82
Tolan let out a haggard sigh as the crystals fell from their levitated position. He sat up quickly and grimaced from both the paralysis experience and the nauseated feeling that set in from getting up too fast.
"Take it slow, Tolan."
The guard didn't react to Hershel's command, but he accepted the cup of tea that his brother in law held out to him. They sat in silence for a few minutes before Tolan finally ventured a question.
"So?"
Hershel lowered his own cup of tea.
"Well…you're making progress."
Tolan raised an eyebrow.
"Really?"
"Sure. I mean, you only cursed half as much this time around as the first time."
Tolan scowled.
"Gee…if I knew that was all it took…"
"Your control is getting better too; you're opening up more, which is good."
Tolan downed the rest of his tea and set the cup down on the ground.
"Alright. Let's go again."
Hershel looked surprised, but then the Master Healer shook his head.
"No, that's enough for today."
"I can handle it! Do the spell…"
"No, Tolan…"
"Hershel!"
Hershel's expression became stony and the two men glared at each other for a few minutes. The Healer broke the silence, his tone soft despite his severe look.
"I know you're eager to gain control, Tolan, but it's not something to be rushed. You did well today, but now you need to rest."
"You say I'm making progress, but we stop so early every day," Tolan muttered. Hershel pushed himself to his feet.
"We'll pick up again in the morning, if you're so eager."
Tolan finally seemed to grudgingly accept the fact that their training was over for the day. He carefully maneuvered himself to standing position.
"Got plans for the rest of your day?" the guard asked dryly. Hershel shrugged as he headed over to the shelves to pull a few vials of salve off.
"I need to revisit a few villages where fever is still going."
"Mmmm…so, same thing you've been doing for weeks."
Hershel sighed as he loaded his worn satchel, throwing Tolan a weary glance.
"It's my job. I don't really have the luxury of doing something exciting or new every day."
"Fair enough," the guard said softly. Hershel finished packing and slung his bag over his shoulder. His brother in law watched him with a serious expression and then spoke again, his tone nonchalant.
"You can take my hoofer, if you want. I won't be needing it."
Hershel looked a little surprised at the offer, but then he shook his head.
"No, that's alright. I'll just…"
"…Walk. Right."
Tolan shrugged as if he didn't care either way and Hershel hesitated at the front of the tent. The broadsword from the Western Fortress had been left in the bin of assorted weapons near the doorway, and the Master Healer frowned as he fished it out.
"You took this from the Western Fortress, right?"
Tolan scowled.
"It wasn't theirs. They shouldn't have it."
"But will you even use it?" Hershel challenged, thinking about the blank space on the wall in the Western Library and Myrah's angry words as she paced. Tolan shrugged again. Hershel came to a decision.
"I'm going to take it back."
Tolan's eyes flashed and Hershel explained quickly.
"Myrah was pretty upset about the whole situation. The last thing we need is some leader breathing down your neck or hunting you down."
"I'm a central fortress guard; she can't touch me."
Hershel raised an eyebrow as he strapped the broadsword to his waist.
"I'll be back later tonight. If you really aren't going out today, maybe you could track down some fuel for the fireplace and bring in a few buckets of water."
Tolan's expression darkened further, his tone becoming acidic.
"Sure…any other chores you need done, Master Hershel?"
The Master Healer rolled his eyes and headed out of the door, leaving Tolan to his bad mood.
Hershel rethought his decision several times on the way to the Western Fortress, but he finally pushed his insecurities aside. Why did he feel so strange about this? His brother in law stole something and he felt obligated to return it, especially after seeing how angry Myrah had been about the whole ordeal. Syn had been scared to death the leader would enact some kind of revenge…or try to capture and use Tolan now that she knew he had powers. Hershel felt like that was unlikely, especially given the Western Leader's apparent intolerance of powers in general.
He thought of their last conversation and scowled a little. He found himself looking down at his family-line tattoo, tracing the swooping lines with one finger. Hershel wasn't sure why the Leader's prying had hit him so hard during his last visit, but for some reason, the fact that she knew about Archtivus upset him. Maybe it was because he knew that Phos's past had been anything but clean…and if Myrah knew about it from her vast library accounts, then she no doubt had a different view on the Ancient Healer than Hershel did. Over the years, he had found that even the name "Archtivus" was spoken with disgust by the few people that had ever known him. But of those rare few who did, Hershel knew none really knew Phos. They would never know what he was really like.
The Western Fortress loomed in the distance and Hershel pushed his thoughts aside. If he showed up in a bad mood, Myrah would wonder why he bothered to show up at all. Not that he would even see the Leader; no doubt she would be busy with something. He would just leave the sword with whoever greeted him at the door. The thought left him feeling strangely hollow, and he sighed at himself. He let his mind go to different thoughts, and he wondered if he should check up on Heavy Metal so he could give Keyda an update. He still hadn't told her that the diagnosis was fatal, but the Oni Ruler could tell that something was wrong. He sighed to himself again as he thought about the conversation he would have to have soon.
By the time he reached the door, his legs were twinging from the long walk. Perhaps he should have taken Tolan up on his offer, but the Western Fortress was closer to his home village than a few of the central province villages he visited.
Hershel prepared himself to explain his business to the guards stationed at the doors, but to his surprise, they seemed to recognize him and opened the door to emit him. Hershel blinked but headed in, not one to question when circumstances turned out to be easier than expected.
He paused in the entrance atrium, trying to remember where the library was. Last time he had followed a servant to the large records room, but he should have paid more attention. The Western Fortress wasn't as large as the Central Fortress, but it was still big enough that he was sure to get lost. The guards might be willing to allow the Master Healer entrance, but Hershel figured they would be less understanding if they found him wandering in areas that he had no reason to be in.
He hesitated a few minutes longer, feeling foolish and strangely young. It was the feeling of being unsure and insecure, and it took him back to his teen years. He scowled to himself and straightened; surely he had come a long way since then. He was the Master Healer, after all…he shouldn't have to answer to anyone.
Hershel had decided on visiting Heavy Metal first. He would find someone to take him to the library later. He passed a few guards on his way to Heavy Metal's room, the route to which he had a fuzzy recollection of. The guards nodded at him, which helped him feel that he was on the correct route while also making him feel a little out of place. Surely they couldn't have all recognized him from his few visits to the fortress…why were they nodding so respectfully?
He reached the private room on the east-most wing of the fortress and felt relieved. But before he could knock on the carved door, the handle turned.
Hershel froze as Myrah came out of Heavy Metal's room, and she looked up and paused when she caught sight of him. They regarded each other in silence while the Western Leader pulled the door closed softly behind her.
"What are you doing here?" she finally asked, and Hershel made sure to keep even eye contact.
"I was visiting several villages on the central-west border and figured I'd stop by to see how he was getting on…"
"As well as expected," Myrah said, her expression hard to read. "He's been taking the medication you gave, and there's still plenty. I just made him drink the tea, and now he's asleep. He shouldn't need you at this given moment."
Hershel felt stuck, but in an attempt to not look as foolish as he was beginning to feel, he decided to act like Phos; it was always a sure-fire way to seem both competent and irritated by other's incompetence.
"Next time I won't come out of my way," he replied coolly, and something flickered across her expression.
"I only meant that you don't have to check to see if I've been giving him the medication. I have been."
He wasn't sure what the proper reply was to that, and Myrah continued, her dark eyes seemingly scanning for a reaction.
"You're free to come here, as Master Healer. The guards have been instructed to let you come and go as you please…"
"I noticed," Hershel replied honestly.
"I've been treating you as one of my subjects, when I suppose the proper conduct would be as an equal," the leader admitted, and the Master Healer furrowed his brow. Where had this all come from?
"Well…you certainly seem to be the type to follow proper conduct," he pointed out dryly before he could think better of it. She looked surprised, and then she glanced away.
"Indeed."
There was an awkward silence and Hershel's hand began to unconsciously fiddle with the heavy, unfamiliar weapon on his side. He blinked as he remembered.
"I…also meant to give this back to you."
Myrah frowned in confusion as she accepted the broadsword. After a moment recognition registered in her expression.
"Oh…the sword."
She glanced back up at Hershel, an unasked question apparent by the way she was frowning.
"Tolan is doing better. Control takes time, but he's making progress."
"I suppose," Myrah agreed carefully.
"He won't be guarding Theo for a while though," Hershel assured. He was confused by his own behavior; why did he feel the need to explain anything to this woman? Technically, he didn't even need to have come at all. She obviously hadn't missed the sword that much.
Myrah was nodded at his comment.
"I expect you'll be leaving now?" she asked, and Hershel went to say yes. After all, she had already explained that Heavy Metal was doing alright and he had delivered the broadsword.
"I don't have anything pressing," he said. "Did you need something else?"
What was wrong with him?
Myrah studied him for a few moments and then spoke carefully.
"If you wouldn't mind accompanying me to the library to return this…I have a few things I'd like to discuss."
Hershel regretted his decision, but there wasn't anything he could really do or say now. He shrugged and motioned for her to lead the way. There was a flash of relief on her features and he wondered if she thought he would turn her down.
They walked down the hallway with Myrah carrying the sword stiffly and Hershel trying to figure out what she was going to say so he would have a response prepared. Probably something about Archtivus…
"I apologize for not realizing sooner."
Hershel turned in surprise as the Leader spoke, drawing a blank for what on earth Myrah was talking about.
"What is it you didn't realize?"
"I admit I don't know much about the Healing trade, and even less about the organization of Healers that has existed from the time of Kahzym the first."
Hershel was silent; he was under the impression that nobody even knew about the organization. He waited for Myrah to continued and after a moment she did.
"There is mention here and there of different Healers, though mainly only the Master Healers were ever prevalent enough to make themselves known to history."
"I see."
It seemed like the right thing to say, especially since he was just stalling until he figured out what it was Myrah was trying to say.
"Archtivus is mentioned, of course…but in accounts from centuries ago. I always assumed he had died off and that he had been replaced by a long line of others. That point in history is sketchy at best, especially where Healers are involved. Historians mention some grand folly that occurred, but no details. Any mention of a Master Healer all but disappear."
She turned to look at him for the first time.
"I was under the misunderstanding that you came from such a nameless Healing line. Especially with the name Hershel; I assumed your parents were educated Healers. Part of the organization, but no one of true importance."
Hershel's mouth was strangely dry, guessing where this was going. How had she discovered the truth? That his parents had been degenerate nobodies who scratched a meaningless living off a failing farm before selling him and his sister to slave traders?
"But you would not have been granted that tattoo without being part of his direct line," Myrah was saying, gesturing to his family mark. "That's when I did a little more research regarding Archtivus. And then I finally realized how it was he had lived for all those years, to have raised you as you said he did."
She paused, suddenly uncharacteristically unsure and even sheepish.
"I didn't realize you were an Ancient, Master Hershel…and I apologize for not treating you with the respect you deserve."
Hershel stopped moving as the realization came crashing down into him. Myrah turned in confusion and concern, but he just scoffed to himself. The respectful way she had been treating him, the free-range she had granted him. He had done little to deserve it; she was only treating him like that because she thought Archtivus was his birth father.
"I'm not an Ancient."
His voice was soft, but there was a strength to it. Myrah's brow furrowed.
"You'd…have to be," she tried. "Your father…"
"I never really knew my birth father, besides the fact that he had a reputation for being lazy. He died when I was only a few years old. I don't even know what his name was."
Myrah looked completely dumbfounded, and Hershel continued.
"Archtivus is…was an Ancient. That much is true. He took me and my sister in when we were young. He taught me how to control my powers and eventually named me his apprentice. When he passed, he recommended me as his successor."
"But you bear the mark of his line…" Myrah pointed out, and Hershel shrugged.
"He considered us his children," he said softly. It was the first time he had ever said it, but deep down he knew it was true. The Western Leader's expression seemed cloudy.
"That is highly unusual," she finally managed, and Hershel couldn't help smile.
"Perhaps…but it was hardly the first thing about him to be unusual."
Myrah seemed lost for words, and Hershel wondered if she regretted asking him to stay.
"I'm sorry if you've wasted time and effort on someone with as humble a background as me," he said wryly, adjusting his satchel on his shoulder. Myrah's dark eyes looked back up to lock on his.
"You are still the Master Healer, Ancient or no," she concluded, and it sounded like she was talking to herself as much as him. "The respect is not unfounded."
She seemed distant again, and Hershel nodded for lack of a better response. It hurt for some reason…that he was somehow less because he wasn't an Ancient. Because Phos hadn't been his "true" father, even though he had been in all the ways that mattered.
"You would know," he found himself saying calmly. "After all, Heavy Metal named you his successor, despite the fact that you have no relation."
It had the desired reaction; Myrah flushed slightly and her eyes hardened.
"I earned his respect and the respect of the province. I earned this role…"
"I never said you didn't," Hershel breezed. "But it is rare for leaders to not choose someone of relation, however distantly. Heavy Metal must have held you in high regard, and considered you as good as related."
Myrah was glaring now, seemingly trying to pick the insult out of the comment. But that was the thing…Hershel hadn't meant any of it as an insult.
"Are you the Master Healer for the entire realm?"
Hershel blinked at the sudden change of topic.
"Yes…"
"Then why is it that you only seem to work with those of the central province?" Myrah pressed unforgivingly. "Are those the only lives that are worth saving to you?"
Hershel was taken aback.
"Of course not…"
"I've never heard of you venturing to any of our villages to help, and goodness knows we here in the West get the fever as easily as those in central regions."
"There are healers in each of the provinces," Hershel said defensively. "I can hardly visit everyone in every village in the realm. There aren't many healers in the central province, so I…"
"There aren't any here, from the information I've gathered," Myrah cut in, apparently not willing to let this go. Hershel couldn't help but bitterly wonder if he would be so angrily interrogated if he had pretended to be an Ancient after all.
"I suppose I don't know of any in this province…" he admitted carefully. She held her head high.
"So, isn't it your job to train Healers? To make sure that the provinces are all taken care of in this healer shortage?"
Hershel was incredulous.
"The only reason there's a Healer shortage is because they were hunted by the Baron!" he tried, but Myrah merely scoffed.
"The Baron hasn't ruled for over twenty years. There is hardly an excuse for the lack of Healers now."
Hershel opened his mouth to argue further, but he found that he didn't really know what to say. Myrah seemed to take his silence as defeat.
"I will select several Oni from the Western Villages to train to be Healers," she said decidedly, and Hershel's expression darkened.
"I can't have more than one apprentice," he pointed out coolly, but Myrah shrugged.
"I don't mean for you to train them that deeply. Just enough for them to identify common diseases, and how to treat them."
Hershel scowled. The truth was, it wasn't that bad of a plan. He was gone most days, walking long distances, and he still couldn't hope to help everyone who could use it. But he also resented having a leader tell him what to do.
"I'm very busy…"
"Busy enough to stop by to check on a leader without real reason to, and return a dusty broadsword," Myrah pointed out dryly. Hershel narrowed his eyes, but the Western Leader had won, and she knew it.
"I can pay you for your troubles, if that's the issue," she said breezily. He scoffed.
"Time is the issue…" he muttered, and Myrah smiled a little.
"Then let me make it worth your time."
She was staring at him and Hershel realized that she was waiting for him to name his price. He blinked, not sure how he had found himself in this situation.
"I couldn't teach more than two or three," he found himself saying. "And they wouldn't be part of the organization…the highest title they would have is that of traveling healer."
"I see nothing wrong with that," the leader said easily, her eyebrow raising as she waited for him to name his price. Hershel hesitated, trying to decide. He didn't really want to do it for free, both because it was going to be an inconvenience and because Phos had taught him that it was unwise to gain such a reputation because it would become all people would expect. While he thought, his eyes came to rest on the broadsword that the Western Leader was still holding. An idea formed.
"The weapons from that village," he started, gesturing to the sword Myrah was holding. "Are there more than just the ones on display?"
She glanced down at the sword and frowned.
"Why?"
"Do you happen to have a pair of katanas?"
83
Keyda sank back down into her chair, her hand going to her mouth.
"You're sure?"
Hershel nodded grimly, studying the Ruler closely. She seemed sick, and was obviously sad…but there was also something in her expression that told Hershel that Keyda had already known this news was coming.
Keyda was rubbing her face now, no doubt a lifetime of memories running through her head.
"How much longer do you think? Until he…"
She trailed off and Hershel thought about it.
"It's hard to know for certain. Sometimes it takes months and sometimes it's less than a week. If I had to guess, I'd say he can't have more than a month or so left."
Keyda looked more stricken by that news and she sighed.
"It's strange…having him die like this," she finally murmured. "Most people in my life were killed by weapons or disease…not…time."
Hershel nodded.
"It's happening more now that there's been peace for so long. I suppose in a way it's a sign of progress."
Keyda scoffed.
"Is he in a lot of pain?"
"I gave him medication, and Myrah said he's been taking it."
"Myrah knows, then? Ancients…of course he must be near the end. I can't see him giving up his position and retiring unless he was close."
Keyda chewed her thumbnail, lost in thought.
"I need to see him. Is he well enough to see people?"
Hershel thought about it.
"He would appreciate your visit, I'm sure."
"I'm glad we were able to see him a few weeks ago when he came to introduce Myrah. He told me not to worry! But all along…he must have been in so much pain. He knew and he didn't tell me."
"He seems at peace with it," Hershel offered. Keyda just sighed.
"He still should have told me, after everything. I had a right to know."
She stared at the wall a little longer, still lost in thought. She finally sighed and leaned forward.
"I'll have to visit him in a few days. I'd go tomorrow, but it's Amber's audition."
Hershel wasn't sure what exactly that meant, but he nodded in agreement.
"The sooner you can, the better."
Pain flickered across her expression again, and Hershel realized that this was going to be hard for her. He thought about what he knew about Heavy Metal's and Keyda's relationship and realized that in some ways, the previous Western Leader was to Keyda what Phos had been to him.
"Is there anything else I can help with while I'm here?" Hershel offered, and Keyda finally looked up at him.
"No, nothing I can think of."
Hershel nodded and turned to go when Keyda frowned.
"Wait…"
He turned and she leaned forward.
"You've met Myrah, then?" she asked, and Hershel nodded. The Ruler's tone was neutral. "What do you think of her?"
Hershel blinked in surprise.
"Oh. Uh…"
"She seems pretty formal to me; she's not exactly the type to open up. Do you think she'll be a good leader?"
Hershel thought about it before shrugging.
"I think she still has a lot to learn…but eventually? I think she will."
The auditions for Marty Openheimer's School of Performing Arts were held in the smallest of several auditoriums. It was the most casual as well, with a large space with chairs that could be set up and taken down rather than staged seating. It was the same room where Family Socials and different performances were held throughout the year. Today it was packed with student-hopefuls and their families; overall the air was filled with nervous and giddy excitement. In the hustle and bustle, nobody really noticed the woman in the back with deep red sunglasses on her head and platinum blonde hair twisted in a firm yet stylish bun. Her thin lips were pressed in a thoughtful frown as she took in the ruckus, and she finally shuddered. She had left this life for a reason, she primly decided.
Her assistant Alejandro was somewhere or another; she never could keep track of him these days. It didn't help that he was incredibly short…he was easy to lose in a crowd.
Just then someone bumped the woman and she scowled and turned to snap at whichever sweaty teenager had dared to come within so close a range. Instead she found herself staring at an apologetic-looking man.
"Sorry about that…these aisles get really crowded at these things," he offered. She blinked and looked him up and down for a moment. She quickly calculated him to be around her same age, and he certainly wasn't bad looking. She offered a lighthearted laugh.
"No problem at all. Ghastly events, these. They should either make use of larger auditoriums or cut down immensely on those allowed to audition."
He blinked, and offered a shrug-nod; typical for someone who wasn't sure how to respond. The lady put forward a hand with a gleaming white smile.
"I suppose I should introduce myself…" she said prestigiously. "Matilda O'Keefe."
"Cole," he offered in response. He seemed confused at why she had offered her left hand, but he obliged the hand shake. Matilda wasn't actually left-handed…but it made it far easier to check for tell-tale wedding rings.
There. She sighed inwardly; it truly was beginning to seem like all the decent-looking men were taken. Just once she'd like to stumble across a bachelor at the many events she was forced to attend. Especially such events as these.
Cole continued talking; he must assume that her introduction was an attempt to segue into further conversation.
"I'm here for my daughter; I just went to deliver something to her and I'm on my way back now. Sorry again for bumping into you in the process…"
Out of the corner of her eye Matilda could see a figure approaching. She didn't have to turn to recognize who it was, with that white suit and hideous green tie. Honestly, had he not even bothered to gain a sense of style in all these years?
She beamed at Cole in an endearing way, grabbing his arm as she shook her head.
"Honestly, don't think anything of it. It's inevitable, with the way things are set up here."
Matilda didn't have to turn to know that the approaching Headmaster had seen the flirtatious gesture. Cole's expression flickered with confusion, and he chuckled awkwardly as he managed to pull away.
"I…need to get back. I think it's starting soon."
She nodded blithely as he headed back down the aisle. Matilda made sure to continue watching him, even after the man in the white suit finally reached her.
"Matilda."
She turned in mock surprise, one perfectly-tailored eyebrow raising.
"Marty. I didn't see you there…"
"I'm sure you didn't," he said dryly, no doubt trying to let her know that he was on to her. How typical of him.
"Really, Marty. Would it kill you to build a better auditorium for these things? Or better yet, stop holding them altogether. It would cut down the utter embarrassments that I find myself tied to."
"What are you…"
"Talking about? Surely you know!" she cut in, purposefully finishing his sentence incorrectly. "I was happy to hear that you had finally rid the school of that thing your father had granted entrance…but now I'm hearing that she's going to be allowed to try out for re-entry. What on earth has happened to you, Marty? Surely you care at least a little about the reputations we've managed to build for ourselves!"
"Matilda…"
"And don't say that our reputations are no longer tied. You would not believe the amount of press I got about it. Even the people who sold me my morning coffee were bringing it up. If only I wasn't so instantly recognizable."
Marty was getting irritated, which worked for her. She turned to glower at him.
"And don't just tell me that you're letting her audition but aren't planning on letting her back in…which of course is what you're doing. Don't you realize that this kind of catering is the reason we're still having problems in this realm? We need basic rules, and we need to follow them. Complete separation worked for the serpentine. Is it really too much to ask that politicians issue some sort of ban for these demon people? How long before all of Ninjago is overrun again with some unwanted species…"
"Honestly, Matilda. This isn't one of your political campaigns! The Auditions are open to the public and have been since the start of the school. I'm required to allow an audition to anyone who wants one."
Marty had raised his voice and her expression became instantly cool.
"Of course I wouldn't expect you to understand. All you care about is dance. You've never listened to me about propriety before…why should I expect you to now? Honestly, I just don't understand how you ever allowed such a creature into the school to begin with. It's not healthy for our economy…but surely even the girl can't be that happy in such a change of worlds. I can't imagine what kind of parents would dare put their little demon out into the world in this way, not with all the history Ninjago has. I mean, rumor has it the father…"
"You mean the man you were just shamelessly flirting with?" Marty cut in dryly. For a rare moment, Matilda was speechless. She couldn't help but glance down the aisle, and color rose in her cheeks as she caught sight of Cole with an elderly gentleman, an impossibly pale teenage boy, and a very demonic woman.
Seeing that he had finally gotten the upper ground, the headmaster continued.
"What are you doing here, Matilda? Besides humiliating yourself?"
She turned back to him, her head still high.
"I don't have to explain myself to you."
He glared at her.
"Matilda…"
"You certainly can't kick me out, Marty. It's like you said; these auditions are open to the public."
"You can't stay," the headmaster argued. "I don't care what vendetta you have against those coming to audition; M. is here to watch a friend, and thus you cannot be here. If he were to see you…"
She scoffed.
"He's my son too, Marty. In fact…"
She pulled out an envelope from her crisp suit coat and handed it to the headmaster.
"He's the one who asked me to come."
Amber's heart was pounding. She didn't generally get this nervous to perform…but there was so much more at stake today. She wouldn't necessarily be guaranteed entrance back into the program with a perfect performance…but she would definitely be denied for anything except one.
All around her the air was heady with similar nervous feelings. Amber wrinkled her nose; anxiety always felt like B.O. smelled. Youth of different ages were milling around, some practicing tricky footwork, some warming up their voices. She could kind of tell which ones were merely trying to transfer from other programs; they tended to have their heads held higher, their anxiety mixing with confidence and self-assured feelings. Perhaps they saw themselves as above those who were just trying to come in from off the street. Amber wondered what she would be counted as. Would the judges be told she was a hopeful with no prior experience, or would she be called a transfer student? Or maybe a re-entry? Or maybe her papers would read "Fail this girl no matter what."
An adult came backstage, barking orders and telling everyone to get in numerical order. Amber recognized the professor, though she wasn't sure if he recognized her. The Oni looked down at the large "28" pinned to her shirt and straightened it subconsciously as the antsy crowd managed to jumble itself in a semi-straight line. The girl at the very front of the group had bouncy blonde curls and looked like she was on the verge of passing out. Amber felt a little sorry for her, until the girl turned and caught sight of the Oni staring. Then goldilocks sneered and stuck her nose in the air, as if suddenly filled with confidence. Amber's own expression darkened, and she was suddenly aware of other emotional undertones lurking below the stressful haze around her. Suspicion, disgust, fear. She glanced around at the others waiting to audition and noticed that no one would meet her eye. She felt a flash of annoyance, but she pushed it down. It didn't matter so much what these other hopefuls thought. It only mattered what the judges thought. She reminded herself that she could deal with the petty, small-minded world as long as she was given a chance to dance in it.
Amber exhaled slowly and looked down at the silver necklace glinting in the dim backstage lighting. Then she reached up to straighten the poppy crown on her head and felt a wave of strength. Her family was here. M. was here. They knew the real her, and they knew that she was capable of this. She didn't care about what anyone else thought. She was here, and she was going to dance.
And she was going to be amazing.
Marty IV stared down at the letter in his hand, feeling blindsided. Matilda was still regarding him in a triumphant way.
He finally looked up to glare at her, not bothering to read most of the letter. He had seen enough to know that it was M's handwriting.
"What is this?" he hissed, and his ex-wife rolled her eyes.
"Honestly, Marty. It's obviously a letter written by our son…"
"I mean what are you really doing here? After seven years, you expect me to believe you would show up just because M. asked you to?"
"How dare you judge me so cruelly," Matilda said haughtily. "He's never reached out before, you know…obviously something must be really wrong now."
Marty narrowed his eyes but Matilda continued before he could say anything.
"And is it any wonder what it is? He's been forced to school with a demon, with his own father forcing partnership. Using our son for your own "equality" agenda; and you say I'm manipulative."
Marty scoffed; he might have been amused, if he hadn't been so angry.
"You've completely misread the situation, per the norm…"
"I left him with you because I assumed you wanted what was best for him. But here he is, reaching out to me; I think that says something about your ability to provide for him after all, doesn't it, Marty?"
"Don't you dare pretend like you're here to build a relationship with M," Marty said quietly. People were starting to get settled into their seats; the auditions were going to start soon.
Matilda rolled her eyes.
"Pretend? Are you so sure that I'm not?" she asked icily. Marty leaned in, his tone soft but severe.
"If you cared about M, you wouldn't have left him in the first place," he hissed. "And if you hurt him again as you chase some political nonsense…I swear Matilda, I will…"
"Oh, the threats," the woman cut in. "You haven't changed a bit, Marty dear. Though I do remember a lot more yelling…but I suppose you don't want to make a scene here, do you?"
Marty's glare was murderous, but Matilda seemed unaffected as she looked around at the people taking their seats, the lights dimming.
"In fact, it does seem this whole debacle is about to start…I best find my seat. I recommend you do the same, Marty…your face is all red and puffy, and I'd hate for you to look like you've lost your composure."
With that, Matilda slipped away. In moments she had claimed her seat next to her previously missing assistant, and she looked up to give Marty one last flippant wave before turning to face the front, as if she was any other spectator. The headmaster wanted to explode, but there wasn't anything he could do now. He glowered at Matilda a few moments longer before huffing and turning to leave. He had no idea what her motives were…but he could have killed the woman. How dare she come here out of the blue, where M. was sure to see her. His blood boiled further when he thought of the letter in his pocket. He strolled to the front of the auditorium as the lights dimmed fully, a spotlight seeking him out and finding him. His expression melted into a calm and slightly bored look as he mounted the stage, and those in the audience applauded politely. He smiled out to the crowd, pushing aside the torrent of thoughts so he could give the standard welcome address. As his eyes scanned the crowd, he found his empty chair on the long table where the judges sat; the place he would be required to maintain until at least intermission.
The speech rang out effortlessly across the space; it was the same speech he gave every year. His eyes drifted across the faces of family members and friends, here to watch their loved ones perform…and hopefully make it into this prestigious program. He found Cole and his family in the crowd and glanced over them without hesitation. He had more pressing problems at the moment.
He was nearly to the end of his speech when he caught sight of M. sitting next to the aisle on the far right side. The teen was looking up at him with a glazed expression, but his brow furrowed as if confused. With a start, Marty realized that he had paused in the middle of the last phrase of the speech, his mind going blank as he stared at his son. M. looked concerned now, leaning forward as he met his father's eye.
Marty finally blinked and shook his head as if to clear it.
"…So I suppose it would be best to get these auditions started," he finished curtly. The crowd seemed a little confused, but Marty made sure not to meet anyone's eye as he quickly exited the stage and headed for his appointed chair. The crowd was clapping again, but he stared directly ahead and clenched his jaw. He didn't look at M. again. And he certainly didn't look towards the woman with platinum blonde hair on the back row.
84
"Was it just me, or did that kid look like he was going to be sick?" Theo murmured to his father. Cole glanced over.
"Theo…."
"He was green, Dad! Totally green in the face! You didn't see that?"
Cole couldn't help but smile a little.
"He was probably just nervous, Theodynn."
"Probably. But man…not sure he's going to get into the school with that performance. He sounded kinda like a dying goose on those high notes."
"Theo, that's enough!" Cole argued softly. "Give the kid a break, alright?"
Theo glanced back over in surprise, and Cole sighed as he leaned back in his chair.
"It's not always easy to sing in front of such a large, critical group."
Understanding finally hit Theodynn and he smiled sheepishly.
"Don't worry, Dad. You've never sounded like that."
"Theo, shhhhh," Keyda chastised from his other side, and Theo quieted. They watched a few more auditions, the quality seeming to range from alright to pretty good, depending on how nervous the auditioner was. Finally Theo leaned over again.
"Which number did you say Amber was, Dad?"
"28. She should be next."
A grin split across Theo's face then, and he settled back down into his chair. Now it was time for all these people to see what real dancing looked like. He found himself fidgeting in his chair, his heart beating nervously on Amber's behalf. Not that it needed to; he hadn't seen Amber's dance yet, but he already knew it was going to be great. She always was.
The boy onstage finished his piece from some lesser known operetta and the audience applauded politely. There were a few whoops and cheers from a family sitting near Theodynn's and he was suddenly grateful he hadn't made any comments on this kid's singing, with his family so close.
The kid filed off-stage and the head judge at the long table pulled up his glasses to read the next name on the list.
"…28 please…Amber, number 28…"
The judge table was positioned in the optimal viewing spot, a few rows back into the crowd. There were three judges, and over the course of the audition Theo had given nicknames to all of them. There was Smiley Joe, who beamed at the auditioner no matter how sour a note or clumsy a step was. Then there was stone-faced-Sally, who showed very little emotion and barely seemed to remember to clap half the time. All in all, it just looked like she was trying not to fall asleep. The bespectacled man who called out the names and numbers Theo merely called "Head Judge" because he seemed to be in charge. He did a lot of hemming and hawing, and seemed to have the most honest reactions. He smiled during some auditions, winced at others, and had seemed to have kept his fountain pen going almost consistently through the last 60 minutes.
Next to the judges table, Marty Openheimer the Fourth sat in a comfortable looking chair. He had a notebook open in his lap, though he rarely opened it. Mainly he just stared at the stage with an unreadable expression. He made occasional notes, but Theo still couldn't decide whether the things the Headmaster chose to write were positive or negative.
The curtain opened and Theo's heart started pounded again. Amber stood resolutely, the poppy wreath crowning two horns that gleamed in the stage-lights. A large paper with a "28" written on it was pinned to the front of her black shirt. Besides the flowers on her head and the silver necklace, her costume was simple; a pair of snug black pants and a black shirt. She stared out at the judges table, her voice crisp and confident, despite the murmuring that had started to rumble across the audience.
"My name is Amber and this is an original dance, titled "Dance of the Poppy."
Theo beamed up at her, but Amber didn't look over at where her family was sitting. She seemed to be staring right at the judges, and as Theo looked over he saw Marty IV lean forward just a little. He wondered if the Headmaster was the one his sister was staring down. A moment later she turned to take her starting position, waiting for the music to start.
"Dance of the Poppy…it's been a few years…"
Lou's voice was quiet and thoughtful, and Theo looked over to grin at his grandpa.
"She touched it up; I'll bet it's even better now than it was."
Just then the music started, and Theo's attention snapped back up to the stage. The lighting had dimmed so that Amber was merely a horned silhouette, moving with sudden intensity in front of a blood-red backdrop. Theo thought the effect was awesome, and he didn't hear the worried and confused murmuring from those sitting all around them. Cole did, and he glanced around to see people staring at Amber as if she was some kind of dangerous mystery. He felt a flash of anger; she was just dancing. Why did people act like she was about to attack them?
Theo nearly forgot to keep track of the judge's reactions as Amber bulleted across the stage. The music was eerie but fast-paced; he was pretty sure it was different than the one she had danced to all those years ago during her first performance. The crowd gasped a little as she rocketed into three spinning jumps, throwing herself across the stage like a fury to be reckoned with. More red light began shining down on her, illuminating her form and crisp movements. This wasn't the elegant, Poppy-inspired dance that Amber had given as a seven year old. Like all her performances, this dance illustrated Amber's passion and emotions in a raw way. Theo leaned forward as he realized what it reminded him of.
This dance was a battle…one Amber intended to win.
He finally tore his eyes away from his sister so he could see what the judges were doing, and he couldn't help but grin again. Amber had knocked the smile of Smiley-Jo's face as he stared at the stage in surprise. Stone-face-Sally seemed more awake than she had the entire audition, and even the Head Judge's pen had come to a stop as he took the moment to just watch. Theo didn't blame him; it was the kind of performance you didn't want to look away from, in case you missed anything.
Marty IV's expression hadn't changed; he was the only one that Amber didn't seem to be affecting. As Theo stared, however, he could see the headmaster's pointer finger tapping on the top of his notebook, keeping time with the music.
Having taken the few moments to gage the judges' reactions, Theo looked back at Amber's dance. Audition rules stated that no piece could be longer than three minutes, and Amber's passionate performance devoured the time faster than any that had yet graced the stage. Suddenly the music was climaxing, and Amber was spinning on one foot in a crimson-black cyclone.
Then it ended. The song hit its last note, there was a crash of what sounded like cymbals, and Amber's form froze like a statue in the middle of the stage. Her head was held high, but her hands were open. It struck Theo as a little odd; with that performance, he almost would have expected a stronger stance…one with fists. But Amber's pose was with her hands open wide. It wasn't…surrender, exactly. But if her dance really was a battle fought, it ended with Amber willing to truce.
Amber's heart was pounding like crazy as she stared out into the crowd. The white stage lights replaced the red and she unfroze, melting back into the 12-year old auditionee that she was, rather than the raging blur of emotions she had been trying to emulate. She bowed quickly, and she heard the applause. She straightened and could see that her entire family was standing, clapping loudly. Her serious expression broke as she gave them a little smile, and then the rest of the auditorium finally started to applaud as well. It was quieter; the applause at end of each performance had been rather quiet, in a polite way. But now it just seemed like the crowd was being timid, rather than polite. She risked one glance at the judges table, but they all seemed to be writing now. The only one who met her eye was Marty IV, and he looked away as soon as it happened, cracking the notebook on his lap open. Her mouth felt dry, but she said "Thank You" and took her exit.
M. was scanning the crowd as the lights came up, hoping to catch sight of Amber. But just then, a hand clamped down on his arm and he turned to see his father staring down at him.
"Dad! What's…"
"Private. We need to talk in private."
M. was mystified, but he allowed his father to pull him out of the auditorium. In another few minutes, they were alone in a classroom while Marty IV closed the door firmly.
M. finally spoke.
"Dad…what's this all…"
"I thought we had an agreement, M!"
The young teen was surprised at his father's angry tone, and he put his hands up.
"What?"
Marty raged on.
"I didn't think I had to actually call it an agreement…did you need me to write it out for you?! You seemed to understand, you seemed to be doing better….but then you go behind my back!"
"You knew I was coming to watch Amber!" M. finally said defensively. It was the only thing he could think of that his father would be angry about…unless he had somehow discovered that M. had snuck off to her birthday party a few days ago. "I didn't think you'd be mad!"
"You think that this is about that girl?!"
Marty's neck vein was already bulging, and M. swallowed. If it wasn't about Amber, then what?
"You wanted a fair audition, and I gave her one. Not only was I prepared to allow her re-entry, I feel that I have been more than lenient with you this last week…"
"What?"
M.'s heart skipped a beat and he wondered if he heard his father right. Hope flared in his chest.
"You're going to let Amber back in?"
Marty scoffed.
"Like I said, we had an agreement. To think, all along you were asking all of this of me when you were planning on running the entire time…"
"I was not!"
M. flushed with anger; where was this coming from? Sure, he had thought about running plenty of times in the past year. But these last few weeks, with Amber possibly coming back to school…it was the first time in a while that he pictured himself staying.
Marty glowered, and suddenly he pulled a folded paper out of one pocket.
"Then how do you explain this?"
He threw it at M, but despite the force he did it with, the paper fluttered harmlessly to M's feet. The teen frowned as he stooped to pick it up…and his heart nearly stopped when he realized what it was.
"Where did you get this?" he murmured, but Marty continued angrily.
"How dare you…after everything I've done for you, you dared ask your mother to come 'take you away?' Was this the plan all along? Pretend to appease me and then disappear in the middle of the night?"
M. didn't answer right away, his feelings stuck somewhere between shame and defensive anger. He finally looked up to glare at his father.
"How did you even get this letter? Are you snooping into my mail?"
"No, M." Marty replied coldly. His rage seemed to be cooling, and M. could no longer read his father's expression as he studied his son. He seemed to be battling internally about something, and the letter in M's hand crumpled.
"I felt stuck, Dad! You were treating me like some prisoner or something…so I reached out. I should be allowed to write my own mother!"
He threw the letter on the ground and hated himself as tears began to prick his eyes.
"It doesn't matter anyways…she left, and I knew she wouldn't write back. I just…I felt trapped…"
His voice trailed off as the emotions got stuck in his throat, and he willed himself not to cry in front of his father. He was feeling angry and defensive…as well as confused. He still didn't understand how his father had gotten the letter…he had sent it weeks ago. If he found it before it was sent, why had he waited until now to bring it up? M. realized with sudden bitterness that the letter had probably been returned to sender; it seemed that not even the trusty Postman could track down M.'s absent mother.
"M."
He stiffened as he felt his father's hand on his shoulder.
"Just…leave it, Dad!"
"M, your mother is here."
The boy looked up in shock, his fear of his tears being seen instantly forgotten. He stared dumbly at his father's grim expression.
"She's…what?"
"She's here, in the school. At the audition…"
"The letter. She…got the letter?"
M's words were almost wooden, and Marty's expression darkened. Suddenly the Headmaster was bending down, so he could stare his son in the eyes.
"M…listen to me. I know your mother, and if she's here now it's not for anything good. She only cares about herself. She wouldn't have come unless…"
"How do you know?"
M's heart had stopped, but now it was pounding like crazy. Suddenly he had to see her….he had to see if she really did come. If she really was answering his letter. If she did care.
"I don't want you to get hurt!" Marty was saying, but M. just scoffed as he brushed his father's hand off his shoulder.
"She's here…I wrote her and she came."
He seemed to be talking to himself more than to his father, and in his dazed state he missed the fear that flickered across his father's expression.
"You won't be going anywhere with that woman!" Marty began, and M. turned to glare at him.
"That woman is my mother! She has a right to see me…I have a right to see her!"
"You are in my custody, young man!" Marty roared. "Your mother gave up that right when she left seven years ago. You cannot just leave!"
"Maybe I can!"
M. wasn't sure he meant it, but his emotions felt like they were boiling over and he was sick of his father yelling at him. Marty flinched as if he had been slapped, and his eyes flashed angrily.
"Legally, you cannot. Besides, I thought you wanted your friend to be able to come back to school."
The Headmaster's voice was lower now, and M. clenched his fists.
"You said you were already planning on letting her back in…"
"Because we had a deal…"
"Like you could deny her after that performance!" M. yelled back. "Amber's dance was better than half the people that graduate here, and she's twelve years old! You denying her entry is flat out discrimination!"
"And yet, it's exactly what your mother demanded as she threw that letter in my face!"
M. blinked again, and he finally shook his head. Nothing made any sense.
"I need to see her, Dad. If she's here…I'm going to see her."
Marty's face was red and flushed, and he glared at his son.
"I can't allow that…"
"She's my mother!"
"And if she wanted any part of that role, she could have fought for it back when she left!" Marty snapped. M. flinched, and he looked away. There had been no custody battle in the divorce following Matilda's departure; she had granted full custody to the Headmaster. But it wasn't something Marty ever brought up. In seeing M's expression, Marty's own flashed with regret. After a moment he sighed.
"I have to face the fact that she probably won't leave without seeing you today. I don't know her motives behind that…but…"
M. didn't say anything as he glared at the floor, and Marty sighed again.
"I don't care what promises she makes, M. You are not going anywhere with her. She is not taking you from me."
The teen scoffed at that, but he glanced up at his father's next words.
"You want to see her? Go see her; she's in the auditorium. But you will not be leaving with her…not today, not ever. Promise me, M."
M. and his father managed to maintain steely eye-contact, and M's voice was soft.
"Why?"
Marty hesitated a moment, but then his expression hardened again.
"Because your future is decided, M. You are an Openheimer."
M. just grimaced and turned to go. Marty grabbed his arm.
"I said promise me…or you can forget about Amber coming back to school here. You can forget taking classes with her and all those other things you mentioned."
M. hesitated at that.
"That's not fair, Dad."
"Life isn't fair."
The teen finally scoffed and turned to glare at his father again as he pulled his arm out of his grasp.
"I'm not leaving, ok? I said I'd stay till graduation when we talked last and I'm planning on it. But I am going to talk with my mother…and I am going to have a relationship with her…"
"If that's what she wants," Marty warned softly. M. shook his head.
"Why else would she be here? She came with the letter…why else would she?"
The question hung in the air and M. finally made it to the door.
"Intermission is probably over," he pointed out bitterly. "I'll bet everyone's wondering where you are."
And with that, Marty watched his son leave.
26