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Days of Yamano
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(Part 2: Camp)
The mystery surrounding the foreigners didn't wane, but grew, even when their presence became familiar. Who are they? What drove them? Where did they come from? And, when there was crashing, and swearing, and laughter coming from the tent, the occasional passerby wondered amusedly how they could live in such close proximity without killing one another.
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.distraction.
There was a visible difference in Fay as time wore on and it became obvious that the kids (and Mokona) were just not here. Anywhere. His smile, however broad, was just a little sad, the atmosphere around him slightly melancholy as if the very air was affected by his mood.
As much as Kurogane welcomed the silence that being away from the translating meat bun afforded, the mage's unhappiness annoyed him.
And that in of itself was annoying.
Why can't that damn magician function without yapping all hours of the day?
Fay needed a distraction, Kurogane decided. An auditory outlet. But the ninja wasn't about to teach the crazy magician Yama's language. For one, it would be conceding that the kids and the meat bun weren't going to show up, and no way in hell would he even entertain the thought that he wasn't returning to Tomoyo's side. For two, he wasn't about to voluntarily spend time coaching the man who would only manage to mangle his name in a new language.
"Oy, mage."
Fay looked up from his corner expectantly.
"If you've got nothing better to do, work on whistling properly."
Not expecting Fay to understand, Kurogane pulled his lips against his teeth and let out a sharp whistle.
The mage looked on, his eyebrows slightly pinched in confusion, waiting for Kurogane to elaborate on what sounded like a command.
"Whistling. Like this." Kurogane demonstrated again.
Suddenly, Fay's face lit up like a child given a new toy. Kurogane's eyebrow twitched.
He had a very bad feeling he was going to regret ever suggesting it.
"Vristeliing?" Fay tested the word on his tongue. His grin was suddenly impossibly wide. "Hyuu, hyuu!"
Yes, definitely regretting it.
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.honesty.
On their down days, Fay would sometimes flit about the tent, pouring his manic energy into cleaning, while Kurogane sat tending to the weapons. The mage babbled in his unintelligible language, his voice undulating up and down, lilting then punctuating certain points as if he was telling a story. There were odd moments when Kurogane thought the mage sounded wistful, almost with an edge of solemnity. More often, Fay chirped with the cheerful tone he used when he wasn't serious, which was near always. Eventually Kurogane trained himself to not demand the other to shut the hell up during these needy spells of gibbering. He sensed frustration and helplessness beneath the mage's grin when they faced social situations and realized that for someone so gregarious, being unable to communicate, staying silent, must be suffocating. So the ninja tunes out the noise and concentrates on the nicks on his shield and lets Fay tell his stories. How much of the stories were Fay's own, Kurogane never wondered and would never know.
And Fay preferred it that way.
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.promise.
Sometimes, Kurogane would lie under the stars, next to the crackling campfire. Nights were warm here, like the summers of his childhood in faraway Nihon. But there was the hunter, the serpent, and the maiden in the moon and he'd wonder how far is far and how small the world truly is.
He'd drift to sleep, in his right hand a sword and in his left hand a promise.
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.scars.
Fay wouldn't say he was an observant man. To be fair, he was astute when he knew to look (the magical barriers in the Hashin Castle, the shy, troubled glances between the kids). But he was at once too much in the moment and too far in the past to be observant like Kurogane was observant.
That's why he wasn't surprised he never noticed that scar on Kurogane's left hand until now.
Fay was tending to a particularly troublesome injury on the ninja's arm, one difficult to tend to with just the other hand, and, after much fussing, Kurogane relented and grudgingly allowed Fay to treat it. There it was: deep and brown and forever, burned as a reminder of something violent and painful that Fay could only guess at. He finished bandaging the wound, snuck a peek at Kurogane's turned face, and ran his thumb over the scar gently, feeling the rough contours prickling under his skin.
The ninja noticed immediately and jerked away, almost defensively. He scowled at Fay, more fiercely than usual, before his face relaxed with sudden recognition. Fay stayed still and silent for once and Kurogane, trying to cover up his reaction, settled for his annoyed look and went to sit on his own bedding. He sat facing the wall and determinedly away from Fay that night.
He didn't need to. Fay doesn't ask.
He's only a little jealous that Kurogane can wear his scars on the outside.
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.destiny.
They never lingered on the moon. There was never an aftermath. The spell always tore them away in the midst of battle.
But Fay dreamt it.
He'd stand, paralyzed and dazed, his nose filled with the sting of fresh blood and burning flesh. He alone stood, a willow tall and dirty gold, amongst the fallen corpses feeding the rotting earth. He stood, always, staring at Kurogane's contorted body, feeling the blood trail down his hands and dripping off his fingers.
He'd wake with a rattling breath, his limbs shaking and was at once afraid he'd alert the sleeping ninja, and relieved that Kurogane was there at all.
And he'd pull his bedding around him tight, burrowing himself away from the lingering ghosts, and was cold in way that no amount of fur and feathers could drive away.
He'd drift back to sleep fitfully, thinking of Chii, the promise she guards, and of unrelenting hitsuzen.
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Author's Note: Thank you for reading! It was fun speculating Fay's (conception of the) past before the flashback was published.
Love to hear your thoughts!
