A/N: I don't own WHR.
This is chapter two, version two. There is one scene here that has been massively edited.
HEARTS DESIRE
Chapter Two: Until Monday
A Witch Hunter Robin Fanfic
By Yuriko Tsukino
Neither Amon nor Robin were quite sure how, but Robin ended up eating lunch in his classroom the following Monday. And the day after. And every day that week. While she was uninvited, she wasn't unwelcome, not that Amon would ever admit it. In some ways, it was nice to have her company, even though it was silent. At least it kept her from trying to skip school again.
For Robin's part, having lunch with the silent instructor was much preferable to eating in the cafeteria. Everyone left her alone when she was in Amon's company. And there were books in Amon's room. Poetry, classic novels, Shakespearian plays, mythology. Hamlet, The Iliad, Jane Eyre, Great Expectations. While others would have cringed at the sight of the books, they were like air for Robin. She had spent hours in the convent library, absorbing anything she could. She wished she could read each and every one of them.
Amon watched her every day, and her interest in his collection did not go unnoticed, even if both parties pretended to ignore each other. Robin ate in the back of the room in the seat she occupied during class, while Amon graded papers and created tests and worksheets for whatever they were studying at the time. But he still saw the way she eyed his texts, especially the poetry.
"You can borrow one of those, if you like," he said one day. The sound of his voice surprised him. He hadn't meant to say anything, though he had been debating letting her borrow a book or two for a while. She was his best student, after all, and she had an interest in the subject.
She glanced up at him quickly, as though unsure he had actually spoken. "Really?"
For the first time in the two weeks she had been attending school, Amon heard joy in her voice.
He shrugged, trying to pretend he was immune to her happiness. "It doesn't make sense to have dozens of perfectly good books just sitting on a shelf if no one is going to read them," he said.
Robin knelt beside the shelf, and he knew almost immediately what book she would choose. She had been eyeing it more than the others. She reached out, closing her hands on the volume he had predicted. Such lovely hands. So slim and delicate...
NO.
"This one," she said, almost to herself. It was a volume of poetry by Emily Dickenson. It didn't surprise Amon in the least that that was the book she wanted. It suited her personality perfectly.
What do I know about her personality?
"Thank you very much," Robin said sincerely as the bell rang. Something that was very, very close to a smile curled at her lips. Another first.
In response, Amon merely shrugged again. "Hurry up or you'll be late.
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Robin's pen swirled doodles over the page of her English notebook. She should have been taking notes on freestyle poetry, but she was having trouble focusing. While she heard Amon's voice, she couldn't pay attention. She was too busy listening. She closed her eyes briefly and let the sound of it wash over her. His voice was smooth and firm. It was never raised, but it was always heard.
As much as she enjoyed the time they spent in silent reading, lectures were her favorite classes, because she got to hear him speak. When he wasn't lecturing, Mr. Amon hardly talked at all. As it was, she thought his lectures weren't nearly long enough. He made all of the information as concise as possible, leaving out any irrelevant details. Presumably, this was so he would be finished sooner.
Robin wished he would go over the details. Over, and over, and over again.
It wasn't just his voice that was nice. He had a beautiful mouth to. Firm, just like the rest of him. For a split second, she imagined it doing something other than talking.
A shiver ran down her spine, and she ducked her head to hide her blush.
This is getting ridiculous, she thought. For the last week, she'd hardly paid any attention in this class--she was too busy fantasizing. The only reason she did well in this class was because 1) Writing was easy for her and 2) she looked up everything she missed online after school, so she usually ended up with more information than she needed.
Robin glanced up again. Amon had his back to the class, writing examples up on the board. The winter sunshine leaking through the windows caught in his black hair. Robin wished she could touch it.
I have to stop thinking like this, she thought. For one thing, he's my teacher. For
another, he's got to be about ten years older than me, so it would be illegal for him to even touch me. And he's probably got a girlfriend. With looks like that, it would be amazing if he didn't. With that hair, and that voice. Not to mention those gorgeous grey eyes. And he's so intelligent to. He really sees things. And...Where was I going with this again?
Sighing, Robin ducked her head and tried to take notes. Maybe she'd do better if she wasn't looking at him.
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I can't believe she's done with that already, Amon thought as Robin returned her latest book to the shelf. In the last week, she had taken out five books, and returned them all after only a day. And she had read them all; her ability to pick up on subtleties the authors had put into their work rivaled most college professors.
By far, her favorite books to read were the volumes of poetry. She was indiscriminate in which book she chose; she devoured the different styles and authors with the vigor of a man who hadn't eaten for a week sitting down to a seven-course meal.
Amon himself was very picky when it came to poetry. He wasn't fond of simplistic rhymes. He didn't care for poems about nature. Most of all, he disliked sonets and love poems. They were all senseless crap, even those written by the great masters of the pen, such as Shakespeare. He still found it amazing that that same person who created works such as Hamlet and Julius Caesar could have also written something as sappy and worthless as Romeo and Juliet. Even after four years of college and three years teaching, and countless seminars and discussions with his colleagues, he still couldn't understand how that drivel had become a classic, read by every high school literature class in the country.
Robin, however, loved all poetry, even the drivel.
She knelt beside the bookshelf, reading each title carefully, just as she did every day at this same time before choosing the next volume to read.
Amon opened his bottom desk drawer, removing a paperback.
"Robin."
She looked up at him with her clear green eyes. He had to force himself to keep a straight face and not stare into their depths.
"I have a book you might be interested in."
He held out the worn paperback. The front cover was creased and ready to fall off. Almost every page was dog-eared.
"The poems in here are a little depressing," he said. "But I think it's something you would enjoy." He held it out to her.
She accepted the book. While her face was calm as usual, he detected a hint of excitement and no little amount of curiosity in her eyes.
Her long, graceful fingers brushed his hand as they closed around the book. Amon tried to ignore the tingle that ran involuntarily up his arm and back down his spine. He also tried to ignore the way her hand lingered next to his; not quite touching, but close enough that he could feel the heat of her hand.
Amon wasn't sure whether or not he was glad the bell rang just then. It meant that he was saved from the internal battle over his self control, but it also meant that Robin was gone. Their privet time was over.
He watched her retreating form as she swept out of the classroom, her long skirt swishing over the floor.
Something in the way she carried herself when they were alone...She was like...And old-fashioned lady from a classic novel. She acted with elegance, grace, intelligence. But she was so different when alone among the throng. Because that was exactly it. Even in the crowded halls, being jostled and shoved, she was always alone.
Amon didn't understand it. She was so...perfect. A girl like her should have a hundred friends. But she didn't have a single one. He never saw her speak with anyone, and he watched her. More than he should. She hardly even spoke when her classmates belittled her, which happened quite often.
Was that why she never spoke? But why were they so cruel to her? Why did she even bother to listen to them? Surely she knew how special, how wonderful she was.
No. He couldn't let that train of thought continue. It was far too dangerous.
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That evening found Robin sitting on her bed, the book from Amon open on her lap. It was much harder to read than the other books she had borrowed. She had to read many of the poems two or three times to comprehend what the writer was saying, and sometimes the meaning changed with each reading. She wasn't half as far in this book as she would have been with the others.
But she wasn't about to give up. The poetry, while depressing, was thought provoking. It was well written, truly a masterpiece. And when she slowed down, and gave thought to each piece, she realized that she knew exactly what the author meant. She could feel his futility at life as deeply as if it was her own. Because, in more ways than one, it was.
Those weren't the only reasons she kept reading. After only a few pages, she had
realized that this was Mr. Amon's personal copy. He had obviously read it many times for it to become so worn. So in a way, wasn't it Amon's sadness too?
In the margins of some of the pages, there were notes scribbled in Amon's precise handwriting. Never more than a sentence, just little thoughts about a specific work. She read each of those poems four or five times, and her eyes lingered over his notes even longer. In her mind, she could hear his voice repeating the words. And by reading his notes, she almost felt like she was listening to a conversation between him and the rest of the world. She learned more about him in the first fifty pages of that book than she had in three weeks in his class.
She ran her fingers over the note on her current page one more time before moving on. The next poem was incredibly sad. She could see that in her first initial reading. The second time, however, she truly felt the depth of the writer's sorrow. The utter hopelessness. The complete loneliness.
Loneliness was a feeling Robin was quite intimate with.
The margin on this page contained two notes, one on either side of the title. "So true," and "Welcome to Reality."
Robin felt tears slowly fill her eyes. It was depressing enough to think that the author of that poem had felt so desolate. Worse still that she herself knew it too. But to see such total agreement from Amon, the person she wanted most to be happy...
She wasn't sure if she was crying for Amon, or from relief at finding she wasn't alone in her solitude.
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That's the last time I fall asleep reading poetry... Robin thought tiredly as she rested her head on her folded arms. She had been up until almost three o'clock reading the poetry book. As it was, she had fallen asleep sitting up with the book in her lap, which had led to a nasty crick in her neck, and a very unrestful night. And now all of her thoughts had a poetic sort of beat to them. It was incredibly annoying.
Lack of sleep and depressing poetry weren't the only things weighing her down, however. Her day had gotten off to a rocky start from the first. She had slept through her alarm. She'd been so preoccupied with books lately, that she had neglected to do the week's laundry, which meant her favored attire of a long black dress was dirty. It had taken her nearly ten minutes to find the jeans and tee shirt buried in the back of her closet, which had made her even later, meaning there would be no breakfast, despite the fact that she was starving. It was raining again, and she had walked out of the apartment without her umbrella.
And without her key.
Upon finally getting to school, her drowned rat appearance was a source of entertainment for her classmates. Thankfully, she had remembered her coat, so they couldn't make comments about a wet tee shirt contest. The fact that she was in something that passed for normal attire, however, only gave them more ammunition, which they were happy to fire at her. Not to mention the usual chorus of bird calls that followed her down the hall. Bird calls were an invention of none other than Doujima, who thought they were fitting because of her name.
At least she had gotten to class on time.
The tardy bell finally rang, and Amon rose to address the class. "This will be our
final week on poetry," he announced. If they had dared, Robin was sure that the class would have been cheering. "For our final project, you will each complete a series of at least ten poems in the format of your choice. They must be at least six lines apiece. Your poems are due next Monday.
"Next week, we will begin our transition from poetry into plays. We will do so by reading Shakespeare's Hamlet, which is written in verse.
"Today, however, you will begin work on your poems. You have until quarter 'til. That's thirty minutes. Please work quietly."
It took several moments, but Amon's words sank into her brain, very slowly. Using roughly the same pace as a sloth, she pulled a notebook and pen from her messenger bag. Slowly, she opened to a clean page, smoothing it out on her desk, and slowly she set her pen to paper.
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With ten minutes left to the bell, Amon rose from his seat an announced that they were to share what work they had completed.
Robin glanced at her page in horror. She couldn't share this! It was, by far, too personal.
Mr. Amon called on the first student, as there were no volunteers. Reluctantly, the student complied, rising from his seat and reciting the mundane attempt at a poem on his page. Obviously disgusted by this work, and trying hard to conceal it, Amon moved on to the next student, and the next. Neither of them had completed anything, much to his irritation.
The number of students before Robin was dwindling quickly. To lie and say she had written nothing was out of the question. There was no way she would put up with having a zero in the grade book for anything in this class. No--she would have to come up with something new. And fast. There were only three students left in her row.
Her tired mind was dry of creativity, however. The ever increasing cadence of Think, think. There's no time to waste that flew across her brain prevented any thought.
The student in front of her was taking her seat, and still Robin's page was blank. Mr. Amon called her name; she froze.
"I--I don't have--"
At that instant, the bell rang, and never was it more welcomed by Robin. She leapt from her seat, snatching her messenger bag, and was one of the first out the door.
Once in the relative safety of the crowded halls, and far off from the Literature classroom, she rummaged through her bag for the notebook she needed in her next class.
Wait. I only have three notebooks in here; I should have four...
She pulled out her biology book; the one she had been searching for. Glancing at the covers of the two remaining, she realized instantly which one was missing.
She doubled back, moving as quickly as she could through a throng going the opposite direction. She knew she would be late--very late. But maybe she could get a pass from Mr. Amon. She couldn't leave that notebook in his possession. She couldn't let him read her poetry.
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With an inward sigh, Amon gathered up his laptop and the papers he needed to grade, shifting them all under one arm. Second period he was in charge if the study hall in the cafeteria. It wasn't his favorite duty, but at least it didn't require a lesson plan. Just a thick stack of detention slips and something to do.
He was about to leave the room, when he noticed something on a desk in the back of the room. Robin's desk.
He approached the desk to remove the article--a notebook--recalling offhandedly her strange behavior in class. While always shy, she had nearly panicked when he called on her. She hadn't done her class work, she had fled from the room, while normally she lingered, and now she had forgotten her notebook. Not to mention the fact that she wasn't in her usual dress, she spent the beginning of the class with her head on her arms, and her hair was wet and loose instead of in pigtails.
He picked up the notebook, and was surprised to find that there were not one, but two poems written in Robin's neat handwriting on the page. She had surpassed the assignment, while she had claimed to not have done it at all.
His eyes fell on the first stanza. He had never cared much for rhymed poetry. But this...
The pressure building deep inside
These feelings that I cannot hide
My walls slowly crumbling down
In my tears I'll soon drown
Crushed beneath this weight
Is loneliness to be my fate?
Stripped by their words, I lie
Wondering how soon I can die
Crying out to be set free
Can anyone hear my plea?
It was armature work to be sure, but it echoed the style of some of his favorite authors while still holding it's own somehow.
Most of all, it was the feeling of sincerity which struck him. Many authors wrote and wrote, but did not have any emotion behind their work. This however, this was real. He could feel quite plainly that the words of this poem were only tip of the iceberg when it came to both Robin Sena's talent--and her pain.
Robin froze when she re-entered the classroom. There stood Mr. Amon, by her desk, holding her notebook. His lips moved ever so slightly as he read the words on the page.
She needed to stop him before he got too far, but she was couldn't move. STOPSTOPSTOP! Her mind screamed. She could only watch as Amon's brows knit as he read over a certain passage.
His reading stopped, and now his eyes were widened as if in some shock. NO NO NO! He KNOWS!
The tardy bell rang. The sudden noise made them both jump. Looking up, Amon noticed the girl at his door.
The stillness finally broken, Robin came forward, silently holding out a hand for her book. Though her face was calm, her hand shook.
Amon turned over the notebook somewhat reluctantly. He hadn't had time to read the second poem, and he wanted to.
"Why did you lie?" he asked.
"...I couldn't help it." For some reason, he got the impression she wasn't only talking about the assignment. He wasn't able to ask, however; she snatched the notebook away from him and ran from the room.
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Robin slid low in her seat. She was in the back of the room (per usual) and it was after school. She had gotten a detention for that tardy (not that being fifteen minutes late was a big deal for a class she already had an A in) but nevertheless...
She flipped open her notebook to the most recent page. It was the one she had left in Literature class; the one she had grabbed away from Mr. Amon.
Why did I have to be so stupid? Why couldn't I have just played it cool and acted like there was nothing wrong? I could have told him it was just a creative burst and that it had nothing to do with my real feelings. Why do I always think about these things after it's already too late?
She sank down so her chin rested on her crossed arms, her notebook open in front of her. It wasn't the poem about her depression she was worried about. Teen angst was normal. A teacher wouldn't be concerned about that.
They might be concerned about a poem in which their name appeared, however.
Robin scratched her head. She really needed to re-write that one. It was a crummy piece of work--just scribbled at the end of the page, after one of her better pieces. What she had here was really more like an outline for a poem.
She flipped to a blank page and pulled a pen out of her messenger bag.
The Arithmetic of Literature
In the dictionary
the word "enigma" is defined
Webster says it's "mystery"
I looked it up
In a thesaurus
and this is what I found:
a riddle;
a puzzle;
a question.
I think it must be true;
I've met the man
That word defines
So little do I know
I have a clue
But only one or two
I must know more
My heart implores
NO! Robin ripped out the page, crumpling it into a ball. That was terrible
The other students and the teacher stared at her sudden burst of noise.
"Miss Sena?" The teacher looked down at her over her half-moon spectacles.
"Um...I'm fine. I'll...just throw this out..."
Taking her seat again, Robin was once more faced with the problem--the enigma --of how to get her feelings onto paper. She had to write them out. She needed some kind of outlet, and since there wasn't anyone she could talk to, writing was the only way.
That's right. Just write.
So she did.
Am I a person?
Or am I a Witch?
…No. I am Robin.
Witches are the new mankind. People are the oldman.
People hate witches and Witches hate people.
Can't we just love each other?
Am I " Joan of Arc"?
No. I am not. I love Amon.
I believe we can understand each other.
I can fight, because I believe.
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She was in Literature class two days later, Friday, watching Amon's profile as he wrote on the board, lecturing the class on the expectations for their poetry books. Thankfully, he hadn't asked for any more read-alouds, which was a relief because it meant not only not having to listen to awful poetry from her classmates, but it also meant she didn't have to share the things she had written. There were only two days left until her ten poems were due. So far, she had completed twelve. And all of them were love poems. Most of them were weak, mindless drivel that made little sense. All of them were about Amon. And a good portion mentioned him by name. Robin was beginning to get a little edgy about it. She only had the weekend to write all ten, and she needed to go shopping. The pantry of the apartment was almost empty. But the empty cupboard was the least of her worries.
Sighing, Robin tried not to focus on her problems, which were rapidly multiplying. She looked up again, admiring the curve of Amon's shoulders and back, and way his collarless black shirt fit. The way hints of his musculature were visible when he moved certain ways. And his nice hands. And the firmness of his jaw. And the way his profile was so perfect. And...
Enough.
One more try… she thought, trying to come up with at least one poem. One that didn't involve Amon.
Nothing there for me
I woke up this morning
I thought there might be hope
In a new day
I left by apartment
My home, a cozy place
Clutched in my hand,
I list of things to get.
Two arms that will comfort me
Two gentle hands that will wipe away my tears
One soft voice that promises to make it all okay
One person to keep me safe
One person to love me forever
But strong arms willing to hold me tight
Are hard to come by
Every place I looked
Was out of gentle, loving hands
I couldn't find a voice so soft and sweet,
And there was no one there to keep me safe.
I wandered home through the pouring rain
Put my key into the lock
I opened the door
Stepped through the threshold
Gazed out my broken windows
Stepped over my charred wood floor
I collapsed onto the ground
No warm bed for me
I hug myself
Try to find comfort
As my tears fall
I knew it was a hopeless search
I knew I'd never find
The thing I wanted most
I always knew
From the very start
That there's nothing there for me.
...Depressing. But I suppose it will have to do, she thought as the bell rang.
Because it was Friday, there was a sporting event that evening after school. The school colors covered the halls, and energy was running high. To all the students except for Robin, the day flew by. But for her, it couldn't have taken much longer. When the last bell finally rang, she joined the other students as they flooded into the halls and then out onto the rainy city streets.
What is it with this town? Robin wondered. Does it always rain?
Opening her umbrella, Robin set off in the direction of the grocery store. Mentally, she counted up how much money she could spend on groceries. She cringed when the total came up to only twenty dollars.
I need to get a job, she thought. Bills will start coming any day now, and the rent. My savings is almost gone.
It didn't take long for her to get her twenty dollars of groceries. As she stood in the checkout line, she looked sadly at her pitiful pile. If I don't eat breakfast, and have only a small lunch, this might last me until Monday, she thought. She sighed inwardly. It's a good thing I don't eat much, anyways.
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A/N: Some of you might remember that during the scene with the poetry, Robin wrote a journal entry in which she's contemplating Amon. This was replaced with a little poem-like snippet., the whole Joan-of-arc bit.
Go to the WHR Wiki. There's a trivia section at the bottom of the entry, where you will find that quote. It actually comes from Zaizen's computer screen in ep. 22, around the 6m. 52s mark. I checked it myself. A bit blurry, but it's there. It made me insanely happy, and I had to put it in this fic.
