Back again. On with the story!
For some time, the rumors of the savage boy were something bordering on fantastic gossip and indisputable fact. Someone had to be stealing a loaf of bread, once at dawn and again at dusk. Someone had to be responsible for the missing clothes and strange noise on the rooftops. Who else but the strange boy from the desert- the one who fought the guards for a day and a night and snuck into the city, leaving a trail of blood from his many wounds?
This was a novel subject of discussion that quickly became an old wives' tale, something that mothers told their children to make them behave.
"Come straight home after getting the groceries, or the wild boy will take you away."
"Finish your supper or the wild boy will sleep under your bed."
"Listen to your father or the wild boy will steal your clothes."
The tales went on and on. It was a while since the actual boy was the inspiration for the gossips in the village, but it didn't matter; it made for good conversation.
These various stories enjoyed a modest popularity from the traveling merchants passing in and out of the village, so now and again there would be the traveler asking about the boy, and sometimes the boy's sword.
Years passed, the tales of the wild boy persisting as a part of the culture of the Village Hidden in the Sand.
Then Gaara was born.
Gaara was son of the reigning Wind Shadow, and was thus dubbed "of the Desert" as his proper surname. This was uncannily apropos, as the youngest of the three "royal" children was gifted with the village's secret power.
Within him was placed the soul of a mad monk, a near demonic spirit that had the innate power over sand. It was intended that the child become the medium for the spirit, channeling its control of sand, thus becoming the secret weapon- and ultimate defender- of the village.
The lord Wind Shadow desired his progeny be trained from birth, so as to maximize his potential. The mother of the child had no say in the matter, as she had died giving life to Gaara.
What was even more unfortunate, however, was as time went on, the loss of his wife twisted the Wind Shadow's mind into believing that his medium son was what killed the love of his life. In this the ruler buried himself, deadening the emotions he felt toward his youngest until he saw naught but an animal to be trained.
Thus began the assassination attempts. Time and again, an agent of the Wind Shadow was sent to test Gaara's mettle, to keep him sharp. Due to his young age and lack of experience in the ways of fighting, the boy only had his birthright as a medium to ward off his attackers, and in that way the cold machinations of his father worked wonders.
However, just as the loss of his wife had warped his father's psyche, so, too, did the attempts to kill him and the enforced alienation bring Gaara nearer and nearer to his breaking point.
And when the young medium was close to succumbing to the bizarre mutterings of the insane spirit within him, he met a fellow strange boy.
He met "the wild boy".
It was a bright night, the full moon arching high in the sky, and no clouds blocked it's gaze.
Gaara, the child medium, was awake. He had to be, in order to keep control. Years without true sleep had rendered his body emaciated, even in one so young, and the flesh around his eyes was a bruised, ugly color from his being kept awake for so long.
The constant threat of attack had rendered him vigorously paranoid, his dull green eyes flicking about with practiced motions. His other senses were open, as well, and given no less attention. Experience had honed the use of his sensory perception to an intimidating level- so much so that the drop of a pin was as obvious to him as a cannon shot to a layman.
So when he heard a soft padding behind him, Gaara struck at the sound out of instinct. The boy turned to face this newest opponent.
Before him crouched a thin figure garbed completely in rags, these covering everything but its hands and its eyes. The attire was confusing, more in line with a garbage heap than the Wind Shadow's usual assassins, even the more covert ones, but that didn't really matter.
Gaara lashed out with his sand again, intending to end it quickly before any more killers arrived. He was surprised when the attack did not meet the intruder. Not the fact that it didn't hit- the first attack rarely did; The surprise came in that the figure did not use the token substitution technique, instead maneuvering around the blade of sand and withdrawing the sword on its back.
The sword was of alien design, curved like a dog's tooth and as wide as a man's arm. The steel glimmered in the moonlight, the faint scribing of some bizarre language visible along the length of it. The slight, tracing movements of the weapon in the rag-bedecked figure's hand indicated a strong familiarity with it.
Not wasting time, Gaara lashed out again- and again. Both times the arms of sand were belted back by the assassin, startling the boy medium.
He did not stop, continuing to slash, slinging out sand quickly to keep from leaving any vulnerabilities for his opponent to explore. Again, the vagrant sword wielder swatted back the weak attacks at his body, throwing the grit back in the boy's face with the flat of his weapon, blinding Gaara and causing him to stumble and fall back.
The boy medium manipulated the sand under him to break his fall and bring him back upright. He did not give the opponent time to take advantage of the pause, and he raised a veil of sand to guard himself.
Gaara began attacking again without waiting for the sand to fall, sending more sand from random directions and in varying ways, seeking to stretch the opponent's defense wide enough to gain an opening. Infuriatingly enough, the ragamuffin seemed to know more about fighting than the previous assassins did, and let the boy medium know that.
And so the sand medium began anew, trying to ensnare his adversary in his sand as well as attack head on. The figure seemed to begin to use more effort as well, though it seemed to keep mostly to swatting away sand with the sword and dodging.
The child medium pushed harder, putting more and more sand into the effort to overwhelm the assailant. However, nothing seemed to work, nothing got through or did any damage. Every attack seemed to hit a dead end.
The final straw came when the ragged figure swatted the contents of one more attack into Gaara's face. And then it was on.
The confrontation raged on, continuing onto rooftops, into alleyways, through the streets, up stairs, and back to about where it started. Neither gave way, nor was any injury inflicted on either opponent. Like many years ago, it was a dead heat.
Unlike all those years ago, the age difference was smaller and both sides were strong enough to continue for days if need be. However, it didn't.
The struggle continued long and hard, neither adversary willing to give an inch. It was only due to the real assassin interrupting that it did not continue until one or both sides were dead.
Presuming the wastrel to be an enemy soldier, the Wind assassin moved against the sword wielder. With naught but one movement, the strange fighter struck down the intruder.
Gaara seized upon the brief opening and attacked. Somehow, Fate had seen the young medium to miss his intended target, the throat of the stranger, instead cutting the rags about the stranger's head.
The dirty cloth fell away, showing the face of the bedraggled swordsman. His face was young, tanned from exposure to the elements. In his cool, grey eyes was honesty- and calm, something which the younger boy envied greatly.
The boy did not move, his gaze holding Gaara's. And he turned and walked away.
Thus began the odd friendship.
Weeks passed, with Gaara eagerly searching to find that odd visitor whose eyes did not cloud with hatred or fear. His search was without the reward of even a glimpse of the mysterious boy.
He watched the bakeries in the morning and the evening, and the lines of clothes on washing days. The boy medium even meditated outside to keep watch. His attempts still came to no avail.
Soon rumors spread of Gaara being the wild boy. The Wind Shadow quickly took issue with such petty invective, banning their discussion. Nonetheless, the mutterings remained, if uttered in softer voices.
It seemed as if Gaara had gained nothing from his search, until he heard of something new. A merchant of sweet-smelling artifacts and perfumes was railing against the market guards over the theft of a part his wares. In the past two days, his stock of dry sandalwood had gone missing, dwindling quickly whenever the merchant did not give it is full attention.
What really caught the young eavesdropper's attention was the mention of an unseemly figure hovering near the merchant's stand now and again, clad all in rags. The merchant had begun seeing this odd fellow around the same time his stock began to deplete, arousing his (and Gaara's) suspicion.
It was fortunate that the guards in attendance were the usual undutiful sort, exchanging jaded glances and laughing in the merchant's face.
Once the boy decided he'd heard enough, he moved on, ruminating thoughts of how to find the wild boy with this information.
Then again, what did a rogue of the streets want with pieces of wood, anyways?
Gaara had his answer soon enough, as a burning smell invaded his senses. It was somehow pleasant…and alluring, as well.
The young medium followed the scent, intent on finding the origin of this pleasant, mysterious smell. Sure enough, it led him to a dilapidated building not too far away.
The double doors at the entrance were shabby and in disrepair, but their ornate design and decoration gave them a mysterious charm. Gaara went through them carefully, though the doors opened with little sound, despite being in such disrepair.
Once inside, the scent of burning seemed to dilute, although Gaara still smelled it hovering discreetly just within his sense of smell, tickling his nostrils.
Odd; usually an odor increased in strength the closer one got to the source… The boy medium quickly dispensed the thought as irrelevant, though it still bothered him, somewhat.
He made his way through the strange place, the complex designs on his surroundings seeming to move with him, dancing and flickering like a dying flame. The place was dark, nearly pitch dark, and yet everywhere Gaara looked, he saw perfectly well. It was a strange, unfamiliar, and beautiful place, and it scared him and drew him in with equal force.
However, he was looking for the wild boy, his strange visitor, not a place of meditation (although coming back would not be out of the question...).
The young medium's search seemed unnaturally prolonged; he had entered the building- temple, if the decorations on the walls were any indication- near an hour ago. Yet he seemed no closer to the source of the smell- and possibly the wild boy- than he had when he had first entered this place.
He walked for so long that he no longer remembered the way to the exit. It just seemed to go on and on…
What was strange about this was that he didn't seem to tire at all. His lifestyle, if you could call it that, was harsh and quite hard on his body as a result. He wasn't the most athletic of boys, and his physical endurance was much like an enfeebled old man's rather than a young child's. But he'd somehow walked for a straight hour without exhaustion or pain…
Strange…
As Gaara walked on, his mind wandered a bit. He silently mused about his various concerns, and about the wild boy and how he would find him at last. After a time, he just followed the scent of burning, however much good it did him, and concentrated on that.
In an instant, the smell rose up and surrounded Gaara, it's trail no longer discernable. It confused the boy, but he still concentrated, hoping to find a way to the source, and, thus, the wild boy.
A scraping sound issued from behind him, and the boy medium whirled around, ready for anything.
What he found was what he'd wanted to find for so long- his midnight companion. The ragged boy sat with legs folded on the floor, stoking a fire with the tip of his sword.
The odd thing about this scene before the boy medium was the flame of the fire. Unlike most fires he'd scene in his life, the flames licking the charred sandalwood burned a pale blue color, unlike anything Gaara had ever seen before. Odder still was what came next.
The wild boy turned to look at his single visitor, calmly taking in the small, unintimidating frame of a small boy barely able to walk. His eyes held no malice or false pity, just like before. They both looked at each other for a moment, still and unafraid.
Then the older boy opened his mouth as if to speak, breathing in as he did so. In that brief moment, a piece of flame broke away from the fire and flitted through the air, entering the boy's mouth and alighting on his tongue. Gaara thought to say something, but it happened so fast and the other boy barely seemed to take notice.
"Come; Sit," said the wild boy, motioning for his guest to sit next to him. His lips did not seem to match what he said. However, Gaara acquiesced, slowly making his way over and lowering his frail form to rest on the floor. The wild boy smiled slightly, nodding.
"Close your eyes," the ragged boy said, "Hold still."
The boy's words seemed to link up a bit better with what he was saying this time, though Gaara hardly noticed, as the elder boy had taken the sword in his hands and dug it into the pile of burning wood, lifting out ashes balanced on the flat of the blade. The blackened, sooty remnants of the sandalwood smoldered slightly, smoke wafting off of it.
The wild boy nodded, indicating Gaara do as he demanded. Without pause, the boy medium shut his eyes.
A heat pressed against his forehead, and he felt soft, hot powdery ash wipe across, sweeping over his closed eyelids. The pressure quickly lifted, and the young boy heard the sword digging into the fire again.
Gaara opened his eyes, blinking away errant clods of soot. He saw the wild boy take his sword tipped with ashes and smear it across his forehead and eyelids, just as he'd done with Gaara. Then he opened his eyes and smiled at the younger boy.
Again, they sat there, silent and immersed in the moment.
"What is your name?" Gaara asked, blinking again as some ash fell off of his forehead.
The wild boy raised an eyebrow in amusement, somehow not dislodging any of his own ash. "You may call me…" the boy in rags visibly pondered for a moment, before straightening up and looking the smaller boy dead in the eyes. "Babak."
"Babaku?"
"Babak" grinned mischievously. "You can call me that, too."
And so they became like brothers.
Zoroastrianism is fun~
Look it up some time!
You've read this, now review. Any qualms or questions are mine to answer.