Growing Pains

11: I spy with my little eye

Auteur : Rain

Disclaimer : Shaman King…. Doesn't belong to me! How surprising! I am only playing with borrowed toys.

Notes :

To witness; to be visited; to visit.

Hello everyone!

Happy New Year! I hope 2021 is kind to all of you. Thank you for reading this, liking this, commenting this! Thank you for being here. Thank you.

Little notes:

This is my fic and in my fic Marco doesn't beat kids, although he does yell at them sometimes. Good? Good.

Depersonalization, derealization and dissociation are close friends. Jeanne is not doing very well. Wonder if she'll do better in the morning.

Also! I stole Meene's mark from a really nice fic from LugiaP2K, Firsts, available on here! I like this version of their first meeting. Standing in the rain over a grave. What do you mean I'm an angsty child?
...

Let me know if you liked this chapter! Things are starting to move in here aren't they?

Previously on: Growing Pains

The second round is here. After The Ren's triumph in the arena, Tamao was all but prepared to witness the X-I's bloody exploit. However, rather than be horrified by the mysterious Iron Maiden and her idea of 'justice', she found herself magnetized and unable to lift her eyes off her. Meanwhile, Hao found himself communicating with an unknown voice in the audience. Will he piece together who it might be?

...

"Kevin, this is not the time for jokes."

Isn't it?

Jeanne is not quite sure herself. She does not remember anything between the match and now. In fact, she struggles to realize where she is, right now. The meeting happened, that she is pretty sure of. What was said? What was not?

She has no idea.

She is not in the hallway where this is happening. The discussion, the post-meeting moment between Marco, Lyserg, and the X-III. John and the others have stalked off somewhere.

Has she said anything about being present at dinner?

She has no idea.

"You're too stubborn, Marco."

Is he? They are here because of his stubbornness. Because even with his life in shambles, with his mentor salting the earth behind him, even with the odds and the sacrifices, he held on. Jeanne won the match because of him.

She won

Didn't she?

"Don't go." Lyserg is crying. "Please, don't go. There is another way. There must be another way!"

"There might be," Meene says, and her voice is soft. She who doesn't like Lyserg is soft with him. They are such good people. "But if we did not go, what would everyone else think? If even we are too scared to stand before Hao, how are they supposed to have hope? To make the necessary sacrifices?"

"But you'll die," Lyserg replies, and it's an accusation. "How is anyone supposed to feel hopeful if you die?"

"They'll know there are people willing to stand up and put their lives on the line," Christopher says. He too is soft. "They'll know not everyone will just let him do as he pleases. We were here, and we fought him."

There's a voice. A voice that tries to get through to her. She tries to listen but she can't make out what's being said.

Lyserg is sobbing loudly. Where is she? She is not in this hallway. She is in the deserted library, back against the door that's ever-so-slightly ajar. She sees her body from above, the crown of her hair, her nigh-perfect immobility. How did she come to be here? What has she been doing since the match?

She doesn't remember. None of this feels real. There was something she wanted to do, wasn't there? Something Jeanne wanted to do.

"Marco, it's alright," Christopher says. "Lyserg cries for us tonight, and it warms our hearts. As we said in the meeting, everyone is allowed to walk freely until the match tomorrow. If one of the X-III does not want to go, they will not go."

There is silence and yet no one speaks. They all want to go.

This is what she wanted to do. Tell them not to. She forbids it. Jeanne does. Jeanne would only need to burst out of her hiding spot, take her sweet voice, and tell them. She does not want this.

"It's okay to cry, Lyserg," Kevin says. "Sadness is a normal emotion. But we have chosen our destiny this day, and we will not waver."

"Marco," Meene calls. "A word?"

He doesn't answer, but she guesses he nods, because two sets of footsteps come her way.

Jeanne is in the library. A small, quiet space. They are coming towards her and she knows there isn't much time to hide. She slips behind the door of the reserve, where they keep tape reels of everything they deem worth monitoring. She pushes the door back just when the two adults come in.

She is silent and the voice is silent. They both watch what's playing beyond the door.

"Marco," she says. Jeanne remembers when a word from her was enough to soothe him. Why is this no longer the case?

"I can't," he says. "I'm sorry, I can't."

"You can't? Since when is that part of your vocabulary?"

"Don't do this."

Silence. They are both standing on either side of the small, cramped library, a table's length between them. It might as well be an ocean, she thinks, without really understanding why.

"You don't have to go."

"And here you were, berating Lyserg for similar words, barely a minute ago."

She doesn't sound surprised. Just tired.

"That's low."

"What is low is scolding a child for being human, Marco. You don't have to like him to treat him with respect."

They stare. Why do they look like they share so much more in the silence than in the words?

"I don't want to fight," she says at length. "Please just apologize to him, Marco. He's a good kid."

"I know," he says, and it is a pained sound. He yelled at Lyserg for voicing what he wasn't willing to say. What he didn't have the guts to ask, not in public, not as the leader of the X-Laws. She doesn't know how she knows this; she just does.

"He's a good kid," he echoes.

"You're a good man."

"That's going a bit too far." His laugh sounds like gravel ricocheting. She wishes she was not listening.

"Today was hard on everyone."

"Tomorrow will be worse." The words are sharp, no, taut. A rope about to break. It breaks, and Marco takes off his glasses, taking a deep breath to say, "Meene, you…"

"Don't."

And he does not. Wind taken out of his sails.

"You can't do this," Meene says quietly. "You can't force me to bow out just because of our link. This is bigger than us and you know it."

And it is clear he knows. His eyes are a sea of suffering and rage. He'd go in her place, if he could. He'd go headfirst. It is frightening, to witness this maelstrom, the intensity with which they do not touch. She can barely breathe.

Slowly, he comes closer to her, takes her scarf off. There is her mark, shining gold there. Words in a language Jeanne knows. You shouldn't be out here in the rain, she reads, or pieces together, as Meene lets Marco run his glove down the mark.

Achingly slowly, Meene embraces him, and her hands touch where she knows Marco's mark is. What do you want? Jeanne remembers.

"I won't," he says, like his soul isn't melting right out of his body as Meene steps back. They no longer look at each other. They look like they'd rather be worlds away from each other than have to look at each other again.

"Thank you."

And then he's alone, and then he, too, leaves.

The girl that is Jeanne but also not sinks to her knees in the small airless room behind the library. She can still stop this. She can still rise up, go to Meene, and tell her that while these grand speeches are well and good she will not let them go to their deaths. What Lyserg cannot do, what Marco cannot do? She can.

She could.

If only these legs that are hers would move.

In the morning her legs move again. By then, it is too late.

ꙮ

...

After the painful match the boys go have lunch in the restaurant. Tamao's food lies forgotten in their home, cold and unappetizing. She does not mind their decision; quietly, she puts things away. Manta helps. Most will be salvaged for the week's meals but it will not taste as good, or be as joyful.

They are still reeling with the shock of seeing what happened to Lyserg, and even more importantly of discovering who they'll have to face. The X-Laws do not play around, and now they know this for certain.

In the chaos it seems nobody really noticed Tamao's strange behavior. She is rather glad, for she does not understand it herself, and she does not want to burden them with petty concerns. Anna is already under enough pressure; she is currently ordering Ponchi and Conchi around to clean the entire lower floor, something that speaks to her nerves. Tamao and Manta stay out of her way, for now.

And yet as she triages plates and dishes Tamao knows she has to tell them soon. To keep this silent would not only be stupidity but betrayal.

But… what is she supposed to tell them? There is a voice in her head? Something draws her to the Iron Maiden Jeanne like she is a magnet? Neither of these are facts that are useful. The boys don't really ever discuss feelings, either. It's accepted that Yoh and Anna have something, something they don't share, something that's uniquely theirs. It's accepted that Ren and Horo-Horo circle each other like wolves. But to talk about it, it just isn't done, and in this war? No, she has to have something concrete first.

And the only thing she has is the voice. That was real, and that was off. Because…

"Manta," she asks, as she wraps waxed fabric around a plate of tonkatsu.

"Yes?"

"You said Yoh and Anna could feel each other's state of mind. But how much of that is…" She searches for the right words and tries not to get overly nervous that he stopped moving to listen. "How much can they share? Can they talk in each other's heads?"

He frowns, in what she fears is judgment, but turns out to be careful consideration. "I don't really know. It's rare, that much I know, and Yoh doesn't really talk about it."

She knows that, too. Yoh barely accepted to talk about it to her, and they've known each other a very long time. Perhaps if she had talked to him earlier, but bygones are bygones. "Does it happen only after they… the people bearing each other's marks flare? The talking?"

He shrugs. "As far as I know. But it's… It's rather obscure. Research is banned, you know, because of how unethical some early experiments – oh!'

His face changes and he nearly shrieks with excitement.

"Tamao, did something happen? Did you find your soulmate?"

He's so loud! Tamao flushes, and tries to shush him so her spirits or Anna don't hear. "Please! I don't know if that is what's happening, and I don't want them to get ideas and…"

Manta makes an 'oh' face, and then starts again, in a whisper: "What happened?"

"It was during the match." She watches him grimace and apologizes. "I… I heard something, in my head. It was strange… like someone held me through it. And talked to me, and… It can't have been me. The voice understood things I did not. It… felt differently about the match."

"That is strange," Manta admits. He is pale, and he clearly struggles for words. The memory weighs on him. "I didn't look at you too much during the match, but I would have known if someone else was there. There weren't any unfamiliar ghosts, either."

They share a look of confusion.

"Let's think this through logically. You heard the voice, right? Did you recognize it? Do you know who it could be?"

Tamao did not recognize it. The match was a lot to handle, and it still is. But she thinks back. "It was someone who did not feel threatened," she says after a time. "Someone who was watching, and was not afraid."

He swallows. "That does reduce the possibilities. This girl was frankly terrifying."

And Tamao nods, though she was not afraid when it happened. But they do not have time to speak much further on the topic, because a door slams, and suddenly Ren is in the room, agitated.

"Creepy fucker's on the prowl," he swears, and goes for one of the cans they have yet to put away. The can wobbles. He's… trembling? It feels like fear, but also not.

"What's happening?"

"It's Hao," he admits, glancing at the food and suddenly looking a little guilty. "Tried to… I don't even know."

Tamao has always been intimidated by Ren, but she takes a step towards him. "Are you okay?"

He meets her eyes, apparently surprised, and flushes ever so slightly before nodding. "I'm fine, it was just weird. It's…"

"Tamao." Anna's voice is so sharp it could cut through a wall. "Upstairs. Manta, too. Now."

And her voice is scared. Anna's voice is never scared.

"He followed me here," Ren realizes immediately. They miss a beat. Tamao looks at the door. She can see, so clearly, who's soon to be behind it. Someone who did not feel threatened. It can't be…?

"You stay." Anna is speaking to Ren, who nods, his weapon in hand. Tamao could fight this. She does not want to leave Anna alone; but Anna is not alone, and Manta needs protecting.

So she gathers him in her arms and climbs the stairs two at a time. They are barely upstairs when someone knocks on the door, and she hides them both in the corner of the staircase. Where they can somewhat hear but not be seen.

Anna goes to the door in silence and opens it like it's no big deal at all.

"Yoh is not here," she says.

"Too bad, but he's not who I'm here to see."

It is him. Tamao can't breathe.

"I told you I wasn't interested."

"That's not what I'm here for, either."

Steps in the hallway. Somehow he side-stepped Anna. "Oh, who's all that food for? Isn't it a bit early to celebrate Yoh's victory? Oh, I see. A shame nobody touched it!"

"That food isn't for you."

"I don't believe in private property," he says like that answers anything, and Tamao hears the distinct sound of someone biting on the karinto snacks she prepared. How come Anna has not slapped him yet?

"What do you want," Ren asks, thunder in his voice.

"I'm not here for you," Hao replies like that's an answer. "I made you my offer, now it's up to you to take or leave it."

"Then why are you here," Anna asks, in a monotone that Tamao envies. No questioning the words, no getting caught in the threads of manipulation Hao is weaving. Just blank and to the point.

There is a sound, like clothes shifting. Tamao wants to peer down but she can't move. Manta is mouthing something to her but it's like her brain refuses to process it.

"Someone lost this," Hao says. "My little one played with it for a while, but that's to be expected when one doesn't pay attention to their things." Only silence seems to answer him. "I had a look. Whoever did these had quite some talent. And the arrogance to match. Do you consider these appropriate, as Yoh's fiancée? Just checking, I might feel up to some painting later."

"What can he be talking about," Manta whispers, but Tamao's stomach has dropped to the floor. She knows. She can hear the pages moving.

"For a moment I wasn't sure who it could be. After all, Yoh has quite the large following now, and I didn't want to give this to someone who didn't need to see it. But considering how intimately the person who did this seems to know Yoh, it felt only appropriate to let my sister-in-law decide what to do with it."

The insinuation makes Tamao's cheeks hot. She wants to disappear.

"This is nothing new to me," Anna finally replies. "It's good to see you finally made time to get it back to its rightful owner."

"I told you, I don't believe in private property." More noise. "Shamans as weak as that one really shouldn't be hanging around here. It's going to become pretty dangerous soon."

"Is this a threat?"

"Ren, don't ask pointless questions."

The intruder is moving again. Leaving the dining room, she can tell by the sound of his footsteps. She dares to sneak a look down the staircase. He's on his way out.

"Tell her to go back to Japan," Hao says casually as he crosses the threshold, a karinto still in hand. "She'll be much happier there."

...

ꙮ

...

Hao does not come back for dinner. It doesn't worry Luchist over much; their master can hold his own. It is Turbein's turn to cook, anyways. Opachô is saddened by the loss of her coloring book, but Turbein distracts her by giving her the task of cutting the radishes into flowers. She is gifted with a knife; and where elsewhere one would worry about injuries here it seems like as good an idea as any.

There is excited chatter about the upcoming matches. The witches are happy to be Hao's opening number. As always, there is ribbing on Ashil, and as always he seems about two drops of nitroglycerine from exploding.

Luchist does not want to see this; he rises.

"I will go see Peyote," he announces to the group. "Ashil, come with me."

"What?" Petulant child. "Why?"

"Because I told you to."

Ashil doesn't react well to orders from others in their little group, but Luchist's status is explicit enough that he growls but makes to follow.

…

The building is enough to make Ashil queasy. It's such a place of weakness. An infirmary manned by the Patch. For those who do not have healers, or companions.

Or whose masters don't care enough to pick them up.

He is bound to follow Luchist, so he does, but every step is apprehensive. Hao said nothing about going to fetch Peyote; if that was the reason for his sudden disappearance Luchist would not have decided to come by.

Their journey here was silent. Luchist is never quite talkative, but this time it's Ashil who does not dare ask. Why are they here? Why isn't Peyote back to camp? What's to gain from talking to a loser?

They cross paths with a Patch in the hall of the building, not one Ashil can recognize in the few seconds he sees them, and then they're here. In the room where Peyote pretends to sleep.

It reeks of antiseptic and sick. Ashil cannot be compelled to approach, even a little, and Luchist steps forward without forcing him. The green-faced teenager stays by the door, hidden from the broken body by a good deal of curtains and medical apparatus, and yet he wishes he could hide further, could sink into the white wall.

There is no rhyme or reason to this sudden fear of Peyote. Is it? Fear of Peyote? All he knows is his feet are leaden, and his mouth tastes of iron.

Luchist brought leftovers. The smell of food only worsens Ashil's nausea.

"Wake up, Peyote. You need to eat."

Wouldn't the Patch have given him something? Ashil risks a look. There is a tray by the bed, untouched. The food here can't be all that good, he supposes, or rather pretends to suppose. Like his stomach could bear the touch of food, if he was ever on the other side of this room.

"I am not sleeping," comes the raspy voice of the sick and wounded. Did the Patch not heal him? "He did not come."

Ashil swallows knives. Luchist merely sighs.

"Today has been a very busy day and our master must prepare for tomorrow."

"Don't make me laugh. He could kill these pests in his sleep."

He could. Ashil didn't need a second glance at the X-III to know that much. If they show, they are dead.

Luchist says nothing. Ashil knows this silence; it's the stern, unrelenting silence of the teacher, the priest, the father of the camp. It's the one Luchist keeps when he wants them to do something, when he wants it enough to accept no rebuttals.

"I am not hungry," Peyote says, and it sounds like a petulant child, because that's the effect of Luchist's silence.

"I came here with food, and I will not leave with it. Sit up."

"I told you, I'm not hungry."

It's pathetic.

"Don't be a child, Peyote. You are not so heavily wounded and Turbein cooked this for you."

Half a lie, but Peyote seems to swallow that well enough, and the covers shift. Ashil cannot, refuses to imagine being reduced to this. Having to be told to eat, wallowing in bed like a wilted flower. He's been in here too long; the smells of food and drugs has turned into an overpowering scent of decay that he knows he will have to wash out of his clothes and hair. Will it even come off?

"Why are you here, Luchist?"

Luchist takes a moment too long to answer.

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I asked. Turbein's already been around. If he wanted to get me fucking falafel and manakeesh, he could have given it to me. The Boz haven't come back, if that's what you're here to see."

"I didn't expect them to. You three were never really close."

Peyote mutters something about souped-up musicians. He's right. Who would want to grow close to the useless duo? If they don't want to go back, then it's their loss. Hao certainly does not need them.

"The Patch won't let me stay here tonight. They say I'm in perfect health."

"You seem to be."

"Are you going to ask me to come back?"

"I don't know. What do you want to do?"

What is that question? Peyote lost, but he can still fight. Can still call ghosts and hunt souls and.

But if he can do all of that and is in perfect health, why isn't he back yet?

No. That's not the question.

The question is, why does Luchist make it sound like a choice? There is only Hao. There is nothing else. To lose in the tournament is not just that. It's also losing the right to be in Hao's presence, at Hao's meals, in Hao's thoughts.

How could anyone bear it?

Peyote cannot, clearly. Peyote with his music and his skeletons and his boasting is now as good as chained to this bed. As good as dead.

"You're here to kill me," Peyote finally says. "He told you to come and kill me." But it's not with hatred he says it. Nor with spite.

He sounds grateful. A loose end, tied up. Hao is not abandoning him, he's taking care of him to the end. Ashil hears it like it was said out loud, the train of thoughts. He sees the appeal of it. Oh how he sees the appeal of it. Wishes Hao would –

"Of course not," Luchist says. "Is it so hard to imagine a life without Hao? You have a whole world to breathe in. You have done your work for our Kingdom; if you want to stop here, he won't mind."

"What are you…?"

"I'm saying that Hao doesn't care if we losers live or die."

The iron settles like an unhappy brew in Ashil's stomach, roiling and heaving, and he suddenly knows that if he stays he will throw up, so he doesn't. He runs out of the infirmary, and he runs through the quiet evening streets, and he doesn't stop until he's thoroughly lost in the woods. The cold air of the night stings his cheeks and he scuffs his shoes on roots and rocks, but he cannot outrun his own mind and its terrifying new mantra:

He doesn't care if you die. How could anyone bear it? How could he bear it? How will he bear it?