DISCLAIMER: All elements of Suikoden series belong to Konami. Fanfiction belongs to littlemaiko. Stealing is prohibited.
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The Snow Covered with Peonies :: 6
by littlemaiko
The morning of duel came with expected abruptness. It was expected, for the promise had been made many months ago. The abruptness was due to Kohaku's seeming uplifted mood in the winter's season. The boy had decorated the entire cot with fallen peony flowers, placing blooms here and there until the overall brown hue became dotted with prominent red. Luca stared at his sword placed upon the table for a second before nodding in a silent consent. He should have known that this day would be the one, for the awkwardness of his right arm had gone away by the last night.
"Today, then." Kohaku returned the nod and went back to the barren kitchen to stir the stew.
Watching the oriental teenager's tunic-clad back, Luca thought of unimportant, peaceful details of four and half months they had spent together. Neither of them had spoken more than necessary, their conversations often dark and musing, the common theme being that of death. Even then, the Highlander had gotten to know Kohaku well; he felt no remorse at the inevitable parting to come in a few hours, but he did regret that he would never taste the hot cream stew again.
// Once the madness wears off, all that is left is pain. Was it the same for him? //
After a few days of living in the secluded nowhere with a chronic depressive as a sole company, Luca's self-induced madness had gone away. Whether he had been cured or he had subconsciously shrugged it off, he did not know. If there had been a miracle cure, then he attributed it to the sight of magnificent darkness that he had seen about Kohaku. He felt calm yet somber, never angry yet always haunted with dark thoughts. From the comparison he made with the sullen boy, it dawned upon him that he had become depressive. Painless agony hurt more than violent outbursts; the state of depression sapped at him much more than the insane fury.
Luca pulled the silver sword out of the sheath half way, examining the blade to see if it needed to be cared for before the match. Apparently, Kohaku had polished and oiled it before hiding it away. For something that had been abandoned for over a quarter of a year, the sword etched with golden royal crest shone with a flesh light.
"Do you need a while to reorient to fighting?" The boy returned to the simple table and placed the pot of stew before Luca. Free of the green bandana that usually kept his hair in place, he looked younger than his seeming age of fourteen.
"Hah, do you think I would have rusted in my technique?" Curling his lips in a superficial smirk, Luca stored the sharp blade back into the sheath. He put the sword away, to the side of the chair, and picked up a spoon instead.
"No. I just felt like asking. I haven't touched the staff in a long time, either." Kohaku shrugged and took the seat across from the prince, glancing briefly at the red staff kept to a corner of the cot. It had collected dust, the masterful lacquer color obscured by a layer of such.
"Perhaps // you // should reorient yourself. I'll take no joy in killing a pathetic fighter."
"It's a perfect handy, Luca." Replying without arrogance, Kohaku served the stew in two bowls. He began to eat, completely ignoring the darker look the older man gave him.
The single-entree lunch ended without a word being uttered over the table. There was no cue needed, for Kohaku and Luca both rose, one going to the kitchen to do the dishes and other slinging the sword belt to his waist. With the final chore done, the youth wrapped the old green cape about himself, donned the bandana and went to his weapon. One fast twirl shook the gray sheet of dust off of its length.
"No armor. No rules. Just a plain, one-on-one match until one of us dies." The young McDohl's voice, devoid of any feelings, beckoned Luca to the door.
"What of magic?"
"...No magic. I will not use the Soul Eater."
The snow still covered much of the ground despite the consecutive sunny days that had followed the first falling. Beautiful scarlet peonies adorned the glistening white, their miserable beheaded state not hindering the perfection of the visual scene. Each clad in a pair of dark boots that Kohaku had supplied, the two fighters tread shortly away from the cot. They stood two dozen steps apart, barely close enough to see into the dark eyes.
"Do you have any final requests, Kohaku McDohl?" Luca tapped at the handle of his sword, then took a slow grip to draw the silver blade out.
"None, Luca Blight." In a pleasant mood devoid of a smile, the youth readied his staff, holding it to his side with just the right hand. On the second thought, he replied, "Bury me afterwards in a respectable manner. I don't want to shame my father by having my corpse eaten by some wild beast."
"Agreed."
A solemn tranquil fell over the clearing much like the untainted snow. Luca moved first, then Kohaku. The liquid, yet crisp, sound of feet over snowy earth died the instant the weapons crashed. In hands of genius soldiers, a staff and a sword became as deadly as a Reaper's scythe. Mastery granted godspeed to their blows, shortening the length of the promised duel. One miscalculation, a single loss of grip or a slip, would decide the victor.
// Something prohibited him from committing suicide. Even with the strength of a True Rune, he could do naught to find the end. But me... I will not have that problem. //
Luca parried the almost invisible quick thrusts of the metal-dressed end of the staff. He could not afford to think any more than he had just now; although his code of honor was different from that of Kohaku, he intended to keep the vow to the boy. He would deal with himself later, when he had more time to reflect over everything.
The long green mantle floated in a circular wave as Kohaku whirled to avoid the wolf-like man's slashes. The hem of the fabric caught the blade, severed by a several inches. Back to the position of facing his opponent, the lithe youth swung the lacquered rod.
Whether by intention or luck, Kohaku lost his footing over the thin ice that had formed beneath the snow. Luca snatched up the chance that was granted to him; the last blow drew a trail of thick red in its arched path.
Light brown eyes shone golden in a passing reflection of the sunlight, smiling up to Luca's face before disappearing in the boy's collapse. There was no struggle, no outcry, no moans of pain. Kohaku just lay in the soft heap of white snow in the end befitting of a former hero. The red spreading from his upper body drew a crimson pattern on the melting canvas, similar to the peonies over snow.
TO BE CONTINUED
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The Snow Covered with Peonies :: 6
by littlemaiko
The morning of duel came with expected abruptness. It was expected, for the promise had been made many months ago. The abruptness was due to Kohaku's seeming uplifted mood in the winter's season. The boy had decorated the entire cot with fallen peony flowers, placing blooms here and there until the overall brown hue became dotted with prominent red. Luca stared at his sword placed upon the table for a second before nodding in a silent consent. He should have known that this day would be the one, for the awkwardness of his right arm had gone away by the last night.
"Today, then." Kohaku returned the nod and went back to the barren kitchen to stir the stew.
Watching the oriental teenager's tunic-clad back, Luca thought of unimportant, peaceful details of four and half months they had spent together. Neither of them had spoken more than necessary, their conversations often dark and musing, the common theme being that of death. Even then, the Highlander had gotten to know Kohaku well; he felt no remorse at the inevitable parting to come in a few hours, but he did regret that he would never taste the hot cream stew again.
// Once the madness wears off, all that is left is pain. Was it the same for him? //
After a few days of living in the secluded nowhere with a chronic depressive as a sole company, Luca's self-induced madness had gone away. Whether he had been cured or he had subconsciously shrugged it off, he did not know. If there had been a miracle cure, then he attributed it to the sight of magnificent darkness that he had seen about Kohaku. He felt calm yet somber, never angry yet always haunted with dark thoughts. From the comparison he made with the sullen boy, it dawned upon him that he had become depressive. Painless agony hurt more than violent outbursts; the state of depression sapped at him much more than the insane fury.
Luca pulled the silver sword out of the sheath half way, examining the blade to see if it needed to be cared for before the match. Apparently, Kohaku had polished and oiled it before hiding it away. For something that had been abandoned for over a quarter of a year, the sword etched with golden royal crest shone with a flesh light.
"Do you need a while to reorient to fighting?" The boy returned to the simple table and placed the pot of stew before Luca. Free of the green bandana that usually kept his hair in place, he looked younger than his seeming age of fourteen.
"Hah, do you think I would have rusted in my technique?" Curling his lips in a superficial smirk, Luca stored the sharp blade back into the sheath. He put the sword away, to the side of the chair, and picked up a spoon instead.
"No. I just felt like asking. I haven't touched the staff in a long time, either." Kohaku shrugged and took the seat across from the prince, glancing briefly at the red staff kept to a corner of the cot. It had collected dust, the masterful lacquer color obscured by a layer of such.
"Perhaps // you // should reorient yourself. I'll take no joy in killing a pathetic fighter."
"It's a perfect handy, Luca." Replying without arrogance, Kohaku served the stew in two bowls. He began to eat, completely ignoring the darker look the older man gave him.
The single-entree lunch ended without a word being uttered over the table. There was no cue needed, for Kohaku and Luca both rose, one going to the kitchen to do the dishes and other slinging the sword belt to his waist. With the final chore done, the youth wrapped the old green cape about himself, donned the bandana and went to his weapon. One fast twirl shook the gray sheet of dust off of its length.
"No armor. No rules. Just a plain, one-on-one match until one of us dies." The young McDohl's voice, devoid of any feelings, beckoned Luca to the door.
"What of magic?"
"...No magic. I will not use the Soul Eater."
The snow still covered much of the ground despite the consecutive sunny days that had followed the first falling. Beautiful scarlet peonies adorned the glistening white, their miserable beheaded state not hindering the perfection of the visual scene. Each clad in a pair of dark boots that Kohaku had supplied, the two fighters tread shortly away from the cot. They stood two dozen steps apart, barely close enough to see into the dark eyes.
"Do you have any final requests, Kohaku McDohl?" Luca tapped at the handle of his sword, then took a slow grip to draw the silver blade out.
"None, Luca Blight." In a pleasant mood devoid of a smile, the youth readied his staff, holding it to his side with just the right hand. On the second thought, he replied, "Bury me afterwards in a respectable manner. I don't want to shame my father by having my corpse eaten by some wild beast."
"Agreed."
A solemn tranquil fell over the clearing much like the untainted snow. Luca moved first, then Kohaku. The liquid, yet crisp, sound of feet over snowy earth died the instant the weapons crashed. In hands of genius soldiers, a staff and a sword became as deadly as a Reaper's scythe. Mastery granted godspeed to their blows, shortening the length of the promised duel. One miscalculation, a single loss of grip or a slip, would decide the victor.
// Something prohibited him from committing suicide. Even with the strength of a True Rune, he could do naught to find the end. But me... I will not have that problem. //
Luca parried the almost invisible quick thrusts of the metal-dressed end of the staff. He could not afford to think any more than he had just now; although his code of honor was different from that of Kohaku, he intended to keep the vow to the boy. He would deal with himself later, when he had more time to reflect over everything.
The long green mantle floated in a circular wave as Kohaku whirled to avoid the wolf-like man's slashes. The hem of the fabric caught the blade, severed by a several inches. Back to the position of facing his opponent, the lithe youth swung the lacquered rod.
Whether by intention or luck, Kohaku lost his footing over the thin ice that had formed beneath the snow. Luca snatched up the chance that was granted to him; the last blow drew a trail of thick red in its arched path.
Light brown eyes shone golden in a passing reflection of the sunlight, smiling up to Luca's face before disappearing in the boy's collapse. There was no struggle, no outcry, no moans of pain. Kohaku just lay in the soft heap of white snow in the end befitting of a former hero. The red spreading from his upper body drew a crimson pattern on the melting canvas, similar to the peonies over snow.
TO BE CONTINUED
