Watch Them Form
= I've seen, over the years, many people who are victorious and act as if it was to happen, and that they are not privileged and blessed to have succeeded. I see those who do not seem impressed, but know it could've been some luck. No one seems to appreciate what victory really is. When I actually succeeded in something, I acted like it was a miracle, a wonder - And I was always shocked. It seems that you not only have to suffer to write. You have to suffer to God-damn grow up.
-- Meander =
Year 1751
It was Christmas, though you could not tell in the desert. For the desert, it looked like another day, if a little colder. The sun was not as high in the sky as usual, though it still managed to warm the desert considerably. The day was not a scorcher, but rather pleasant, if dry. In the Dari Tribe, celebrations were being held, with gifts being passed out and many feasts being eaten. Everyone was cheery, their happiness seeming addicting.
For DemChi, it was not addicting. The seven-year-old hybrid was sitting in the sands only about a half-mile away. His clothes were silk, and a pretty red in color, yet these expensive clothes were beginning to tear. They were technically not DemChi's; he had stolen them. He had considered stealing some food from the Christmas Feast, but he knew he would not accomplish such. The Dari were sick of him. They mostly kicked him out now. No one wanted him around. DemChi didn't want them around, either.
Fresh blood clots dotted DemChi's two, feeble hands. One finger was at an odd angle and clearly broken. His nails were dirty, most were broken, and one was missing. Blood long turned black covered the place where the nail had once been. Puffy, black and purple skin covered DemChi's left eye. A massive purple and blue bruise lay on his right cheek. His upper lip was puffy. His black hair was dirty, and in some places torn. His neck contained a half-necklace of bruises. Beneath his red, tearing shirt were massive bruises on his chest, and a broken rib. Bruises on his stomach added to the damage. On his legs, beneath the red pants, were long cuts created by claws. Bruises and scrapes joined the cuts. His tail was the only thing untouched by abuse; instead, the white spikes glistened with poison.
Behind him, DemChi heard someone approaching. He snorted angrily, while his tail began to twitch. He wished everyone would leave him alone; he was sick of the world, and wished he could just watch it and live in peace. Yet his brother wasn't going to allow it, particularly on this day, a day so sacred to humans.
"Hey, Freak!" Julius called in the mortal tongue. "I have something for you!"
"Bring to someone who care," DemChi replied in the demon tongue. His voice was rough and throaty, and his language was poorly constructed.
"But you'll like it! Don't you want a Christmas present?" Julius asked, clearly continuing to approach. He still spoke in the mortal tongue, as he normally did.
"No. Demons no celebrate Christmas. Go away," DemChi snarled, refusing to turn around. He always spoke in the demon tongue.
"Don't you trust me?" Julius asked, his ominous voice becoming louder, and his footsteps more distinct.
"No. Why would I? You only hurt," DemChi snarled, his tail lashing.
"Just turn around, Freak," Julius growled, clearly getting angry.
"No. If you want to give, then give to someone else and go away," DemChi growled.
"All right, then. I guess I'll just have to give it to you from the back!"
DemChi heard Julius run forward, and he rolled out of the way. He rose to his feet, only to get tackled roughly to the ground. Sharp claws that normally were retracted were clearly visible on Julius' fingers. A cruel smirk was on Julius' face, and DemChi considered spitting on it.
"I thought you could use a new look," Julius spat, bringing his claws uncomfortably close to DemChi's face. "How about a face lift?"
"Get off me... now," DemChi snarled, lifting his legs.
Julius slashed his claws across DemChi's face. DemChi snarled with anger, lifted his hand, and punched Julius in the face. Julius did not seem affected, but he did react when DemChi slammed his claws into Julius' lower back. Julius snarled with pain, and moved to slash DemChi in the face again, but DemChi caught his wrist. The struggle did not last long, however. DemChi's strength was much lower than Julius' was, and soon, Julius had regained control of his wrist. He used this control, however, to tear himself away from DemChi's claws. DemChi rolled to his feet, licking away the blood trickling near his mouth. Blood still lingered on his cheeks and right below his eyes, while the cuts caused by Julius' claws still bled freely.
While Julius rose to his feet, DemChi looked around to make sure their mother had not arrived. Seeing her no where in sight, DemChi faced Julius angrily. He charged forward, then swung his tail about when Julius moved to strike. The spiked tail struck Julius in the lower legs, ripping bloody tears in his legs. Julius yelped with surprise and pain, staggering and falling to his knees. He stared at DemChi angrily, yet DemChi was already swinging his tail about again. Julius crouched down, managing to scrape his hands, rather than his head, against the spikes on DemChi's tail.
"Damn it, stop it!" Julius yelped when DemChi's tail yet again scraped his hands. "Stop it! You trying to kill me?"
"Why not? You try," DemChi spat.
"Damn it, it's just a game!" Julius growled. He tried to rise, but quickly had to curl up in a ball again when DemChi's tail passed over him.
"No game. Life or death. Leave me alone," DemChi replied. He spat on Julius before turned about and heading away from Julius.
He didn't get far. An angry hiss pierced the air. DemChi felt a swoop of air before he was rammed into the ground, deep slashes in his thigh. Looking to the sky, DemChi saw his mother, the Demon Queen, hovering above, her red eyes flashing angrily. The Demon Queen looked aged far beyond her years, yet her strength was clearly still there. Flapping her massive wings steadily, the Demon Queen lashed out one of her powerful legs. Her powerful, webbed foot connected with DemChi's chest as the child tried to rise, and DemChi was sent tumbling backward.
"You are to leave Julius alone," the Demon Queen hissed in demon.
"He got me first," DemChi snarled, rising to his feet painfully.
Suddenly, the Demon Queen soared downward and grabbed DemChi by the throat using both hands. DemChi let out a choked snarl while the Demon Queen flew upward. DemChi could see Julius watching with a massive smirk on his face.
"You are not to talk back. You are to listen, and you are to leave Julius and I alone! Do you hear me?" the Demon Queen snarled, shaking DemChi roughly.
DemChi groaned, feeling sick from the shaking. His neck hurt horribly. The Demon Queen soon shook him again, this time harder. DemChi let out a choked snarl.
"All... Right," DemChi choked out.
The Demon Queen threw DemChi across the desert, sending him flying into the sands. The child rolled into a rock, and lied still, his breaths coming out in quick gasps. Julius laughed while he rose to his feet. The Demon Queen, on the other hand, snorted bitterly and flew back toward Julius. The two left together while DemChi lied on the ground, staring ahead with fading vision.
An hour passed before DemChi found the strength to rise into a sitting position. After looking around weakly, he found himself to be alone once more. Instead of whimpering or crying, he sighed with great relief. He leaned weakly against the rock, staring at the sky above him. A light smile graced his swollen lips while he wiped at the blood on his face. His palm came up completely red from the blood. Casually DemChi wiped the blood off on his red clothing. He ignored the bleeding of his thigh, being used to it. The pain was also ignored since he was used to it. The only thing not ignored was his anger, something he had felt plenty of times. He instead fed it images in his mind of what he would like to do to the people in the world. He replayed his tortures in his mind, except they were on the world. He replayed tortures of his own design onto the world. He sighed happily, staring at the sky, wishing that he could stay alone forever. If he could, DemChi would be happier. If only everyone would leave him alone, DemChi would be in heaven.
Yes... If only his family did not exist.
= Christmas for many people is a time of gifts, joy, eating, and family get- togethers. For a while, I thought similar things. Christmas was the only time that my family was actually a peaceful place to be. My parents got along fine, for once, and on really good Christmases, my father didn't drink. But as I got older, I realized that it was a fantasy they had made to try to make at least part of my life peaceful. But it didn't make it peaceful. It made me bloody worse.
-- Amarant =
Year 1783 Snow blanketed Treno on Christmas day, and it would stay there until March finally came. Snow fell slowly from the forever-dark sky and onto old, creaking wooden houses. The snow leaked into the roofs of the poor, and decorated the roofs of the rich. The middle-class was just about non- existent. They were now joining the poor as prices skyrocketed and ignorance continued.
Three inches of water covered the floor of one particularly run-down house. It was poorly constructed, even for the poor. It looked as if a few people just slapped together some wood and didn't bother trying to give it supports. It was a run-down shack. There was now only one floor, and only three rooms, with very little room to run away from events. Even the poor turned their noses at the house, muttering about how horribly the family functioned, and how terrible the father was.
Yet despite these conditions, cheery laughter from two people bubbled from the run-down, cramped kitchen. It was easily heard from the small, leaky bedroom. In one of these rooms, the water accumulation was no worse or better than in the kitchen. A run-down, half-collapsed bookshelf took up most of the room. There were two beds, one large, one small. Both were covered in filthy sheets. Clothes were strewn across the room, and cobwebs decorated the ceiling. The room smelled of mold, and mildew made a home on the walls.
Salamander ignored it all. He flicked away a spider or two while lying on his stomach on the smaller bed. His dark eyes were focused on the book before him, yet he was not reading about monks. He was reading about a paradise supposedly hidden underground. It was said the sun always shined, that no one went poor, and that everyone was happy. Salamander had once hoped to find the land, but now he knew it couldn't exist. Nothing that happy could exist.
The laughter bubbling from the kitchen was beginning to annoy Salamander, and the footsteps coming toward him were ominous. He had tried to explain to his family many times that he wanted nothing to do with Christmas with them, but his parents didn't seem to get the hint.
"Come, Salamander, have some dinner," Salamander's father cheerily called from behind Salamander.
The man's voice was, for once, not clogged with beer. It sounded clear, and happy. It made Salamander sick, sicker than the drunken voice made him. Salamander groaned and ignored his father to the best of his ability, flipping a yellow page on the book he was reading. He heard his father snort.
"Come, you'll starve. Don't you wish to have some fun?" his father asked.
Salamander ignored him again. He was no longer reading the book; now, he was just flipping the yellow pages. His father's words filtered through his mind, unheard and not cared about. His father's annoyed intake a breath seemed to confirm his father's knowledge of Salamander's attitude.
"Come, now. It's no fun without-"his father began.
"It's all a lie," Salamander spat.
"What do you mean?" his father asked.
He hadn't moved. His father had stayed in the doorway. Salamander knew because he hadn't heard footsteps. The nine-year-old closed the book, knowing what he wanted to say to his father, but not knowing if it was safe. His father sighed again, clearly annoyed, and Salamander understood that if he didn't speak, he'd be in deep trouble.
"This happy Christmas. It's a lie, an illusion," Salamander spat, sitting up and getting off the bed.
"Why do you say that?" his father asked.
Salamander looked over at his father, observed his father's unkempt appearance. The dirt on his face, the sullen, tired look he could see behind the fake cheer in his eyes, the raggedy clothes, and the thinness were always easy to see and hated. Salamander turned his gaze to the window without glass that was near his bed.
"Tomorrow you will go out and drink again. You and Mother will fight again. You still hate each other. You're still a drunkard. It's not any different. You're just trying to trick me into thinking everything may change," Salamander spat, staring outside.
Salamander heard his father take an angry intake of breath. He knew his father's eyes were alit with anger. He felt the footsteps as his father stepped forward, and there was no way he couldn't feel the powerful smack. Salamander staggered backward, his cheek tingling. Then, he rushed forward, and plowed his own fist straight into his own father's cheek. His father went soaring backward and into a wall. The whole house shook, while his father stared at Salamander with shock.
"You-"his father began.
He was too late. Salamander forced himself through the window. The foundation of the window cracked and splintered from the force. Landing in a pile of snow, Salamander rose to his feet and began sullenly walking down the street, staring at the snow. Behind him, he could hear his father shouting angrily. Salamander shook his head; he had been right. It was all just a lie, and that lie had just been shattered.
Smacking was a normal activity for Salamander, so hitting his father seemed no different. His father hit him and his mother all the time, so Salamander had learned to hit if you wanted something. The monks didn't approve of it much. Salamander was often scolded and punished by the monks in the mountains. They threatened to kick him out of class various times for fighting with other monks. Each time, they would mutter under their breath about how he would turn out just like his father. Hearing such things only made Salamander angrier, and more violent. He had learned that little was wrong with violence, and such things were threatening to get him kicked out of monk class.
Once, he would have cried. Now, he didn't care. He'd prefer no longer being stuck up in the mountains with the strict monks who always muttered about him being like his father.
A distinct change in scenery had come for Salamander. He was still walking the Treno streets, but you couldn't tell. Now, the streets were well paved. Lanterns lit up the cold, endless darkness. The laughter was more clear; it came from the many glamorous palaces, mansions, and estates that Salamander now found surrounding him. A small, outdoor café was open, and many people had gathered for an expensive Christmas dinner. They were wearing silk dresses and suits, and fancy hats with feathers. Pleasant chatter bubbled from the café. Salamander leaned against the wall of a nearby building and watched the café calmly, listening to the bubble of words that reached him.
"... Such a pleasant vase I got today, only 50000 Gil..." These words came from an older woman, fully clad in a deep violet, layered, silk dress, complete with many expensive jewels at the sleeves and bottom. Draped around her shoulders was a gorgeous fur coat, clearly coming from a snow leopard, an animal only residing on Eoroqu, which Salamander knew as the Demi Continent. She wore an expensive opal necklace, and her brown, greying hair was bound up in a bun. She was fanning herself casually with a black fan.
"... Where is that food? I'm starving..." This comment came from a massive, overweight man. He wore a fancy outfit consisting of many layers of clothing. Most of the clothes were made of cotton, except for the white fur coat he wore, clearly coming from a Yeti. He also wore a shimmering cape of dragon scales, and a fancy hat with a phoenix feather. At his side was a cane made out of imported wood, and the tip covered in velvet. The man had to be at least 300 pounds, probably more, in weight.
"... Did you see that poor snob walking by earlier? With that rotted cane and those horrible clothes... Wish they would just go kill themselves and not plague our streets." This comment flowed from the mouth of a young woman no older than 24. Her dress, made of pure velvet, was a rich violet in color, and her hat held feathers from a Red Dragon's wings. A pearl, probably over a million in value, was tied around her neck. With her was a purse, made of animal skin, and decorated with tails of an arctic fox, another animal only known to be in Eoroqu, and the highest reaches of the Mist Continent.
"Well, ye'd better not turn 'round, miss. There's one right behind ye."
Salamander shot dark, angry eyes at the young waiter who spoke to the woman in purple. The woman, who had been speaking to her husband, whirled around and soon focused her green eyes on Salamander, who stared coldly in return. The woman gasped, seeming more angry rather than horrified. The rest of the café turned around to see what was wrong. Soon, all eyes were focused on Salamander.
Most people simply muttered, shook their heads with disgust, and turned back to their conversations. Two tables, one of them containing the woman in purple, continued to stare with extreme loathe. Salamander returned their harsh glares.
"Look at that fleabag. Plaguing up our streets with his filth," the woman in purple spat.
"I'm just standing here, lady," Salamander growled.
"How dare you speak to me!" the woman gasped, holding up a pink fan involuntarily.
"Would you like me to come closer, too?" Salamander asked, rising to his full height.
The woman shook her head, her face contorted with disgust. "Oh, don't bother. Your looks are horrid enough; your smell must be worse."
A few mutters of agreement came from the group. Salamander spat at the ground, and the woman gasped again, now nearly shaking with rage.
"H-How dare you plague the streets with t-that!" the woman managed to blurt. "Someone, kick him out."
"No need, lady. I'm leaving on my own free will," Salamander spat.
He decided, however, to leave in the direction the café was. The large nine-year-old - already five feet, six inches, and not even full grown, not to mention already bulky - waltzed right by the café. The rich people gasped and scraped their chairs away. The workers of the café shouted curses. The woman in purple looked out to faint, then grabbed a cup of hot tea and tossed it at Salamander. The teacup shattered on his shoulder, and the hot tea dripped down his back. Salamander ignored the burning liquid, knowing the rich woman would rather have him respond. He heard her "harumph" when he ignored her, and soon the café was behind him. Instead, coming toward Salamander, was the Card Arena.
It was here that Salamander took the time to brush off some of the hot tea, muttering angrily. He remembered some of the words the rich had spoken. A vase, only 50000 Gil? Salamander's mother said vases once only cost 50 Gil. How could that woman act like the amount of money being demanded was no big deal? Then, the man demanding food, saying he was starving. The man was so fat, Salamander wondered if he'd fit in doorways. He wasn't starving in the least; Salamander had seen starving people right in his own neighborhood. How dare the fat man call himself starved! Then that woman in the purple. Did she have no sympathy for the poor? The poor old man she talked of... Salamander had seen him around. The old man not only had a cane and barely any clothes, he was also blind. She wanted him to die? Heartless, not to mention the way she treated Salamander. Salamander felt like dirt, but it was a normal feeling of the poor living in Treno.
The Card Arena was closed, thankfully, and Salamander knew he wouldn't have to deal with more comments. His rumbling stomach reminded him of his hunger, however. Salamander turned his gaze toward the café. Should he really? If he were caught, he'd definitely be brought to jail without a second thought. The monks often talked of jail like it was, well, prison. Salamander had heard rumors that any poor people who went to jail were forgotten and left to rot.
Somehow, taking that chance just didn't approve to Salamander. Sighing, he decided that he had only two possible choices. He could either try to get food from his rich "friend", who was really just around so Salamander could afford monk school, or he could go home and have some of the Fang's Head that was probably brought home.
Fang's Head didn't sound appetizing, nor did dealing with family. Salamander voted for rich food. Quickly, he headed toward the rich neighborhood. He knew exactly which house to head to, and exactly how to get food. It was a simple trick that Salamander had learned a while ago.
Soon, the rich neighborhood, with its decorative, perfect-condition mansions and estates, came into view. Laughter bubbled from many houses, as did the chimes and melodies of musical instruments. Many scents of tasty food came to Salamander, yet he didn't head for any doors. He instead slipped into a few decorative bushes. He crawled through the bushes, and soon saw his friend's house. The massive, three-story estate was made of smooth stone, with mahogany doors, various decorative columns, and glass windows. Outside, in the small yard, a massive dog patrolled about, sniffing the ground, as if searching for food. Salamander took a deep breath.
He then let out a very realistic dog-like bark. The massive dog's ears pricked when Salamander repeated the sound. The dog then began barking madly in Salamander's direction.
"Oh, shaddup, you stupid mutt!" a shout came from the house.
Someone opened the door leading out into the backyard, and a huge slab of meat was tossed outward. The dog quickly saw it, but Salamander was quicker. He launched himself into the air, and grabbed the thick slab of ham. Then, he dashed about and leapt over the bushes, the dog in pursuit.
"Momma, there's a massive dog outside!" someone called.
Salamander restrained from laughing. They though he was a dog! Still amused, Salamander whirled around and gave the dog chasing him a massive kick in the chest. The dog yelped, whined, and then ran back to its yard, its tail between its legs and ears drooping. Sighing, Salamander continued down the street at a slower pace, examining the ham in his hand. It was cooked with honey, judging by the scent, and fresh. Delighted, Salamander began to gobble it down quickly and hungrily, heading back toward the poor neighborhood.
By the time he was nearing the neighborhood, the massive slab of ham had already been devoured. Salamander looked around the gloomy neighborhood, staring at the run-down houses, and hearing the laughter from the bar nearby. He listened carefully, and quickly heard his father's voice within the bar. Salamander sighed, shaking his head.
Yes, the lie had been broken. Now, Christmas would be normal, at least for Salamander's family. It would be broken, argumentative, and full of beer.
Not wanting to deal with home, Salamander turned around and headed back toward the right neighborhood. Perhaps he could trick another family and dog into getting some more meat...
--------- Yeshem, here are your updates! Actually, I've had this chapter done for a while now, but I was too lazy to put it up O.o Oh well. Enjoy.
This story is copyright to me. Some characters, locations, events, and Gaia in general are copyright to SquareEnix.
= I've seen, over the years, many people who are victorious and act as if it was to happen, and that they are not privileged and blessed to have succeeded. I see those who do not seem impressed, but know it could've been some luck. No one seems to appreciate what victory really is. When I actually succeeded in something, I acted like it was a miracle, a wonder - And I was always shocked. It seems that you not only have to suffer to write. You have to suffer to God-damn grow up.
-- Meander =
Year 1751
It was Christmas, though you could not tell in the desert. For the desert, it looked like another day, if a little colder. The sun was not as high in the sky as usual, though it still managed to warm the desert considerably. The day was not a scorcher, but rather pleasant, if dry. In the Dari Tribe, celebrations were being held, with gifts being passed out and many feasts being eaten. Everyone was cheery, their happiness seeming addicting.
For DemChi, it was not addicting. The seven-year-old hybrid was sitting in the sands only about a half-mile away. His clothes were silk, and a pretty red in color, yet these expensive clothes were beginning to tear. They were technically not DemChi's; he had stolen them. He had considered stealing some food from the Christmas Feast, but he knew he would not accomplish such. The Dari were sick of him. They mostly kicked him out now. No one wanted him around. DemChi didn't want them around, either.
Fresh blood clots dotted DemChi's two, feeble hands. One finger was at an odd angle and clearly broken. His nails were dirty, most were broken, and one was missing. Blood long turned black covered the place where the nail had once been. Puffy, black and purple skin covered DemChi's left eye. A massive purple and blue bruise lay on his right cheek. His upper lip was puffy. His black hair was dirty, and in some places torn. His neck contained a half-necklace of bruises. Beneath his red, tearing shirt were massive bruises on his chest, and a broken rib. Bruises on his stomach added to the damage. On his legs, beneath the red pants, were long cuts created by claws. Bruises and scrapes joined the cuts. His tail was the only thing untouched by abuse; instead, the white spikes glistened with poison.
Behind him, DemChi heard someone approaching. He snorted angrily, while his tail began to twitch. He wished everyone would leave him alone; he was sick of the world, and wished he could just watch it and live in peace. Yet his brother wasn't going to allow it, particularly on this day, a day so sacred to humans.
"Hey, Freak!" Julius called in the mortal tongue. "I have something for you!"
"Bring to someone who care," DemChi replied in the demon tongue. His voice was rough and throaty, and his language was poorly constructed.
"But you'll like it! Don't you want a Christmas present?" Julius asked, clearly continuing to approach. He still spoke in the mortal tongue, as he normally did.
"No. Demons no celebrate Christmas. Go away," DemChi snarled, refusing to turn around. He always spoke in the demon tongue.
"Don't you trust me?" Julius asked, his ominous voice becoming louder, and his footsteps more distinct.
"No. Why would I? You only hurt," DemChi snarled, his tail lashing.
"Just turn around, Freak," Julius growled, clearly getting angry.
"No. If you want to give, then give to someone else and go away," DemChi growled.
"All right, then. I guess I'll just have to give it to you from the back!"
DemChi heard Julius run forward, and he rolled out of the way. He rose to his feet, only to get tackled roughly to the ground. Sharp claws that normally were retracted were clearly visible on Julius' fingers. A cruel smirk was on Julius' face, and DemChi considered spitting on it.
"I thought you could use a new look," Julius spat, bringing his claws uncomfortably close to DemChi's face. "How about a face lift?"
"Get off me... now," DemChi snarled, lifting his legs.
Julius slashed his claws across DemChi's face. DemChi snarled with anger, lifted his hand, and punched Julius in the face. Julius did not seem affected, but he did react when DemChi slammed his claws into Julius' lower back. Julius snarled with pain, and moved to slash DemChi in the face again, but DemChi caught his wrist. The struggle did not last long, however. DemChi's strength was much lower than Julius' was, and soon, Julius had regained control of his wrist. He used this control, however, to tear himself away from DemChi's claws. DemChi rolled to his feet, licking away the blood trickling near his mouth. Blood still lingered on his cheeks and right below his eyes, while the cuts caused by Julius' claws still bled freely.
While Julius rose to his feet, DemChi looked around to make sure their mother had not arrived. Seeing her no where in sight, DemChi faced Julius angrily. He charged forward, then swung his tail about when Julius moved to strike. The spiked tail struck Julius in the lower legs, ripping bloody tears in his legs. Julius yelped with surprise and pain, staggering and falling to his knees. He stared at DemChi angrily, yet DemChi was already swinging his tail about again. Julius crouched down, managing to scrape his hands, rather than his head, against the spikes on DemChi's tail.
"Damn it, stop it!" Julius yelped when DemChi's tail yet again scraped his hands. "Stop it! You trying to kill me?"
"Why not? You try," DemChi spat.
"Damn it, it's just a game!" Julius growled. He tried to rise, but quickly had to curl up in a ball again when DemChi's tail passed over him.
"No game. Life or death. Leave me alone," DemChi replied. He spat on Julius before turned about and heading away from Julius.
He didn't get far. An angry hiss pierced the air. DemChi felt a swoop of air before he was rammed into the ground, deep slashes in his thigh. Looking to the sky, DemChi saw his mother, the Demon Queen, hovering above, her red eyes flashing angrily. The Demon Queen looked aged far beyond her years, yet her strength was clearly still there. Flapping her massive wings steadily, the Demon Queen lashed out one of her powerful legs. Her powerful, webbed foot connected with DemChi's chest as the child tried to rise, and DemChi was sent tumbling backward.
"You are to leave Julius alone," the Demon Queen hissed in demon.
"He got me first," DemChi snarled, rising to his feet painfully.
Suddenly, the Demon Queen soared downward and grabbed DemChi by the throat using both hands. DemChi let out a choked snarl while the Demon Queen flew upward. DemChi could see Julius watching with a massive smirk on his face.
"You are not to talk back. You are to listen, and you are to leave Julius and I alone! Do you hear me?" the Demon Queen snarled, shaking DemChi roughly.
DemChi groaned, feeling sick from the shaking. His neck hurt horribly. The Demon Queen soon shook him again, this time harder. DemChi let out a choked snarl.
"All... Right," DemChi choked out.
The Demon Queen threw DemChi across the desert, sending him flying into the sands. The child rolled into a rock, and lied still, his breaths coming out in quick gasps. Julius laughed while he rose to his feet. The Demon Queen, on the other hand, snorted bitterly and flew back toward Julius. The two left together while DemChi lied on the ground, staring ahead with fading vision.
An hour passed before DemChi found the strength to rise into a sitting position. After looking around weakly, he found himself to be alone once more. Instead of whimpering or crying, he sighed with great relief. He leaned weakly against the rock, staring at the sky above him. A light smile graced his swollen lips while he wiped at the blood on his face. His palm came up completely red from the blood. Casually DemChi wiped the blood off on his red clothing. He ignored the bleeding of his thigh, being used to it. The pain was also ignored since he was used to it. The only thing not ignored was his anger, something he had felt plenty of times. He instead fed it images in his mind of what he would like to do to the people in the world. He replayed his tortures in his mind, except they were on the world. He replayed tortures of his own design onto the world. He sighed happily, staring at the sky, wishing that he could stay alone forever. If he could, DemChi would be happier. If only everyone would leave him alone, DemChi would be in heaven.
Yes... If only his family did not exist.
= Christmas for many people is a time of gifts, joy, eating, and family get- togethers. For a while, I thought similar things. Christmas was the only time that my family was actually a peaceful place to be. My parents got along fine, for once, and on really good Christmases, my father didn't drink. But as I got older, I realized that it was a fantasy they had made to try to make at least part of my life peaceful. But it didn't make it peaceful. It made me bloody worse.
-- Amarant =
Year 1783 Snow blanketed Treno on Christmas day, and it would stay there until March finally came. Snow fell slowly from the forever-dark sky and onto old, creaking wooden houses. The snow leaked into the roofs of the poor, and decorated the roofs of the rich. The middle-class was just about non- existent. They were now joining the poor as prices skyrocketed and ignorance continued.
Three inches of water covered the floor of one particularly run-down house. It was poorly constructed, even for the poor. It looked as if a few people just slapped together some wood and didn't bother trying to give it supports. It was a run-down shack. There was now only one floor, and only three rooms, with very little room to run away from events. Even the poor turned their noses at the house, muttering about how horribly the family functioned, and how terrible the father was.
Yet despite these conditions, cheery laughter from two people bubbled from the run-down, cramped kitchen. It was easily heard from the small, leaky bedroom. In one of these rooms, the water accumulation was no worse or better than in the kitchen. A run-down, half-collapsed bookshelf took up most of the room. There were two beds, one large, one small. Both were covered in filthy sheets. Clothes were strewn across the room, and cobwebs decorated the ceiling. The room smelled of mold, and mildew made a home on the walls.
Salamander ignored it all. He flicked away a spider or two while lying on his stomach on the smaller bed. His dark eyes were focused on the book before him, yet he was not reading about monks. He was reading about a paradise supposedly hidden underground. It was said the sun always shined, that no one went poor, and that everyone was happy. Salamander had once hoped to find the land, but now he knew it couldn't exist. Nothing that happy could exist.
The laughter bubbling from the kitchen was beginning to annoy Salamander, and the footsteps coming toward him were ominous. He had tried to explain to his family many times that he wanted nothing to do with Christmas with them, but his parents didn't seem to get the hint.
"Come, Salamander, have some dinner," Salamander's father cheerily called from behind Salamander.
The man's voice was, for once, not clogged with beer. It sounded clear, and happy. It made Salamander sick, sicker than the drunken voice made him. Salamander groaned and ignored his father to the best of his ability, flipping a yellow page on the book he was reading. He heard his father snort.
"Come, you'll starve. Don't you wish to have some fun?" his father asked.
Salamander ignored him again. He was no longer reading the book; now, he was just flipping the yellow pages. His father's words filtered through his mind, unheard and not cared about. His father's annoyed intake a breath seemed to confirm his father's knowledge of Salamander's attitude.
"Come, now. It's no fun without-"his father began.
"It's all a lie," Salamander spat.
"What do you mean?" his father asked.
He hadn't moved. His father had stayed in the doorway. Salamander knew because he hadn't heard footsteps. The nine-year-old closed the book, knowing what he wanted to say to his father, but not knowing if it was safe. His father sighed again, clearly annoyed, and Salamander understood that if he didn't speak, he'd be in deep trouble.
"This happy Christmas. It's a lie, an illusion," Salamander spat, sitting up and getting off the bed.
"Why do you say that?" his father asked.
Salamander looked over at his father, observed his father's unkempt appearance. The dirt on his face, the sullen, tired look he could see behind the fake cheer in his eyes, the raggedy clothes, and the thinness were always easy to see and hated. Salamander turned his gaze to the window without glass that was near his bed.
"Tomorrow you will go out and drink again. You and Mother will fight again. You still hate each other. You're still a drunkard. It's not any different. You're just trying to trick me into thinking everything may change," Salamander spat, staring outside.
Salamander heard his father take an angry intake of breath. He knew his father's eyes were alit with anger. He felt the footsteps as his father stepped forward, and there was no way he couldn't feel the powerful smack. Salamander staggered backward, his cheek tingling. Then, he rushed forward, and plowed his own fist straight into his own father's cheek. His father went soaring backward and into a wall. The whole house shook, while his father stared at Salamander with shock.
"You-"his father began.
He was too late. Salamander forced himself through the window. The foundation of the window cracked and splintered from the force. Landing in a pile of snow, Salamander rose to his feet and began sullenly walking down the street, staring at the snow. Behind him, he could hear his father shouting angrily. Salamander shook his head; he had been right. It was all just a lie, and that lie had just been shattered.
Smacking was a normal activity for Salamander, so hitting his father seemed no different. His father hit him and his mother all the time, so Salamander had learned to hit if you wanted something. The monks didn't approve of it much. Salamander was often scolded and punished by the monks in the mountains. They threatened to kick him out of class various times for fighting with other monks. Each time, they would mutter under their breath about how he would turn out just like his father. Hearing such things only made Salamander angrier, and more violent. He had learned that little was wrong with violence, and such things were threatening to get him kicked out of monk class.
Once, he would have cried. Now, he didn't care. He'd prefer no longer being stuck up in the mountains with the strict monks who always muttered about him being like his father.
A distinct change in scenery had come for Salamander. He was still walking the Treno streets, but you couldn't tell. Now, the streets were well paved. Lanterns lit up the cold, endless darkness. The laughter was more clear; it came from the many glamorous palaces, mansions, and estates that Salamander now found surrounding him. A small, outdoor café was open, and many people had gathered for an expensive Christmas dinner. They were wearing silk dresses and suits, and fancy hats with feathers. Pleasant chatter bubbled from the café. Salamander leaned against the wall of a nearby building and watched the café calmly, listening to the bubble of words that reached him.
"... Such a pleasant vase I got today, only 50000 Gil..." These words came from an older woman, fully clad in a deep violet, layered, silk dress, complete with many expensive jewels at the sleeves and bottom. Draped around her shoulders was a gorgeous fur coat, clearly coming from a snow leopard, an animal only residing on Eoroqu, which Salamander knew as the Demi Continent. She wore an expensive opal necklace, and her brown, greying hair was bound up in a bun. She was fanning herself casually with a black fan.
"... Where is that food? I'm starving..." This comment came from a massive, overweight man. He wore a fancy outfit consisting of many layers of clothing. Most of the clothes were made of cotton, except for the white fur coat he wore, clearly coming from a Yeti. He also wore a shimmering cape of dragon scales, and a fancy hat with a phoenix feather. At his side was a cane made out of imported wood, and the tip covered in velvet. The man had to be at least 300 pounds, probably more, in weight.
"... Did you see that poor snob walking by earlier? With that rotted cane and those horrible clothes... Wish they would just go kill themselves and not plague our streets." This comment flowed from the mouth of a young woman no older than 24. Her dress, made of pure velvet, was a rich violet in color, and her hat held feathers from a Red Dragon's wings. A pearl, probably over a million in value, was tied around her neck. With her was a purse, made of animal skin, and decorated with tails of an arctic fox, another animal only known to be in Eoroqu, and the highest reaches of the Mist Continent.
"Well, ye'd better not turn 'round, miss. There's one right behind ye."
Salamander shot dark, angry eyes at the young waiter who spoke to the woman in purple. The woman, who had been speaking to her husband, whirled around and soon focused her green eyes on Salamander, who stared coldly in return. The woman gasped, seeming more angry rather than horrified. The rest of the café turned around to see what was wrong. Soon, all eyes were focused on Salamander.
Most people simply muttered, shook their heads with disgust, and turned back to their conversations. Two tables, one of them containing the woman in purple, continued to stare with extreme loathe. Salamander returned their harsh glares.
"Look at that fleabag. Plaguing up our streets with his filth," the woman in purple spat.
"I'm just standing here, lady," Salamander growled.
"How dare you speak to me!" the woman gasped, holding up a pink fan involuntarily.
"Would you like me to come closer, too?" Salamander asked, rising to his full height.
The woman shook her head, her face contorted with disgust. "Oh, don't bother. Your looks are horrid enough; your smell must be worse."
A few mutters of agreement came from the group. Salamander spat at the ground, and the woman gasped again, now nearly shaking with rage.
"H-How dare you plague the streets with t-that!" the woman managed to blurt. "Someone, kick him out."
"No need, lady. I'm leaving on my own free will," Salamander spat.
He decided, however, to leave in the direction the café was. The large nine-year-old - already five feet, six inches, and not even full grown, not to mention already bulky - waltzed right by the café. The rich people gasped and scraped their chairs away. The workers of the café shouted curses. The woman in purple looked out to faint, then grabbed a cup of hot tea and tossed it at Salamander. The teacup shattered on his shoulder, and the hot tea dripped down his back. Salamander ignored the burning liquid, knowing the rich woman would rather have him respond. He heard her "harumph" when he ignored her, and soon the café was behind him. Instead, coming toward Salamander, was the Card Arena.
It was here that Salamander took the time to brush off some of the hot tea, muttering angrily. He remembered some of the words the rich had spoken. A vase, only 50000 Gil? Salamander's mother said vases once only cost 50 Gil. How could that woman act like the amount of money being demanded was no big deal? Then, the man demanding food, saying he was starving. The man was so fat, Salamander wondered if he'd fit in doorways. He wasn't starving in the least; Salamander had seen starving people right in his own neighborhood. How dare the fat man call himself starved! Then that woman in the purple. Did she have no sympathy for the poor? The poor old man she talked of... Salamander had seen him around. The old man not only had a cane and barely any clothes, he was also blind. She wanted him to die? Heartless, not to mention the way she treated Salamander. Salamander felt like dirt, but it was a normal feeling of the poor living in Treno.
The Card Arena was closed, thankfully, and Salamander knew he wouldn't have to deal with more comments. His rumbling stomach reminded him of his hunger, however. Salamander turned his gaze toward the café. Should he really? If he were caught, he'd definitely be brought to jail without a second thought. The monks often talked of jail like it was, well, prison. Salamander had heard rumors that any poor people who went to jail were forgotten and left to rot.
Somehow, taking that chance just didn't approve to Salamander. Sighing, he decided that he had only two possible choices. He could either try to get food from his rich "friend", who was really just around so Salamander could afford monk school, or he could go home and have some of the Fang's Head that was probably brought home.
Fang's Head didn't sound appetizing, nor did dealing with family. Salamander voted for rich food. Quickly, he headed toward the rich neighborhood. He knew exactly which house to head to, and exactly how to get food. It was a simple trick that Salamander had learned a while ago.
Soon, the rich neighborhood, with its decorative, perfect-condition mansions and estates, came into view. Laughter bubbled from many houses, as did the chimes and melodies of musical instruments. Many scents of tasty food came to Salamander, yet he didn't head for any doors. He instead slipped into a few decorative bushes. He crawled through the bushes, and soon saw his friend's house. The massive, three-story estate was made of smooth stone, with mahogany doors, various decorative columns, and glass windows. Outside, in the small yard, a massive dog patrolled about, sniffing the ground, as if searching for food. Salamander took a deep breath.
He then let out a very realistic dog-like bark. The massive dog's ears pricked when Salamander repeated the sound. The dog then began barking madly in Salamander's direction.
"Oh, shaddup, you stupid mutt!" a shout came from the house.
Someone opened the door leading out into the backyard, and a huge slab of meat was tossed outward. The dog quickly saw it, but Salamander was quicker. He launched himself into the air, and grabbed the thick slab of ham. Then, he dashed about and leapt over the bushes, the dog in pursuit.
"Momma, there's a massive dog outside!" someone called.
Salamander restrained from laughing. They though he was a dog! Still amused, Salamander whirled around and gave the dog chasing him a massive kick in the chest. The dog yelped, whined, and then ran back to its yard, its tail between its legs and ears drooping. Sighing, Salamander continued down the street at a slower pace, examining the ham in his hand. It was cooked with honey, judging by the scent, and fresh. Delighted, Salamander began to gobble it down quickly and hungrily, heading back toward the poor neighborhood.
By the time he was nearing the neighborhood, the massive slab of ham had already been devoured. Salamander looked around the gloomy neighborhood, staring at the run-down houses, and hearing the laughter from the bar nearby. He listened carefully, and quickly heard his father's voice within the bar. Salamander sighed, shaking his head.
Yes, the lie had been broken. Now, Christmas would be normal, at least for Salamander's family. It would be broken, argumentative, and full of beer.
Not wanting to deal with home, Salamander turned around and headed back toward the right neighborhood. Perhaps he could trick another family and dog into getting some more meat...
--------- Yeshem, here are your updates! Actually, I've had this chapter done for a while now, but I was too lazy to put it up O.o Oh well. Enjoy.
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