Growing Pains

07: Home is where the heart

Auteur : Rain

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

Notes :

To choose; to see; to see.

Sorry this one took even more time! Being home is being busy, it appears.

Thank you very much Allie for reviewing all the chapters and you, sweet guest, for reviewing me! It is dearly appreciated!

1. The terrible truth about the cycle of abuse is that you end up being the spoke that drags the next person under.

Being French and raised half-Italian, Jeanne is Roman Catholic (like Marco). Lyserg probably wouldn't be, even if his parents were religious. There is something to repetition breeding belief (which is why you should never joke about your lack of self-worth, or about wanting to die, psa lads lasses and lassos) and prayer is often based on rhythms and repetitions.

This isn't the help Lyserg needs, lil Jeanne.

2. I need more TamAnna content. The girls deserve to bond. If no one feeds me I'll do it myself.

3. Hao has always said he wanted to break his chains. But is severing connections such a good idea, pal?


Lyserg, for almost as long as he remembers, has worn a veil under his eyes. He is a lot less open about that than he is about his pants, and even when he stumbles into Marco half-sick from seeing the Great Spirits the veil is still in place.

(Marco won't tell him that the only way the X-Laws could reach the Patch Village without fainting was by staring at the ground and listening to their Holy Maiden's directions. She alone stared it down; she alone guided their path. What she saw or went through, she didn't say.)

They talk, and the more they talk the more Lyserg is convinced this is where he needs to be. This is the people who will destroy Hao and save the world. He needs to be there with them, though he thinks of Yoh with regret. They talk of justice and beasts and the greater good; they talk of the pain and the fire and the ones they lost.

Marco grills him for what feels like hours before mentioning her. The Lady. The stone upon which their church is built. He who speaks so openly about what must be done to Hao and his followers suddenly becomes mysterious and almost cagey. Gives him time to think.

He takes the time to think, alone. Marco said his parents would be proud of him for making it this far alone, and it's the nicest thing Lyserg has ever heard. And now he doesn't have to be. He can rely on other people again. People who understand.

He could go to Yoh. He's not hard to find. But Yoh doesn't understand him at all.

So he goes where he knows his place is, and Marco smiles, and the pride on his face is bittersweet and familiar.

"Meene will take you to her."

A woman steps up and greets Lyserg with a nod. She looks young, but when she walks she walks like the others; there is a rigidity, a strength in her, like a bow ready for the arrow. He wishes he were like that.

Marco waves them off with a smile and Meene guides him into a brightly-lit corridor. Lyserg is too nervous to speak. Soon they reach a door and she gestures for him to go through. The Lady, whoever, whatever that is, is waiting for him in here. But what if she doesn't like him? What if she tells him to leave?

He feels so nervous he might be sick again, so he stalls. "Can… Can you tell me about her a little? The Holy Maiden?"

The woman hesitates a little, then says: "She will save the world."

And Lyserg's right cheek flares in moonlight. It flashes through the veil and Lyserg is too taken aback not to grab his cheek, shellshocked. He stutters, Meene takes a step back, they both clearly do not know what to say.

"I, I'm sorry," Lyserg mumbles. Then, because Meene is still staring and he feels terrible, he repeats, "sorry," and pushes the door to scramble into the room.

He is pushed into the chapel and almost stumbles. Hidden in the confessional, Jeanne watches in silence as he takes hesitant, trembling steps. The way his eyes travel, he has not been in a church for a long time.

Not seeing her, clearly at a loss, the boy kneels in between the rows of pews. She hears the feverish mumblings of half-remembered prayers. It reeks of helplessness and desperation.

Slowly, she stands. Her steel-lined steps echo in the room as she makes her way to him and kneels in turn.

He has fallen silent, so she takes the rosary from around her neck and puts it between them.

She signs herself and he does the same, a little hesitantly; then she says "O Lord, open my lips," and he repeats, a little off-key. The creed, the Lord's prayer, and then the Hail Marys; the repetition helps him remember, or learn, the words.

But there is also something else. After all, her angels come from every corner of the world and every sort of church. It is not bad that he would not know her words. But in prayer Jeanne finds peace; in prayer she soothes herself and brings her candles low. Repetition rekindles belief, and she wants to help this lost boy.

Once they have gone through the whole rosary, his voice has gained in confidence. Not enough to ask questions. Perhaps enough to answer them?

"You have come very far," she starts in the silence.

"I made my way to Tokyo alone. I saw M… the organization a few times after. But it took until now for me to find my resolve."

His voice shakes, still. He is ashamed of how long it took for him to come here. Like he owes her for lost time.

"Doubts are the stepping stones of our faith. Once they are behind you, they have served their purpose."

"I have cast them aside," he promises fervently. "I am ready. I believe."

"What do you believe?"

The boy barely dares look at her, but this time he does, innocent green eyes boring into the red.

"That you are the only one who can kill Hao and save the world."

And is such an ambiguous word, isn't it? Is killing the beast separate from saving the world? Or is it one and the same? But he says it so fervently. This is his prayer.

"What makes you believe that?"

He chuckles. He is so very nervous.

When he tears his veil off his face Jeanne doesn't know what to expect, and seeing marks so close for the first time in forever almost makes her recoil.

Half of his face is bathed in silver; half in gold.

"My face says you will," he says candidly. "I was coming here when one of your soldiers – I apologize, I did not catch her name – she said you would save the world. And there it is." And there it is: on his cheek, she will save the world.

If she hadn't just decided the marks were nonsense and destiny meant nothing if you didn't choose it, would her chest flutter? Is this something she should treasure? Shouldn't she be happy to read her destiny on someone else's skin? Isn't it a blessing, this boy, clearly chosen?

She has the instinct to reach out, to touch. The boy watches her with barely-hidden shame, and it interrupts her.

Hand between them, she glances at his other cheek, at the golden mark there. It isn't in English. It is… It is in an alphabet that reminds her of her own marks, the ones she doesn't have. "What does the other one say?"

"It's…" He falters. He is still holding the veil; Jeanne sees him squeeze it like it is its own kind of beast. Is it someone he lost? Marco hasn't briefed her; she wanted to make up her own mind. It would hurt, she knows, to have and to lose. Even unmarked. Perhaps it is why he arrived at their door.

Gently, she takes the veil from him and unfolds it. That he would wear this; isn't it a sign of how much he is like them?

"Here who you are ceases to matter," she explains as she ties it back in place. She is careful not to snag his hair, and to not stand too close to him, even if she kind of has to. "You do not have to tell me. Our purpose is only to slay the beast and save the world."

"It's Hao."

She stops, her fingers still against the mess of his hair. What did he say?

"My other mark," he blurts out. "I came out flared. He killed my parents on my sixth birthday, I saw part of it – he told me something, I didn't understand. Later I… I researched it. Spent hours at the library, asked people."

She still cannot speak. In her mind's eye, another mark, black then silver. Come with me.

"It says, 'how pathetic'. He'd just killed my parents and he insulted them to my face." The boy is growing frantic again. He is blinking away tears and not doing very well. "How dare he. How dare he mark me like that. I hate it. I've always hated it. It would have been better if he just burned my face off. Please let me help. Please, I need to do this, I have to do this."

The boy melts into a puddle of angry tears in her lap, and Jeanne's fingers cannot hold the mask any longer. Her candles flare as she remembers Luchist's patient smiles and sweet songs and long black cape.

She knows how this ends. She knows he is a traitor. Luchist was only flared silver, wasn't he? How could he not be a traitor, he who flashed gold for Hao?

"Please," the child begs, and Jeanne does not have the heart for this.

"What is your name?"

"Lyserg. L-Lyserg Diethel."

She slides the rosary around his head and offers him her hands to stand.

"Rise, Lyserg Diethel. Welcome to the X-Laws."

"That guy was terrifying! Don't you think, Tamao, that it was really scary?"

Tamao isn't sure why, but to have Manta half-yell it soothes her. That was it, then, the feeling when he was there. Fear. She thought it less familiar, but it had to be that, didn't it?

They are hiking through the mess of houses inside the mountain. Anna doesn't want to waste any more time, and she is walking at a very brisk pace. She enrolled Tamurazaki to walk by her in case 'any more creeps come around', but Manta can't maintain their pace, so Tamao hangs back with him.

"I couldn't move I was so scared. But you weren't, were you, Tamao? You were fearless!"

She frowns. So, not fear? Now she is unsettled again.

"W-was I? I was really worried for Anna," she counters softly. It quiets Manta; for a while he doesn't speak.

Part of Tamao feels sheepish. How could she pretend to protect Anna? She's not the one who tamed the shikigamis. She's not the powerful itako trained by Kino. She can't protect anyone. But she would have. She was about to.

"I know what you mean," Manta says, at length. "I worry for Yoh all the time."

Tamao blinks and looks at him, walking behind her with sweat on his brow. He is staring at the ground.

"When I met him one of the first things he did was stand up to a whole lot of bullies. Well, they got better, but they were really mean at first. And he keeps – getting hurt. Just to show the people who hurt him that he's listening. That he's ready to help. It's good and he's great but… He still gets hit. I wish I could do something for him. Because it's only gotten worse now! And he has nobody to look out for him."

Tamao understands. More than that, she… feels understood. Because Anna and Yoh have each other but it's not exactly looking out. It's trust, and trust sometimes means to not look out.

"He has you," she says. She's glad he is there.

And she wants, she so desperately wants to believe him when he grins and says: "And Anna has you. You and I – we'll do the looking out for them. Deal?"

Too embarrassed for words, Tamao nods.

Then, she calls: "Anna! We should take a break! Manta is getting dehydrated!"

Manta is, yes, but she also worries about Anna. She is so worried about Yoh she doesn't think of herself, so someone has to. And though the itako protests they do stop. Tamurazaki has seen to their needs; they share crackers and they drink aplenty.

Anna is still anxious to move, but Tamao is happy to see that she rests, even for a few moments. As Tamurazaki marvels about the confusing architecture around them, she even manages to convince her to put more sunblock on. It is good to see that Anna listens; good to see that she accepts the help. Tamao hopes that one day, her own soulmate (soulmates?) do the same.

"You could ask, you know," Ponchi says.

"We'd answer," Conchi continues, with his usual grin.

But she doesn't feel the need to. She knows she will meet them (both of them?) in time. Right now… Right now, she feels like she is right where she needs to be.

The world shifts then.

She is looking up, up to something impossible and exquisite. There is an arm stretched out towards it and it is her own, though it is not her own. And as she looks up to this beautiful and terrifying tower that melts and shifts and lives above it all, a tide of joy washes over her.

"Great Spirits," she says with her real mouth in her real body, though it is not her voice, and it is not her words. "I missed you."

She does not understand what she is saying. All she understands is the overwhelming joy, painted in dark, possessive hues into her heart.

"You will be mine," gets out of her throat, and it is the absolute truth: it is hers, already, has always been hers.

"Tamao."

She blinks, and the vision fades. She is indeed looking up at the sweltering sky, high above the cramped buildings of Mesa Velde.

In front of her face is Mikihisa's mask.

He is holding the hand she still has outstretched towards the sky and cradling it like he's afraid she's about to turn to ashes.

When he sees that she is looking back at him he squeezes her hand, and then presses something to her lips. "Heatstroke. Drink."

So she does. Anna huffs somewhere nearby.

"Really, like we had any more time to waste…"

But Tamao knows she worried. Anna stuck around; she didn't walk ahead, even though she is so very worried for Yoh.

She sits up and shakes the gravel from her hair. "I'm sorry…"

"That's fine. Drink your water."

Manta and Tamurazaki are looking on, equally worried. She tries to comfort them with a smile; it doesn't seem to convince them much. She doesn't like being the center of attention like this.

Once she has eaten a few more crackers and drunk some water, Manta attempts:

"Do you think that was heatstroke? We may want to be more careful…"

"It wasn't heatstroke." Anna is tapping her foot. "What did you see?"

Tamao glances at her tablet. It was put away, because she had said no to her spirits. She didn't look into the future. It didn't feel like the future.

"I didn't really see anything," she says quietly, glancing at Mikihisa's mask. "I don't remember what happened."

The mask is inclined in her direction. But who could say what Mikihisa is thinking?

"Then we should go. This place is only going to get worse before it gets better."

He helps her to her feet and dusts her off. He hasn't explained why he's here.

They go.

While he did promise Ashil experiments, the excitement of the Patch Village does push these back a little. Simply being there again fills him with joy. It is where he should be, and for a hot second he thinks about simply striding there and staking his claim. He could stand at the entrance of the village and slaughter every contestant that arrives. If there is no one to contest, the whole farce can be done, can it not?

But no. He will do it the proper way. Show them that he can, of course he can.

After basking in the lights of the Great Spirits for far too long, he signs them all up. Four teams, then.

Hoshigumi. The Stars. Because what else? Opacho with him, he will not risk the littlest lamb. And Luchist, because he is simply the strongest, and because he is the closest to anything like understanding. He doesn't need anyone to fight with him, but those are his stars, for now.

Tsuchigumi. The Earth. Peyote and the two monks. There would not be any separating of the Boz, and Peyote needs his own containment unit.

Hanagumi. The Flowers. There was never any question about his three girls being together. They are good to each other and they are good. He expects a lot more coherency from these three; fewer surprises, however.

Which leaves five men. Well. Four, and Ashil.

He had his mind made up before strolling into the Patch's office, of course, but he didn't begrudge them the little row there. They are all somewhat strong, and they all want to fight for him. They would all make good fighters.

In the end he keeps Blocken and Bill on the sidelines, because they will be better at what needs doing outside of the arena. He needs level-minded people to keep watch at the base, and round up new souls for the devouring. If anyone else is weak enough to let opponents escape, they won't miss their opportunity.

So.

Tsukigumi, The Moon. Turbein, Zang-Ching, Ashil.

It's not exactly on purpose, but he is glad that most of his marked are with their markers. Ashil's words are in the back of his mind, now. And something else; something that refuses to leave, even if he didn't invite it in.

Which means it is high time to experiment.

A shame, really, that they lost Dayamaji and Boris just before this. Hao scours his mind and the others volunteer their memories, but no, they did not seem to suffer when the other was hurt. Then again, they often trained opposite each other, and neither ever really won.

They do have Mathilda and Marion, though. It isn't easy to convince Marion to admit to pain. She is like a cat that way. But they don't have to; Hao just sits near her on the side while Ashil and Mathilda duke it out.

They are somewhat evenly matched and even if the goal is to test their hypothesizes Mathilda isn't about to take it without a fight. For a moment they watch as the two run around their playground with more and more intensity, swerving, hitting, dancing almost.

Then Mathilda knocks Ashil off of Siegfried and goes at him with her fists. He stomps on her fingers. She elbows him in the face. He sends her into a wall.

It's only at that one that Marion squeezes Chuck, and he senses that the words scrawled on her thigh throb painfully. "Break," he calls, and the two little spitfires stop.

They come to him arguing. "Not the face," Ashil is whining, holding his nose. "We said not the face!"

"Well it wasn't nice to break my fingers but you don't see me complaining!"

"Because you aren't complaining right now?"

They are both pretty roughed up, but for someone who was just thrown bodily into a wall Mathilda walks better than expected. Her training is showing, Hao thinks, proudly.

"She was disorientated when I went to get her," Ashil adds, unprompted but dutiful. And he doesn't say it, but Hao knows that it hurt when he threw the Diethel heir into the mountain. So they are looking at concussion-level injuries, then.

They break for dinner and Hao runs his hand through the coals. He is happy with their results so far but he finds himself wondering.

What is in a voice? Ashil never felt his soulmate before he was sparked. And he… heard his words, clear as day, but the line on his wrist is still dark and dull. Why?

Opacho babbles on about all the shamans who made it to the village. Her stream of consciousness provides a cool shade to his own thoughts, and he smiles. At least she doesn't have to deal with that. She won't have to worry about belonging to anyone until he's King and by then he will have that system abolished.

He caresses the promise of fire and his thoughts drift back to the Asakura girls. The one who is half-fated to him and the one who appeared to be, who thought the right words, but didn't say them. What is it about the voice, then?

His soul certainly heard the words, if that is the requirement. If the reishi wasn't taken into account when the system was made, he would have expected it to be the other way around; for it to work even though there were no words spoken. But there is something about the act of speaking. Easing a bond into reality.

Or, perhaps, she is not the one who will say these words in a way that matters. Perhaps she could have said them and he wouldn't have flared.

Interesting questions, he supposes, but for now they are just annoying.

Somewhere on his right, there is movement, and Hao blinks out of his reverie. Luchist, who is teaching Opacho how to read European script, is holding his wrist with a queasy look on his face.

"Luchist?"

"Your hand," he wheezes.

Hao remembers his hand in the fire.

Spirit of Fire makes it soft and tame again, and he observes the charred skin. It is burned badly, and for anyone else there probably would not be any chance of saving it. But he was so deep in thought he… forgot.

Keeping the hand in the fire, he starts to work on healing it. "My bad. Come here."

"I was not going to say anything," Luchist says meekly, and it's true. He withheld the pain so well. Until he didn't.

He comes.

While his gloved hand looks intact he is holding it limply, like it did receive the burn; Hao takes it by the fingertips and slowly turns his wrist skyward.

The words are flared a bluish silver but the skin around is scorched near black. Nerves are probably compromised.

"This is your dominant hand." Hao's voice is blank.

Luchist stays silent, expects nothing. Pain is a good teacher and they both know it; it is the entire reason Hao fed his own hand to the fire. But now he has an answer he didn't have before.

Hao taps the wound and pretends not to see the jolt that goes through the man.

"It wouldn't do to have you wounded for the tournament."

He heals the burn. Luchist thanks him for it.