memories of happy times when she was a carefree girl, "did you ever have a first love?"
His hand pauses around the folds of his coat around his heart. "I did," he replies, an honest answer so straightforward he does not seem like a rogue.
Ah, but he is a Chief of the Cygnus Knights. A true and honest rogue. She snorts at the idea and pushes herself up to a sitting position.
No, the intoxication of memories and the sweet, numbing feeling is still all-too present, clogging her judgement and making her words open. "My first love once told me that the star over there-" she points to one of a cluster oh-so-familiar to her, "-was our star."
She hasn't forgotten about it yet. She never has, no matter how hard she's tried.
"Lady Syl, you don't seem ready for a rematch," his voice is dry. He judges her.
"Nonsense, Chief Eckhart," she waves it away and gets to her feet. No unsteady swoop, no ungraceful stumble. "I believe I once told your tactician that proving the strengths of my Dual Bladers were – what are you doing?"
He's taken a careless seat in the patch of grass and raised his unmasked face towards the night sky, the fancy rogue. "It's a nice view," he says to no one in particular and yet his words pick specifically at her mind and thoughts. "I'd hate to miss out on watching stars like these."
"What, the floating island of Ereve does not give a close-up view of the celestial bodies?" but she sits next to him.
He does not answer her question. "That star," he points instead to the star she told him about and gets it right.
But then again, he too is a rogue at heart, even if he's working for a beautiful child empress and even if he's a knight –
And even if he's a straightforward kind of guy for one who walks in the dark.
"That was your star."
Was. Past tense.
"Maybe it still is," she admits, but doesn't say anything else and leans in to rest her head on his shoulder.