Why, Aqua? Of all the things, why did you have to break his arm?
It hadn't been her intention. She had only gone out to buy fresh bread—and had gotten sidetracked by Free Market Day. The only day of the month that she could indulge herself and spend her well-earned coin, without having to be at the Empire's expense. Merchants from all over the world would bring extravagant spices, fine silks and fabrics, curious charms and magic-enhancers from around the world. And some of them brought her absolute favorite: seashells.
The Empire was mostly desert, with patches of green jungle creeping in around it, a ring of protection from the dangers of the Wasteland. Because of this, Aqua had—ironically—never seen the ocean, let alone a fish that hadn't been brought in from miles away. So, on days like these, she bought shells to collect, and shells to gift to her little sister. It was a small happiness, one she inevitably became attached to. The shells felt like they were links of the heart: strings of connections that tied her something that belonged to her, and she believed that if she collected enough of them, they would take her where she wanted to be.
She didn't know where that was, yet.
So she called a quick greeting to the baker to save her a loaf—she agreed happily, seeing as that Aqua always had some story to tell her, and they amused her so—and walked toward the bustling stalls, already crammed with desperate people, itching to spend their allowances and bring some color into their homes. Life in the Empire was not cruel, most of the time. It was bland, and a little dull, but around this time, it was anything but.
The Tournament was coming.
It brought warriors and royalty from across the globe, and along with them, a flow of money that made the rest of the year seem like a bad dream. The Tournament was reality—It was where the heroes got crowned and the ladies were able to visit the nightly gatherings, dressed in loose, beautiful dresses and brilliant jewelry. It was the time when people met their soulmates and fell in love under the desert moon.
She sighed dreamily, yet couldn't help it when sadness crept into her voice. That would never be the kind of life she'd be able to have. She couldn't be a warrior, but being a damsel wasn't exactly right for her, either.
Aqua waltzed from stall to stall, eyes greedily devouring every oddity, every strange tongue that she did not understand. Merchants spoke quickly and constantly, the air full of flying, wondrous words: "Paprika, lobster, velvet, rapiers and oils. Coriander, codfish, cotton, tomahawks and pastels. Isn't there something you want?"
She was stopped by a voice that could not have been talking to anyone but her: "Pretty bluebird, gorgeous girl! A charm for love, a charm for luck?"
The more she thought about it, the more she should've just stayed away. Baseless magic was as useless as chance: there was no single cure to a heartbreak, because all hearts broke differently. Magic was something that, albeit wary-inducing, was intimate and special, and these dime-a-dozen charms were the opposite. She would know.
The booth was decorated with purple and green ribbons tied to bones that produced eerie-looking wind chimes. The table was covered with necklaces of lilies, bracelets of rubies and vials of glowing liquids, each as gorgeous as an iridescent daybreak. But what caught her eye the most was the seller: a man with a black hood, made of what seemed like the finest leather. She knew that it was a man only because of the voice she had heard, for the robe concealed any kind of physical trait.
She stepped closer to the stall.
"Ah, good girl. I knew someone like you would see what was needed," he said. She didn't have to see his face to know that the shiver that passed through her was the aftermath of his gaze eyeing her from head to toe. "Tell me, bluebird. Do all girls in the Empire dress as…" He drawled, and Aqua tensed. "War-ready as you?"
She blinked. She was expecting the degrading commentary, the hungry, sultry voice. But the merchant sounded genuine, as if he knew what Aqua was hiding. Her clothes—black, tight-fitting and purely practical—were fighting clothes. But women didn't wear fighting clothes, because the only ones who fought were wielders and woman were unable to bear the Keyblade.
So, unless she was doing it to attract a bad sort of attention, why was she dressed like she was about to go into battle?
Aqua didn't have any other kind of clothes, because she wasn't like any other kind of woman. The temptation to blow this man's mind was overwhelming.
"What are you hiding from me, pretty thing?" He asked. And the words were about to slip from her lips—just because he had asked—when someone's hands found her body from behind.
Male hands, reaching under her shawl and coiling around her waist. Aqua snapped her head and tore herself from the man's grip.
"Aqua," he said, voice thick with want, articulating her name so heavily that it went Ah-koo-ahh. She regretted going out that day: she regretted waking up that morning, she regretted being alive. Because the guard had found her, and the moment he had placed his hands on her, she could not make him see the line she had always placed between them. And she couldn't protect herself—not here. Not with so many people.
His face was unmemorable, as bland as the morning oatmeal or a glass of water. Aqua didn't even know his name: all she knew was that the other woman had warned her about him, since he seemed to talk about her a lot, and it was always only her. Gossip between men went around just as fast as it did for women, only that being the subject of a man's attention was much more dangerous.
She had made a terrible, terrible mistake tonight.
"Don't touch me," Aqua said, rage striking through her body like a thunderbolt. She wanted to run, but she wouldn't be able to run far with this crowd. She was trapped.
"You beautiful nymph," he said, inching ever so closer. His black eyes were fastened to Aqua's blue irises, and they would not look away. "You're the only one I cannot have. Aqua, Aqua, I could show you things no man has shown a mortal woman before."
Aqua's back hit the merchant's stall. Away, she needed to get away. Away from this man and his smell of alcohol and the implications that this could be her last night as a free woman. She would not let herself be tied to a man like this, not unwillingly.
Always running, always flying away.
But Free Market Day was still today, and escape was impossible. Not when this man was a guard and no one would dare touch him. Not when he served the Emperor and they would be risking a whipping.
So they all turned their heads away from the sight, finding other things to be worried about. She was just a girl that was about to become a sad, sad story. Something to warn and tell their daughters to keep them from wearing specific clothes and going out in the middle of the night.
The guard's tongue stretched out to reach her cheek, her neck. She could feel his breathing, and prayed to the gods, just this once, for a miracle. Help me.
"Help yourself," said the merchant with the leather robe. In the desperation, he had slipped her mind. "The miracle you've asked for lives inside you, war-dressed bluebird. May your heart be your guiding key."
His voice was a tempest, an earthquake, an explosion. It was everything and nothing, all at once. An order she felt in her bones, and the blade she held quivered with reverence.
The lights went out in the world.
At once, the hanging lanterns and torches were snuffed out, and screams filled the plaza. One second, Aqua was pushing the man away; the other, her teacher's Keyblade flashed in her hand.
The guard's eyes widened to the size of saucers. "You're a wielder."
Women could not fight—not with a Keyblade. Their sins at the beginning of time—when the first woman chose darkness over light, every single time she was asked—had cursed them, making their souls incapable of withstanding the might of the weapon. A female Keyblade wielder was unheard of, it was supposed to be impossible.
Aqua was an impossibility made into flesh.
She said nothing as she held her blade in the darkness, where, midst the chaos, nobody would be able to tell if her blue hair and tight clothes would've belonged to her or a lithe man. Her eyes spoke volumes, Leave and I will spare you.
But the man only grinned vilely. "The things I'm going to do to you."
He jumped at her and Aqua slashed at the air, her blade becoming an extension of her arm. Be swift, be swift, swift—
She knew she hadn't been fast enough when she heard the bone snap.
The guard moaned and gripped his now-limp arm with the other, teeth gritted. Yet the lust hadn't left his eyes. "Beautiful, wicked goddess," he whispered.
"I am no goddess," she said. She hated him. "I am a Master."
If there are no female wielders, then being a Master was out of the question. Only those trained for more than ten years could call themselves Masters, and Aqua had just celebrated her tenth year as an apprentice, along with her twenty-first birthday.
But the guard was not afraid. If anything, he saw an opportunity. Her knees clicked as the idea dawned on him. "If the Emperor found out about you, you'd be dragged into his harem in a matter of seconds. A wielder and an Emperor's wife, you'd might even become Empress."
Her mouth became as dry as the desert sand beneath her. How easily had he read her. Or maybe it was just a rational fear in any girl's heart: tied to power, but never would it belong to her. She would belong to it.
She would become a slave.
"Shut it, shut your mouth!" Aqua was shaking. No, no—this was all coming out wrong.
She turned on her foot and ran.
Aqua dashed from the market, losing herself in the commotion, as fast as a fawn. But the guard's words caught up to her: "Run, goddess! You'll belong to the Empire now!"
She didn't bother to stop. That had been her worse fear: Keyblade wielders were more property than anything, what would become of a woman, who was already powerless as it was, whose very soul would belong to the Emperor? What possibilities would a child she sired have, if she gave herself to the Empire to do with her body as it wished?
She would not stop. She needed to pack—now. Aqua could no longer stay, she would need to pack and help her sister and gods, what was she doing—
"You do not have to run away, child of light. Is this not your home?"
The first thing she thought of was her little sister. But Aqua had shown her well: there was no way she'd be out at this late of an hour. Still, the voice had been hushed and quiet, like a forgettable murmur. Something that wasn't of this world.
From the shadows appeared a masked girl. She was dressed formally: rosy, silk robes and an animal mask concealing her likeness. However, whereas she might have expected a rabbit or mouse mask, she wore the mask of a fox over her eyes.
Her first thought was Ava Vulpina. Her second thought was costume. Because there was no way that this could be the goddess of idealism, the goddess of good, standing before her.
Even if every bone in her body was demanding that she fell on her knees, forehead pressed into the sand.
"Do you fear me?" She asked, curiously. The more Aqua looked at her, the more she didn't think that she was wearing a costume. Even in the dark, the rose fabric shimmered.
"No, Lady Ava," she managed. Aqua felt like she was going to faint. Not Ira Unicornious, patron god of the Empire and Lord of the pursuit of truth in battle, but Ava, goddess of the righteous and flowers and all that was good. A god was speaking to her. A god.
"Good. Now Aqua… May I call you Aqua?" She asked, and Aqua nodded quickly. "You think that running away is the solution to your trouble… But what about staying and fighting?"
"What?" If anyone, Aqua would be the one to know when the fight is lost. She had nothing: If she didn't leave before the guard reported her, she'd be brought into the Palace with a wedding dress and chains.
She wouldn't let that happen.
"You worry about your secret. But why keep it hidden? What if you were to expose it—say, by entering the Tournament of Ira—and made yourself untouchable? The Games are sacred, my tiny light. Who would hurt you?"
"The Emperor," she practically yelled. The fox-masked girl had no reaction. "His three sons."
The sons were even more terrifying than their father. The first two were already veterans of the Tournament, victorious by killing their opponents. The youngest prince had not touched the arena, but that would change this year, for he had finally finished his two-year travels and had come home. He was twenty-three now, if she was even bothered to recall.
"Then beat them, Aqua. Are you not the best warrior in this generation?" Ava looked closed to smiling. "Are you not capable?"
"Of course I am," she said, and blinked. She didn't mean to be arrogant, but her teacher's last words still rung in her ears, the words practically branded into her skin at that point: Out of all my students, your promise of glory was rivaled only by my first's. Be well, Aqua. Be well.
What was 'well' at this point? Was it dangling from a thread of uncertainty, living in fear of being exposed, or basking in the glory of all that she could be?
Ava nodded as if she was reading her mind. "Be brave, Aqua. Swear that you'll enter the Tournament, and change the world. Become my sword in this city."
"I…" Aqua hesitated, even though her heart had already answered. Yes, yes, yes. For my sister. For a better life. "Why me?"
"You are an impossibility made flesh and bone," the goddess said. It was like hearing herself say it. "What better weapon to bring forth a new world?"
She hadn't thought of it like that. It seemed far-fetched, and most of all, she might be walking into an excecution. The wielders will not see her as an equal. Especially when she doesn't see herself as one to begin with.
So she surprised herself the most when she said, voice as clear as the night sky, "I will do it, Lady Ava Vulpina. In your name, I swear I'll enter the Tournament, and I swear on my Master's blade, that I will win."
Ava's smile was dazzling. Small lips lifted up and lighting up the night, in a very human way. "Summon your blade, wielder."
As quick as a blink, she was gripping her blade, moonlight shining off the iron and copper key. Her heart constricted at the sight of it. She missed her teacher.
"Child of light, you are the storm of purging, the rain of purification. This blade does not suit you. Temper your key in the fires of Kingdom Hearts, and make it yours."
Aqua chest throbbed. Her hand went to her stomach. The pain stabbed through her like a lance, a claw snatching something out. Her blade shone in a white light, and when her eyesight cleared, it wasn't her Master's Keyblade anymore.
It was something entirely hers.
A slick-looking key, toned in silver and obsidian and blue, looking like the ocean's shore at the edge of the night. Or at least, how she imagined it looked.
"That is Rainfell, it is carved out of your soul, and you are carved out from its magic. This is your Keyblade, now and forever."
Aqua admired the blade. Beautiful, she thought.
"Go rest, Aqua. Tomorrow is a big day for you. I have taken the liberty—" she spoke with a crooked smile— "of taking care of your inscription. Just show up for the last fight of the day. As for that guard… Well, let's just say that just because I am not cruel does not mean I don't know how to be."
Aqua bobbed her head. This was impossible. She was in the Tournament—she was going to fight other wielders.
And she was going to win.
"Farewell, Master Aqua. Be ready for what lies ahead and remember: You are my storm, and you are ruthless to anyone that stands in your way."
Aqua felt her leave before her eyes saw it. One moment, she was in a bubble of warmth and protection, and the next, the cold Empire's night had fallen on her, like a cloak of frost.
Aqua thought of nothing else as she arrived to her home—her sister still blissfully asleep—stripped herself of her clothes, and fell asleep in her white underclothes.
That night, she dreamt of hurricanes and earthquakes. Of a tornado that was gone as quick as she arrived, and of darkness: overwhelming shadow, full of despair and hate and loneliness.
And as Aqua fell through the clouds, into the chaos below, a hand kept stretching out for hers, yet always, always, out of reach.
AN: So, this fic, along with a previous one I have posted already (Wildheart) are part of self-imposed project to keep me invested and committed to my writing. My intention is to update every two weeks between the two stories (so if you follow both stories, it'll be one chapter of this fic one week, and another chapter of the other fic the next).
ABOUT THE TITLE: En Passant refers to a move in chess, which entails, as Wikipedia says: "When a pawn advances two squares from its starting position and there is an opponent's pawn on an adjacent file next to its destination square, then the opponent's pawn can capture it en passant (in passing), and move to the square the pawn passed over." I think of it of an encounter, a confrontation between two pieces. But who is the capturer?
Even though I preferred the other fic to this one, my beta readers adored this one a lot more. So I hope that you guys do too!
-AGBALUX