Growing Pains

08: Casting blindly towards fate

Auteur : Rain

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

Notes :

To hurt; to assume; to find.

Thank you very much to my two guest reviews! Your feedback means a lot to me. Please give me a name and come chat! I'd love to hear what you thought of this one. And thank you to Allie for her sweet reviews!

Quick update in between trains. Not much to say I don't think, except dramatic irony burns sweetest.


"I don't like him," Meene says, later.

They are only three around the table this time. Marco, Meene, and her.

Freshly arrived in the Patch Village, they need to sign up as teams. In that, Lyserg is both a blessing and a curse: they never intended to sign in three teams. Christopher and Kevin were supposed to stay on the sidelines, keep an eye on things, run the organization while they fought. Now they could fight. Now they can fight, and they are itching to.

"Chris and Kevin are a solid duo," Meene analyzes quietly. In front of them, stacked and spread hazaphardly, are a pile of reports on their combat capacities, synchronization, Over-Soul realization time, resiliency, and a million other things.

"Christopher has a strong defense and he is resourceful. Kevin is very precise and can take cover behind him when weathering hits. But they are both trained soldiers and the… Lyserg is not."

It is not yet easy for her to call him that, Jeanne sees. They tend to do first names among themselves, a habit Marco started, but it's harder because Lyserg is so new, and also so very different from the rest of them.

Or perhaps it's hard for Meene because of the words on Lyserg's cheek. Her words.

They burn in Jeanne's chest now still. These and the golden ones.

"I don't think they would work well together," Meene finishes.

"There is no other solution," Marco repeats for what must be the tenth time. "John and his team have the best overall coordination, like one brain in three bodies – splitting them up would bring down their efficacy."

"I know." Meene sighs. "I don't like him."

Jeanne turns her screws, slowly. They seem to be at an impasse, and she feels bad for Meene. It is so rare for her to let go of her cold, analytical reading of a situation and admit to her feelings frankly. She who usually hides behind such pretty smiles, who strives so hard to be understood as equally capable and equally strong as the rest of them, even if she is the youngest.

She feels bad for Meene, because though she wishes she did not have to, she is going to hurt her.

"Lyserg Diethel will be in X-I, with you, Marco, and me."

Meene drops her pen. Marco's glasses nearly shatter. "M-my lady?"

In public, they would never behave like this. They usually have a lot more control over themselves. But they're exhausted trying to make this work, trying to think about what's smart, and.

They hadn't thought of that. It is written all over their faces.

"We just met the boy," Marco protests. "He could be weak, or worse, a spy, a coward who will not…"

"I trust you to judge fairly, Marco," she cuts him off. He is the one who introduced Lyserg to her, after all. She looks up at him, stares. "Is he weak?"

He can't hold her gaze. His ears go the slightest bit redder, and he does not reply.

"I can tell this child has great potential."

"But he is a child," Meene interrupts, quietly, and Jeanne knows how much it takes for any one of them to interrupt her. "Not a soldier. This means X-I wouldn't have anyone with… Military expertise…"

She clearly isn't sure she should finish, though Jeanne smiles encouragingly. When nothing comes, she leans in and squeezes Meene's hand, like she has seen her do to Marco countless times. Meene does not relax.

"I know it is not ideal, and I know this seems like a dismissal, but it is not. Meene, you would have your place among the X-I."

"I was not…"

"I know."

Meene is skittish. Jeanne tries hard to make her smile as warm and sweet as it goes before she continues.

"You are both right. We do not know this child nearly enough to decide where he would be most needed. I do not want him to cause any trouble in X-II or X-III. You are a soldier, Meene; you will be able to get along with Christopher and Kevin. You have strong hand-to-hand skills that they lack. In X-I, he may not even have to fight. He will not send us astray."

There has never been any question of Marco not being with her, though she could not, if asked, quite articulate why. It just has not.

The two adults glance at each other, clearly unconvinced. Jeanne watches them share this strange glance where it looks like they speak without words.

"My lady, your word is, of course, law." This is Meene, folding.

Marco, unfolding. "Meene was supposed to be your shield. She sees things I do not." How much this costs him, to admit such things. "This child will not, either. Please, my lady, reconsider…"

Jeanne has considered. Jeanne has considered long and hard the fate of the boy with silver and gold on his cheeks. For once she wants to be in control, to make the choice. Because she's the only one to know about the mark Hao left on him? Yes, that. She will keep his secret. She will give him a choice. The choice Luchist had. The choice she has.

That does not mean she will let him roam unwatched. He will be with her, under her eye, and if she thinks…

He is her responsibility.

"Meene can be my shield outside the arena. On the sand the boy will prove his mettle." Not against Hao, of course. Hao is hers, has always been hers. She cannot expect her angels to help fight the beast. Her teammates will watch from the sidelines, safe and sound.

"This is my decision," she says, when nothing more comes. She meets Marco's eyes. "It is final."

And so, it is.

"There's not much to do until Yoh's father returns," Manta sighs.

They take up seats in one of the backstreets of the Patch Village, hoping to avoid attention for a moment. They do not have Oracle Bells but… Anna did not, either, and Hao still tried something.

This place is not without danger, not even for them.

They are both tired to the bone; the seeing of the Great Spirits does not come easy. Manta is sick, several times. Tamao… Tamao is different. There are visions, yes; but they are never painful or queasy. Instead they fill her with more of that strange joy she does not understand. Like something big is coming, and her soul is blooming for it. Except it is not her soul. Except it is.

She has not told anybody. She knows Anna suspects. But she was too focused on Yoh to sit her down and get her to talk. Tamao caught her touching her mark a few times before she finally went ahead.

She does the same, now. Rubbing at her ankles like they are oil lamps. Like they will give her their secrets, if she goes at it the right way.

"I'm going for a walk," Manta finally decides.

Tamao feels her heart clench. He is leaving her alone? Here? She isn't sure that's wise. She isn't sure anything's wise, not even asking what she asks next.

"W-wait, before you move out… Manta, what do you know about our words?"

"Your words?"

"The – well, the marks, you know…"

"Oh! I didn't know you were interested in that."

"Well, I am not, not really, but…" She purses her lips. "I think I would… like to understand Yoh and Anna better. They always seem to be on the same… Wavelength? Like they don't need to talk to understand each other."

"They probably don't."

"What?"

"Well – yeah? It's – okay, the science behind it is still unclear. We have predictive models and studies but the results can be very random. So you know the basic forms?"

"Basic forms?"

He sees that this means no.

"Yeah! So the most basic there is, right, that's the line. A is flared by B but B is not flared by A. That's what Ryû and Yoh have. Usually its effects are really limited. But what Anna and Yoh have – that's a ring form, they are both flared by each other."

"A… ring form."

"Yeah! And ring forms – well, it depends on the couple, but it can be very powerful. Flared gold in a ring form, some people can… feel the other's state of mind. Even across great distance, it's almost like they are still holding each other's hands."

"It's… It's very romantic…"

That's what Anna was doing, back in the house. Holding out her hand for Yoh to grasp. And Yoh did, Yoh has, so many times no doubt.

Manta catches her faraway gaze.

"Yeah. I'm glad for them, you know."

"Is it rare?"

"A bit more than lines, yeah."

Tamao wonders for a moment.

"Is it still a ring if you have more than two people?"

"Ah, no! That would be the wheel form. But we're getting into extra rare territory there. More common is the herringbone, where one person is tied to two different ones. Two lines, if you will, but starting from the same person."

Tamao blinks. A herringbone? Is that what she has? She rubs at her ankle. It would make sense. Perhaps her careful mate is back home in Japan, and the strange writing one is here. Will she have to choose?

"That must cause a lot of trouble…"

"It's not the easiest mark to bear, no! There's a lot of manga that use it for the drama."

Now that he mentions it, she has read some. None of them really went into the marks. It was more of a gimmick to fuel the romantic triangles.

"You know a lot about these things, Manta."

The boy goes still, and Tamao panics. Has she stepped on his toes? She doesn't know him that well, yet.

"I didn't mean to offend you…"

"Ah, well… I was really passionate about it before I met Yoh. You could call it a… side project I was doing for the family."

"Oh, really?"

He tugs at the frayed threads of his sweatshirt. Has he worn anything else since she has known him?

"Yeah, I… I wanted my dad to leave me alone about my lack of marks."

"Oh."

He seems so young, all of a sudden! Not small because of his size, but because of the angle of his back. Tamao did not know it really existed, people without marks. She thought it was something out of a novel. She does not know what to say.

"Don't worry about it! It's a really exciting subject. Did you know the three Unifiers were tied by a common thread? Well, a line. See, Toyotomi Hideyoshi is said to have flared Oda Nobunaga when he was only an ashinaru. And later Toyotomi Hideyoshi was flared by Tokugawa Ieyasu – people think it contributed to their rivalry and explained some of the trust Toyotomi Hideyoshi bore him!"

The words flood the room. Tamao thinks that Manta is doing it on purpose, so she doesn't prod him further. And she lets him.

"I don't remember learning all of that…"

"It's still a matter of speculation. The words have been used in propaganda since the dawn of times. See, legends say Joan of Arc flared basically every other person she met."

She tries to imagine it. Joan of Arc for her is blurry, a young woman on horseback, hands together in prayer. She has Anna's face and a tearful smile on it.

"It was considered proof of her witchcraft – like she'd cheated the system somehow. She herself didn't have any, but everyone marked by her was flared gold. When she burned the entire city fainted, including some of her accusers!"

"F-fainted?"

A city goes up in flames in her head. She shivers.

"Yeah! It seems that when you're flared, intense pain or emotions tend to go through your words from your soulmate. Or your soulmates. Spooky, eh?"

His hands flutter to mimic something that they cannot really mime. Tamao grimaces.

"That… Could be a problem in the tournament…"

"I, I guess, yeah. I mean, Anna never shows it, but… it kind of gives you a new perspective when you know she's part of every training session and every fight."

"I suppose…"

He smiles, then goes still. "Oh, I'm sorry! You're part of it, too, aren't you?"

"What?"

She is confused. When he notices, he stalls, chews on his lips, stutters. "Well I thought… Didn't…" He is now tomato red, unable to do more than mumble. "Didn'tYohflareyou?"

It feels like an ice shower. Of course. Wy would she worry so much, put so much effort into…?

Her face answers for her.

"Oh I'm so sorry! I thought… I thought that was why you and Anna were both at the house. I thought you were a herringbone with them both if not a wheel and – I'm so sorry!"

"That's… that's fine. No, I am not flared. I just have those," and she shows him her ankles, the darkened lines. His eyes widen as he glances at them, then apologizes again.

One month to go. Well, no, not one month. Twenty-five days and a little less than ten hours.

He does not like to feel himself impatient. Impatience makes mistakes, he knows this. Meeting Yoh was one thing, but here? He will not make mistakes.

As the days go by the village fills up with more and more useless shamans. Obstacles on the way to the throne. People he's not at all interested in.

Opachô, however, is very curious. She 'spies', according to herself, and because it makes her happy he doesn't put an end to it. As long as he sends one or two people to trail her, she is safe.

To keep busy he continues his experiments with Luchist and the girls. There's bound to be practical uses to this, if only because a long-distance communication system that is not controlled by the Patch is interesting in itself. So far, however, they have not cracked the code.

He could not say why he throws so much of his time into it. He hates the marks, the randomness of it. He knows how human they are. Maybe he's just bored. Maybe it finally feels like an area of knowledge he doesn't understand fully. It's not shamanism, it is not, but it is… adjacent, perhaps? Tied to the soul, anyway. Even if he said the exact opposite to his little ones.

"Master Hao!"

Speaking of little ones.

Opachô bounds to him with a notebook in hand.

"Where did you find this?"

While it isn't the first time she's ambled away, she doesn't usually bring trophies home.

"On the ground!"

Someone lost it, no doubt. Opachô has already made it hers: there are improbable and colorful drawings on the pages she shows him. He notes some affection for Sâti's elephant, and smiles. Whoever this belonged to is too late; the notebook is Opachô's.

And yet when he asks she lends it to him, and he looks through it with some vague curiosity. The paper is solid, more meant for watercolor than crayon.

It opens on a series of landscapes, sometimes urban, sometimes less. Not bad. Not jaw-dropping, either. It feels like biting into a lemon, somehow.

He is about to hand it back to Opachô – careless is the hand that lost this – when the next page shows a familiar face.

"Oh! That's master Yoh!"

Opachô pushes her head in between his arms and they look through it together.

And it is Yoh. Yoh under a thousand lights, Yoh in a thousand poses. Sketches, mostly, nothing as complete as the landscapes he just saw. Sometimes his fiancée is there too. Less. Some minor spirits. Some faces he does not know. Sometimes notes, scribbles, attempts.

And finally, on the last page, a silhouette that can only be his. Approximative but unmistakable.

And a note.

Not afraid?