A/N: Next couple of days will be incomplete posts set in my Ode To 11010201 series. Most of these were written back when the series was suuuper thinly veiled Teen Wolf fanfiction. Like the characters are so recognizable even though I’ve changed their names and swapped some roles around.
Although, to be honest, Doctor Kaiza was one of my earliest original characters and has always been my frustratingly vague supernatural font of knowledge.
“Yes. Your observational skill are unparalleled, have you considered a career as a detective?”
“Well that’s just rude. And what do you expect me to do with it? I’m trying to live a low-sodium lifestyle, get a head start you know?”
“What he means is, why are you giving us salt?” She cut in, glancing at the small pile in her hand. The individual grains are already sticking to her damp palms uncomfortably, but she didn’t want to just upend them onto the work table. That’d be messy, and surely Dr. Kaiza had a reason.
“You asked for a way to use your abilities in close quarters”
—
“I don’t know why you think I’d know more about your ability than you do. I’m a doctor. Yes, I’m the leading metahuman doctor, but that’s because I’ve built up decades of experience in trial and error. It’s still trial and error. Most of my patients are entirely new generations of metahumans. Your abilities… well, most magic-users’ abilities are from bloodlines. And not necessarily genetics. There’s a family that have magic because an ancestor signed a contract with a demon, they themselves don’t have any genetic predisposition towards magic. It may help if you looked into your family history, obviously it’s not from the Szymanski line, so it must be from the Michalis.”
“Or the Chacone.”
“What?”
“My mother is Michalis, my father is Chacone. Iris must have dropped Chacone when she married John… though, I don’t really understand why considering… well. How that ended up.”
A/N: Next couple of days will be incomplete posts set in my Ode To 11010201 series. Most of these were written back when the series was suuuper thinly veiled Teen Wolf fanfiction. Like the characters are so recognizable even though I’ve changed their names and swapped some roles around.
She doesn’t realize several hours have passed until Zim’s father, the stranger that is her brother-in-law, returns home. It’s late, almost one in the morning. He doesn’t notice she’s there immediately–the house is mostly dark except for the muted glow of a single lamp and the television screen. She gasps, jolted out of her doze at the sound of the door shutting. That alerts him to her presence. She’s frozen in indecisive surprise, staring. He stares back, but moves quickly, flicking the light switch on. She flinches away, blinded, but stays seated. She doesn’t have much choice.
Zim is asleep, lanky limbs stretched out over both the couch and her; his calves resting in her lap as they share a blanket. They had relocated to the living room a while ago, using movies as a preemptive buffer, but the volume had been turned low not long after. Though they had kept to light topics–likes and dislikes, silly hypothetical questions, hilarious high school anecdotes–there was a connection, thriving and earnest, made. Both were eager to share and listen, conversation overlapping out of excitement, laughter cheerfully mutual, silences brief and comfortable. That is not the case now.
Blinking the spots away, her vision clears in time to show her a wary middle-aged man, jacket over what looks like pajamas? No, scrubs. He has a baseball bat in hand, cautiously at the ready. She inhales shakily, swallows the sudden lump in her throat. He seems calm, having come around the sofa and spotting the unharmed state of his son, but still–she can imagine the damage even one swing could do.
“Who are you and what are you doing in my house?” His voice is determined and authoritative but it’s… off. This is the first time they’re speaking, but it seems as if something is lacking. He’s tired. Physically, obviously, considering the late hour. She would even tentatively guess emotionally, too, from his posture and his face. And his actions, because she’s pretty sure it’s not standard procedure to draw a weapon on someone even if they are a stranger in your home. That speaks of paranoia, extremely prepared paranoia.
Zim stirs, humming and twitching, before she can answer. He’s amazingly nonchalant considering the situation, rubbing at his eyes and sluggishly moving to a more vertical position. He ends up going too far that he’s leaning against her, pressed shoulder to shoulder. It’s notably trusting. It convinces his father to put the bat away, hidden in the umbrella stand by the door. All the while he’s murmuring, “Hey, Dad. This is Mom’s sister R, she got my letter and came earlier today to visit. We stayed in. Had sandwiches for lunch and pizza for dinner, she likes pineapple, mushroom, and black olives, too; see, it’s not weird. I forgot to wash the SUV, but I finished laundry before she arrived so I did pretty well, I think.”
The look her brother-in-law gives Zim is simultaneously relieved and exasperated. The look he gives her is strikingly blank.
“Sorry,” she blurts out reflexively, “sorry, this was completely out of the blue. I can go, it’s late, you must be exhausted; sorry,” She nudges Zim a little, he grumbles but sits up on his own, before standing. Brushing imaginary dust and not-quite-imaginary crumbs off of herself so her hands have something to do. She should probably apologize for that as well.
“Yeah,”
“Dad!”
“No, that’s not what I meant,” Zim’s father–ugh, she’s terrible, she really should know what her brother-in-law’s first name is–holds a hand out to stop her exit. She freezes because, she’s not sure if he knows it, but that was the hand the baseball bat was in. Also, she’s sleepy enough that she doesn’t actually want to go outside. “I meant, yeah, I’m exhausted. But you don’t have to go. Like you said, it’s late, and I wouldn’t feel to good about you driving back to the inn now.”
“Oh, no, I walked,” If she were more aware, she’d probably slap herself on the forehead. Then again, if she were more aware she probably wouldn’t have said; that really was not the point she was meant to pick up on.
“In that case, you have to stay tonight!” Zim hops to his feet, somehow both sleepy and enthusiastic, “We’ve got a guest bedroom upstairs; well, we use it more as a storage room office sort of thing, but there’s a bed and I’ve just changed the sheets. I can lend you some clothes to sleep in, too.”
His father looks less keen on her presence; there’s no outright protesting, but she can tell. Zim’s tugging gently at the cuff of her cardigan, though, intent to guide her to the guest room; but… “Is this okay?” She’s turned toward him still, hasn’t looked away. She wonders what kind of expressions are dancing across Zim’s face at this halting, hesitating exchange.
“… Yeah,” It’s a conflicted permission; he doesn’t trust her, but he really wants to sleep, “We’ll have breakfast, late breakfast, in the morning. Later in the morning.” It is not a request.
“I’ll make waffles,” They’re making their way upstairs now, Zim guiding her to the guest bedroom–third door on the right of the hallway.
“If you don’t mind me using them, I can make cinnamon apple topping,” She offers, because her culinary skill set is limited to eggs, apples, and experiments often ending in disaster.
“That sounds awesome,” he flashes an easy grin then turns to his father, “Dad, you go ahead and sleep. I’ve got it, we’ll see you in the morning. Proper morning, when the sun’s up, even.”
“If you’re sure,” He hedges, but already heads toward the opposite end of the hallway, presumably where the master bedroom is. “G’night.” His door shuts with a soft click.
Their own sleepiness returns with a vengeance. After Zim grabs her some clothes–they’re comfortable but slightly too large, unsurprising, considering he’s is half a foot taller than her–they both settle down to sleep. Her temporary room is filled with boxes. She’s curious but decides not to snoop around; partially out of manners, partially out of exhaustion.
Maybe in the morning.
—
She’s already made a start on making breakfast, because she’s still sort of on east coast time but also her nerves have come back with a vengeance, leaving her with far too much energy to not want to do something productive. As it is, she’s been peeling and chopping some of the apples; there’s a huge bowl full of them but she’s only using six. It’s soothing, giving her hands something to do while her brain decompresses.
She didn’t actually snoop through the boxes in her temporary bedroom, but she explored the first floor of the house. From what she’s seen, it’s nice. There are hardly any doors, it’s all open archways that connect living room and kitchen and dining room into one giant space. She spotted a few things she could see that spoke of Iris, but not as many as she was expecting. It’s probably because there are two men in this house, she figures, a stark contrast to the five woman household of their adolescence.
It makes her wonder what to tell Mama, Daphne, and Zoe. If she should even say anything at all. A part of her feels guilty, since she put such a big emphasis on family yesterday. But then again, Zim was the one that wrote specifically to her, so it would be best to let him go at his own pace. Also, it makes her feel vindicated, in a sense. Smug, almost. That she’s the one he reached out to first.
—
(during breakfast, introductions)
“… Mr. Szymanski?”
“John. You’re Iris’ sister, you should call me John,” He offers his hand, “Is it–”
“Just call me R,” she interrupts. For the best, really.
—
(THE REVEAL)
Oh. That. That explains a lot. And yet. It hits her out of nowhere. She can’t. She hadn’t been expecting this. Something else. Iris is dead.
“Oh my god. I thought she-” Iris is dead. Her face is getting warm, at the top of her cheeks and around her eyes. She wants to cry. She want to hide her face. She wants muffle any sound that might come out of her mouth. She does not do the first but, ducking her head down and biting her knuckles, she does the other two.
A/N: Going to be busy for the next couple of days, so I’m (finally) setting up a queue of cross posts rather than just having a bunch of missed posts.
This one is just a short thing, but I’m fond of it nonetheless. It’s vaguely influenced by JK’s original plan for Hermione to get with Fred and the fact that I’m pretty sure Harry is gay. So Hermione and Fred get together, Harry gets with George, but Ron is still their best friend so the Golden Trio hang out a lot.
“Your husband’s brother is an idiot,” she huffs at Harry after storming in and nearly tossing her bag onto the table.
“Oi! I haven’t even done anything!” Ron protested, quickly rescuing their tray of snacks from an untimely death by bag. Harry, levitating the tea set, stifles a laugh.
“Your husband’s twin brother is an idiot,” she amends, dropping into her designated seat.
“Well, seeing as how my husband’s twin brother is your husband that says more about your taste than mine.”
~
For all that they enjoy being identical twins, confusing people and being in total synchronization, they know they are distinct, separate people. It’s not something they let many other people know, obviously, but when it’s just them they discuss it–trying but sometimes failing to understand the differences between them. It becomes clear with their choice in spouses, though Ron often plays at being exasperated–“Honestly, my two best friends? What would you have done if I only had one best friend?”–but they have his blessing.
George felt it first, perhaps not too odd, seeing as how they never really interacted with Hermione until much later in their teens. But Fred think that’s what makes it strange–not bad, necessarily–but he just can’t divorce the idea of Harry from the lost lonely boy at the train station, the small face behind a barred window, the baby of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Fred loves Harry too, as a brother (or more officially, a brother-in-law) but he doesn’t understand George’s love for Harry.
The thing is, George sees all that too. But he also sees how that lost lonely boy saved their sister, saw the rebirth of a monster but invested in happiness, led an underground defense group against the Toad, became a government criminal and saved everyone. He sees a lost lonely boy who was good but not perfect, who mistrusted people because of experience but wanted to be surprised, who yelled more than cried and laughed all too little. A lost lonely boy who ended a war and along the way became a man who didn’t need to be so lost or lonely anymore.
Raehani always had to be silent when she did this. The stone of the hallways intensified any noises, but her lessons had some benefit (even if they were nowhere near as useful as her sisters’). The soft soles of her dancing shoes made each step all the more silent, in comparison to the boots of the warrior pair coming down the hallway; away she hid, spinning and ducking into the shadows of one of the tapestries. A scene of a king from long ago—her sire’s grandsire if she remembered correctly—defeating the enemy armies of Kurzos long before it had become an empire. The threat passed, and she continued her trek, darting into shadows when other people were in sight, until she arrived at her destination.
“… As always, the First of Myrgeth is grateful for the gifts your Highness has sent, along with the continued increase in trade relationships…”
It wasn’t as if the meetings between the Myrgeth ambassador and her sire’s council wer particularly fascinating (and her older sister, Kenadia was there, too) but she wasn’t interested in that at all. From her position, he was a blue and red (always remember the red) figurine the size of her finger, but she was quite a ways up in the shadowy corner of the empty balcony and in truth he was nearly two hand-heights taller than her.
“… our Kingdom of Alzeida, in turn, is also grateful for the Nation’s offer of naval instruction for our army and the protection of the Nation’s fine fleet…”
She had no idea how her sister stayed awake during these, or sat so still or looked so attentive. Another reason, though not a new one, of why her lessons as the second princess (and third in line for the throne, though really it was unlikely both Alerick and Kenadia would fall before they had their own heirs and even then she had the bitter suspicion that Vaseika would become queen before she ever would despite the two years between them) would never be as worthwhile or challenging or, fortunately in this case, time-consuming
“… the First of Myrgeth…”
“… Kingdom of Alzeida…”
Her sisters probably would have found this foolish, or maybe even cowardly, but she wasn’t them and they weren’t her. And she was infatuated with a boy from Myrgeth. And she didn’t even know why. No, that was a lie, she knew why, but it was such a silly reason.
“… the matter of conflict between your kingdom and the southern Empire…”
“… fully appreciate aid from Myrgeth’s skilled navies…”
He had red hair. Not the same red as her hair, a little duller perhaps, but still red, nonetheless. She was curious. No one else in her family had red hair, and the few times she left the palace also had a distinct lack of redheads. In vain she wondered what it would be like to leave her country. Go to the Nation of Myrgeth, maybe, and perhaps she would find other people with red hair where she would not be so different. So isolated.
She had always thought her hair was red because of her powers, maybe her familiars had left a visible mark on her or some other such claim. But when the Myrgeth ambassador’s entourage had expanded, including a young scholar working as a scribe, she saw him. And his hair. And maybe her hair wasn’t as mystical as she thought. But certainly more mysterious.
Or perhaps scandalous. But even though the evidence seemed to imply her mother’s (may the spirits keep her) indiscretion, no one actually believed it. Queen Zarina had been too sweet, too pure, too virtuous, too perfect. Not at all like the red-headed princess, rash and reckless and dangerous and uncontrollable. There was a reason why she couldn’t leave the palace often. Her familiars sealed away, the glittering gleaming dragons writhing around their prisons, looking for any way to escape. She understood completely.
She breathed deeply, enjoying the taste of cool, humid air. It would never stop being a luxury to her, even after the years of being home had outnumbered her time away.
“Kenadia, I know you can hear me. No, Justin, stay over there.”
“I obey only my queen’s orders—oh. Oh, my apologies, I’ll wait outside then.”
“I told you so. Kenadia, I can see you smiling, now get out of the water and put some clothes on. We’ve got visitors today and they, unlike your toy soldier, will not understand why the eldest Alzeidan queen is walking around her castle naked.”
She huffed in response, opening her eyes mostly unwillingly, and sat up, letting the water in her hair trickle down her back. Her familiars, now ever-willing to please (to amend, to apologize, to beg) moved to her, Talise’s flowing fins curling gently around her legs and Mekani’s shimmering wings blowing a soft breeze in her direction. She waved them away (some wrongs could never be forgiven) but bowed to each of them in turn (some lessons could never be forgotten).
“You are as slow as ice, Kenadia, you should not make our guests wait for your laziness,” Janoah scolded, holding out one of the blue robes and draping it over her shoulders.
She smirked and moved even slower towards the doorway, briefly pressing her fingertips to Justin’s shoulders, shaking him out of his embarrassed woolgathering. Both of them flanked her, one at each side, and she couldn’t help but enjoy the symmetry of having both Janoah and Justin with her.
“They’re hardly guests, Janoah; Czeni practically lives here when she’s not in the main palace and Torryl always stops by to hassle the new warriors.”
“It’s not just them, though you should have more respect for Sorceress Czeni and Monk Torryl they are your superiors.”
She would have, at one time, at least internally, cringed at the noise of their voices and their footsteps bouncing and echoing in the hallway. Or perhaps, had they been together at that time they would have been silent out of mutual distrust. Another turn into the chambers she had claimed as her own—Janoah often bemoaned her choice, the rooms originally built as servants quarters (albeit, very high-ranking servants), but she chose them for a reason (they were close to the pool and had two adjoining rooms where she all but demanded Janoah and Justin to stay, they would have anyways, but she preferred a preemptive attack) and she had turned them into her home away from the chilly water of the pool.
“You don’t call me by my title.”
“You are not my superior, boy-Justin.”
She smiled. Despite their needling and pretense of loathing, they really were quite fond of each other and knew the other almost as well as they knew her. They would have to, after the time they spent both caring for her in turn. It was routine. Janoah making sure she was sane, Justin making sure she was safe. Sometimes they switched roles.
“You’re very… oh are you going to dress now, my queen, I’ll stand guard… outside,”
“Yes, you go do that, boy-Justin. Now which outfit for today. You want the blue one, yes?”
Almost all of them had shades of blue. But Janoah picked out her favorite—the one she considered especially blue with white trim and purple embroidering, the smoothest silk and softest cotton and endless flowing fabric. She would admit, she had become something of a hedonist.
“Who else is coming, if it’s not just Czeni and Torryl?” Justin called from the other side of the door. She didn’t understand why he was so intent on respecting decorum with her and not with anyone else.
“Representatives from the Empire, Nation, and Tribes. Do you want to wear the crown, Kenadia?” Janoah gestured to the diadem, gold with deep purple stones. It had been her mother’s, “Of course you do,” She always wanted to wear it, “Let me fix your hair. You can return boy-Justin, Kenadia is fully clothed. Though I don’t know why you still blush, surely you’ve gotten used to your queen’s tendency to show skin.”
She missed being able to talk sometimes. She knew, had she still had her voice, she probably wouldn’t have made the comment (about a half remembered conversation with the other brawlers of the caravan about boy-Blizzard not appreciating women in what they thought was the proper way) but it would have been nice to have that option. She motioned him closer, Justin crouching slightly so that she wouldn’t have to move as Janoah placed the jewelery in her hair.
“Yes, my queen?” He asked, as she traced the edges of the black mask he wore (in honor of her suffering, as punishment for not protecting her, to remember all that they went through, to better protect himself and her and Janoah) which she had once worn so long ago and which Sorcerer Gordo had worn much longer ago. She lifted it gently from his face (even with it on, he could never hide his emotions) and kissed his cheek. “Kena—my queen!” She didn’t know why he still blushed either.
“Kenadia,” Janoah warned, though she could see the smile in the reflection. She kissed the hand by her head, and the smile grew softer.
She loved them both, so much, and she wanted them to know it.
“Behave, Kenadia, you have a meeting in the dining hall,” She didn’t like using the audience chamber of the castle, horrible memories attached to audience chambers even if it was a different castle, but the Northern Palace had always had beautiful architecture so she turned it into a gallery. Sometimes, in the rare moments when she wasn’t soaking herself in the pool or lounging in her chambers, she liked to wander from piece to piece and imagine what it would be like if she hadn’t been born a princess. If she hadn’t become a queen.
But for now, she had a duty to do. Rising (the cloth of the gown sliding against each other and her skin, the jewels of the diadem sparkling in the light) she left her chambers and headed for the dining hall. Janoah and Justin on either side behind her. And she was happy.
She hated the stops, the breaks in the various filthy towns and cities that were scattered across the desert. They screamed at her; shrieking the difference between her kingdom and this empire (the environment, the culture, the people). During the fights, dangerous and tiring they may be, she could at least forget her situation. She could concentrate solely on survival, letting the stresses of her life (her kingdom, her familiars, her family, her duty) fuel every movement in the arena. But during stops, none of that was possible. There was only the unrelenting sense of failure, of imprisonment. There was no fooling her senses.
“Oi, Blizzard, get your head out of the clouds, boy, they’re bringing out the new treats.”
She especially hated this part of the stops. She didn’t know if her morals or her gender were more offended, but whenever the slavers traded the girls of their caravan for different girls (it could never be new girls, girls in the slave trade were always used in some way; she knew that, even in the caravan she was with, she knew what the other brawlers did to the girls even though they were only supposed to serve, only supposed to heal and clean and help) the part of her that still remembered how to use her powers, the part of her that still missed them, would push at her mind with righteous fury and helpless frustration. (why had her familiars abandoned her?)
“Leave the Alzeidan alone, Medahd, you know he doesn’t play around. He is still too young to appreciate a woman’s flesh, eh?”
The irony never made up for the stops.
But the other brawler did not obey, wrapping one scarred arm companionably around her smaller shoulders, “One day, boy-Blizzard, you will look back on these opportunities you passed up and ask yourself why you didn’t listen to the good and wise Medahd.” He said with a smirk and she tried very hard not to think about Warrior Hayne, with his teasing smirks and easy camaraderie (he’s dead, they’re all dead, but she was too for a while, she thinks, but look where she was now, enslaved, and how was that any better; she should have died on the battlefield rather than fight in an arena for the entertainment of her enemies; they killed her and him and everyone) but could only roll her eyes at the statement.
“First choice to our best brawler as always,” one of the slavers (they have no names, she will never call them by their names and they will always be monsters and she hates them so much) glared at her, probably thinking the same thing as the others (little Alzeidan boy-Blizzard always wastes getting first choice, always picking the girls who wouldn’t be fun to play with, never knowing that she chose the girls who looked like they needed a break from always being used and were always confused at night when she sent them away after the evening meal).
She hated this, too. This gift from the slavers for being the best brawler. As if she won her fights in order to please them or to get first choice, not to survive (survive, survive, survive, everything she did was to survive, and when was the last time she lived? Long ago, long before she was enslaved, long before she was barely breathing under Gordo’s protection, long before she was sent to the front lines, long before she was being trained as the future king’s protector and advisor, long before she was being groomed as the king’s female heir to the throne). As if the girls she didn’t pick weren’t as deserving or as in need of a break from being used by brawlers and slavers and other men with more power (not more power than her, never). But she could only pick one of them and she hated that she couldn’t do more (to help, to hurt, to fight, to escape).
“You could not move slower, boy-Blizzard!”
Tell that to her defeated opponents (the brawlers who thought they were facing a real storm, the brawlers who thought they were facing death—some brawls ended in death—after hearing her new name, the brawlers who were surprised to be alive and some were grateful and others angry with dishonor, the brawlers who would never defeat her).
And there—in the back of the line of girls, behind the ones posing, thinking that maybe being the first chosen would mean being the top girl in the caravan—a hint of blue. A deep blue. The kind of blue she missed because the endless sky wasn’t the same when the only thing around was the reds and golds and browns of the sand and dust. She reached out, and the girls parted for her—for the brawler they thought they saw—and made her choice.
“Name,” She hadn’t used her voice in weeks, months even. Grittier and drier and rougher even though she had never talked much before (before before before everything).
And the girl, older and taller and maybe even colder than boy-Blizzard the brawler, stared back at her with one eye as yellow as her dusty, pale hair, “Janoah”
~
The sorrow was a sour taste in the back of her mouth. She couldn’t swallow it down, couldn’t cry—it was a waste of liquid, it was too dry (she was dried out and there was nothing left of her, empty withered husk of a princess). Even Medahd’s wounds were already drying, the blood a crackled brown than the shimmering red (he’s dead dead dead, why?). His eyes were closed and maybe she could have convinced herself he was only sleeping. He wasn’t. He was dead.
“Blizzard,”
Her throat hurt and her eyes hurt and she hated this desert. She hated having to fight. She hated Medahd for being too weak to win (liar, liar, Medahd was your friend you could never hate him). She hated whoever killed Medahd.
“Who-” her voice ground out before dying (like Medahd died, like everyone died)
“I don’t know,” Janoah was the one who gave her the news, “I could find out for you?” She was a good girl… they weren’t friends.
She nodded, eyes never leaving Medahd’s dead body (Medahd’s corpse) even as she heard Janoah leave the tent.
Medahd was dead. They had been friends. Maybe. She hadn’t let herself be friends with him—keeping her secrets, keeping her anger and hatred of her situation—but he had always tried. And now he was dead. Because he was weaker than his opponent. Which logically would have happened eventually—if he wasn’t the strongest in their caravan, or second, or third, there were stronger brawlers out there—but he had always been good enough. He had always been good. Except when he died. And brawlers don’t always kill each other, only the strong, valuable brawlers can get away with that, but Medahd had been good enough to stay alive, and now he was dead. Medahd was dead and she had no friends and she was hurt and angry and hateful and she had forgotten what that felt like. The anger and hatred she had been trying to hold onto had slipped through her hands like the water they never had enough of and now it was back and she was angry and hated everything, anything, anyone—the one who killed Medahd.
Janoah was back. Janoah didn’t need her to say anything. Janoah led her to Medahd’s killer. Janoah was a good girl… they weren’t friends. Yet.
“An Alzeidan? They have an Alzeidan in their caravan. And not even a man, yet!” Medahd’s killer laughed. He was still alive when Medahd was dead and that was not acceptable.
Enjoy your laughs now. I will kill you tomorrow. And I will enjoy the sound of your final breath as your blood drips off my sword.
Silence. She had said all of that aloud. In her voice which was too unused and dry to sound human.
The other caravan, perhaps from nerves, probably from ignorance, resumed their laughter. Her caravan did not. Someone had their girl fetch a slaver. Good. She needed to arrange a match against Medahd’s killer.
“Big talk for such a small boy. What is your name, small Alzeidan? I will spread your tale after I win, you have amused me much,”
She smiled at that, just a little bit. The smile that Medahd said made boy-Blizzard look even crazier than an Alzeidan in full armor in the desert already did. But Medahd was dead. And she smiled at his killer. When she killed him, he would stay dead. He didn’t deserve to stay alive through stories.
“Blizzard,” Good, the slaver arrived, “What’s this I hear about you challenging someone to a fight?” And she would not have to waste any more words on Medahd’s killer. She looked back at the brawler, her new name had meaning, had power, his caravan had heard of Blizzard.
And her caravan was helping, “It’s the most I’ve ever heard boy-Blizzard say!” and “Blizzard’s going to kill someone?” and “Crazy boy-Alzeidan, Medahd would call him a stupid child. I say, good!”
“Blizzard never kills!” The other caravan were looking less sure of themselves. Less likely to follow Medahd’s killer’s laughter. He was alone.
And he was wrong. She had killed. She had killed many times. Just always for the war, always for duty, always for honor, never for this sick, twisted game. But he had killed Medahd. She had lost a friend. She had lost too many friends already.
“Blizzard never lies,” Janoah, behind her, arranging the match.
originals here and here. dated 2011-11-04 and 2013-08-12
A/N: To make up for the several many missed posts of the last few days and the possible missed post I will have tomorrow (traveling again), I’m just going to cross post some of the more complete ASTC related writing I have from my lj.
~
Crown Princess Kenadia is eight years old when she loses her crown. Not literally, since only the reigning monarch of Alzeida–in this case, her father, King Aleron–wears a physical crown, but figuratively in the sense that she is no longer his heir. She is eight when Crown Prince Alerick is born.
The path her life is on has been shifted: no longer will she one day rule as queen until her death, her future is that of an advisor at best and a bodyguard at worst. Her lessons will be adjusted accordingly; though she will still learn politics and diplomacy, her tutors will no longer say “when you rule Alzeida.” Instead they will say “to help your brother rule Alzeida.” Swordsmanship will be added to her daily schedule, for she may one day lead her brother’s armies in war. Or in peacetime, she will lead her brother’s guard against assassins and lay down her life for his.
She is eight and she is no longer Crown Princess Kenadia, but her life is still tied to the throne.
—
She should have known something was wrong when she spotted one of the palace servants whispering in High Warrior Edwin’s ear and the subsequent frown. High Warrior Edwin was one of the few nobles whose facial expressions were completely transparent, he was also one of the few nobles she tolerated and the only one she liked. But nonetheless she continued training, the sword feeling more natural with every swing and thrust. Her opponent, Warrior Hayne, had the strength and reach advantage and required the majority of her attention despite her superior speed.
“Focus, ‘Nadia!” He warned, even as he continued his attack.
The entirety of her attention, then, as she barely avoided a cut to her cheek. Not that she hadn’t lost to him before—quite the opposite, she had yet to win against him—but she had improved to the point that she should be able to last longer before the defeat.
His sword was already at her throat, “You are dead,”
“Merely distracted,” She argued, stepping slowly away from the blade’s edge.
“Distractions can cause death on the battlefield, Kenadia” The slide of metal and polished wood, Warrior Hayne had sheathed his weapon, she was allowed to do the same.
“Which I won’t be on as a foot-soldier. You and I both know this training is all formality, it will be my powers not my swordplay that will cut down our enemies,”
“Princess,” High Warrior Edwin was allowed to use her name without a title, Warrior Hayne was not. She didn’t understand why they did the opposite.
“What does that harpy want with ‘Nadia now?” She wished she could speak as freely as Warrior Hayne.
“Yes, High Warrior Edwin?” But she would have to ignore him for now.
“The king’s wife wants… the king demands our presence in the audience chamber. And you shouldn’t call the king’s wife a harpy, Hayne,”
“When?” “I only speak the truth,”
“Immediately,” The man sighed, apologetic for an old friend both more powerful and weaker than himself, “Princess, you do not have to listen to… do not forget your place in this kingdom. As the firstborn, heir to the throne or not, you have more power than that… woman,”
Sometimes she tried to wonder what it would be like to not be a princess. But she always faltered on whether she preferred to be a prince or just not to be royalty. “I know my place and I know my duty. I am to always obey my king, who he obeys will always have more power than my own,” What would it be like to have High Warrior Edwin as a father? “But… I thank you for your words. Shall we leave now?”
“Yes, of course, Princess. Hayne, you’re in charge for now, and teach my boy how to fight properly, will you?”
“I can only try, Uncle,” He smirked, nudging her arm with his elbow and winking, “I much prefer sparring Kenadia here, she at least makes me move my feet,”
“Justin is not that… he’s improved…”
“They may be expecting us, High Warrior Edwin, we should leave Justin’s training to Warrior Hayne for now. Perhaps when we return we may continue this discussion,”
“My apologies, Princess, after you,” She turned to leave first, the High Warrior following behind her.
“Kenadia! Would it kill you to say just my name?” Warrior Hayne called out to her, easy grin in place even as he stared down his cousin. Or perhaps because Justin was his opponent.
Were she not a princess, the response would be witty, sly, even. “Only grievously injure me,” she could say, or maybe an opposing question, “Would it kill you to say my title?” But she was a princess. A dignified one. Repartee was not amongst her many traits. Obedience was.
Work did run long and I am still in the process of moving so… like… excuses. But this is a little frustrating because I had a Missed Post yesterday and, considering I will be traveling for the most of the day, I think I might also have a Missed Post tomorrow and I HATE HAVING THREE MISSED POSTS IN A ROW!!!
AND THEN! I WILL BE SUUPER BUSY WITH FAMILY STUFF SO I CAN’T SAY HOW FREQUENTLY I MIGHT POST THIS WEEKEND EITHER!
😡
Okay, well, I will try my best to post something tomorrow and if not, then at least set up a cross post blast from my livejournal so it’s not a week of missed posts… Or maybe I’ll post some of my auditions from roles I didn’t get? I dunno. SOMETHING.
A/N: I’ve been doing some recording today for dosbysilverqueen and I guess my brain caught in that gear. Also, I’ve been meaning to do this to finish off the rest of my Unintended Consequences backlogs.
FYI, Unintended Consequences was the prototype for my Externality series in which Tetsuki Kaiza (one year older the the Rookie Nine) somehow helps Naruto graduate a year early–because apparently he tried to graduate twice before actually graduating with the Rookie Nine. Which still confuses me since the anime says he entered with their class but… oh well.
~
Her Academy career is nothing special. Due to her heritage, or lack thereof, there is no real pressure for her to succeed. Nor are there any real expectations.
For the most part, she does pretty decently. Like many other orphans who have decided to take the Academy track, she is better than the strictly civilian students. The ones who are, for lack of a better term, soft. They’re just playing, drawn in by the culture of Konoha and it’s almost patriotic glorification of ninja. They have parents to go back to, parents who are often just indulging their children and don’t really understand the horrible commitment until far too late.
But they do have one thing going for them, as she and many of her fellow orphans can feel all too keenly, they have a better support network. They tend to do better on the strictly academic tests–history and math in particular–because of superior literacy skills. Even if everyone in the Academy has technically gone through the same two years of free schooling, there’s a lot more reading and writing done outside of school for those with disposable income that can be spent on books.
And food.
It’s not that they starve, Konoha is too well-off for that, but there’s a difference between a two meals a day at specifically scheduled intervals and having access to food whenever one feels the slightest bit hungry. For some of the orphan students, it reflects in the physical classes–she knows of at least two fellow orphans in her class that simply can’t do all of the drills because of low blood sugar or malnutrition. One was flunked out in third year, the other most likely won’t be able to graduate. For the most part, it just makes civilian kids all the more coddled: during the annual “survival field trip,” which is basically camping in one of the safer, more forested training grounds, civilians tended to be the ones complaining and dragging the groups down.
But, if the orphan students just barely eke past the civilian kids, both are easily blown out of the water by Clan children.
Whatever support network civilian students may have, Clan students simply have larger and better ones. Even Branch Hyuuga, who are treated as servants by their Main counterparts, still have better books, equipment, and social groups than even the richest of civilians. Not to mention, Clan children don’t have any of the negative habits that civilian kids do. They aren’t spoiled like civilian kids by their support network, if anything they are groomed and trained and conditioned to be superior ninja.
If civilian kids are the raw meat left out in the open to rot, and orphans are the dry, tough, but still edible jerky, then Clan children are perfectly restaurant-prepared barbecue.
It’s hard not to feel jealous. Life isn’t fair, she knows that, but it’s not like she’s doing so badly. They get good results, sure, but hers are nothing to sniff at.
It would probably be an exaggeration to say she’s a genius. She still has trouble with academics–due entirely to her mediocre literacy skills–but during the few occasions where the questions and answers are verbal she does just fine. But that’s not really due to her intelligence as it is her ability to know what the teacher wants to here. It’s less “smart” and more “sharp.” Not all orphans have this skill, but a few do; there’s a shrewdness that comes with being overlooked and undervalued. What would be deemed precocious in other kids, is considered cynically canny in an orphan. It is both a blessing and a curse.
—
To her dismay, she enjoys genjutsu. She absolutely loves it. The logistics of layering genjutsu, the variations necessary to take hold of different senses, the open canvas to make imagination into reality. It’s like stepping into a dream, controlling every aspect of the surrounding world and the target in turn. It’s amazing.
Nonetheless, her skill and preference for genjutsu is problematic. It’s unfortunate because–combined with her adequate achievement in kunoichi classes, her unremarkable yet fair features, and her lack of social or political standing–her future will likely be filled with infiltration and seduction types of missions. While it’s not the worst that could happen, and her skill in genjutsu implies that she doesn’t necessarily have to have sex in order to seduce, if she continues along this path she’s going to end up a glorified prostitute before she turns fifteen.
It doesn’t help her case that she has a low ranking in taijutsu class. In her defense she does actually know the katas, but when it comes to the spars she dodges and hesitates when she really should attack.
Her saving grace is that she has larger than average chakra reserves: not just for kunoichi, but amongst academy students in general. She also has fairly good chakra control–not perfect like some of the other girls, not enough for the more delicate medical jutsu, but enough that she can understand and perform ninjutsu and chakra exercises within just a few tries.
She might be considered for light combat instead: guard duty and border patrol, which, though it isn’t the cushy administrative post or the relatively safe teaching position, is still preferable to infiltration, seduction or not. It’s one thing to build a temporary fake world with chakra, it’s another to actually live a lie all the time. She already feels like an outsider occasionally, she wouldn’t want to be one in a foreign country for the sake of a mission.
But that’s a matter for later, after the final exam. As it is, maybe she’s still looking too far ahead, because the semester just started and the final exam isn’t for another five and a half months. Then again, preparation certainly wouldn’t hurt her chances of passing, and it’s better to be eager and pass than under-prepared and failed. Speaking of, the new (older) additions to the class have already taken the final exam: they know what to expect, even if they obviously failed, but that knowledge should improve their chances of passing. And hers, if she can get one of them to tell her. Information is often more valuable than gold or steel for a ninja.
She doesn’t know what the returnee rate usually is, but there’s only four of them in her class and of that only one of them is a girl. She remembers her from kunoichi classes, which combine every two class years, and the girl was always complaining. Also, she wasn’t particularly good at any of the kunoichi skills–not that it’s so unusual. Another girl in their class, TenTen, usually only just barely passed those tests, but at least she had impressive shurikenjutsu skills to make up for it–the returning girl didn’t have any such specialties. Which explains why she failed. She never even seemed to want to be a ninja, really, but that’s not particularly relevant.
Nonetheless, maybe one of the others would be better. Knowing why they failed before approaching them would be helpful. She doesn’t want to waste her time on someone who can’t help her, but she has to give them incentive to cooperate. It would be best if they could help each other, though she certainly wouldn’t say no to free information.
Oh. One of them is Rock Lee. She’s heard of him, of course. The boy unable to mold chakra but wants to be a shinobi anyway. Why he failed is obvious, she can’t help him overcome that kind of handicap, though she admires him a little bit for his determination. But mostly scoffs at him for irrationality. What kind of ninja does he think he can become without even being able to do the Basic Three? And supposedly all he had going for him in the taijutsu classes was sheer stubbornness. No chakra, no academic intelligence, average at best taijutsu. How he even made it this far in the academy is a mystery to her.
She’ll pick from the remaining two, then. One of them looks sort of familiar, in a hazy sort of way. Perhaps he was at the same orphanage? But with his blonde hair and blue eyes, clashing horribly with his orange outfit, he’s probably a Yamanaka clan kid. He also looks kind of short, a definite reach disadvantage in taijutsu. She can’t really tell from this angle, and his clothes hardly help, but he looks like the kind of person who would fight with power more so than speed. Or at least, he will be when he gets a bit older. The other guy doesn’t seem familiar or outstanding at all. She’ll ask him first, then, after today’s classes.
—
It’s probably for the best that she decided to wait to ask about the final exam. The other guy was a total dick. Not to her personally, of course, because she hadn’t even approached him yet. But apparently he’s a long time tormentor of Rock Lee, which is just… dickish.
Ok, so sure Rock can’t use chakra and it’s probably stupid of him to keep trying to become a ninja. But there’s no reason to bully him for it. And what does that say about that beanie-wearing jerk that he didn’t pass either? At least Rock has the excuse of not being able to use chakra–from how the other guy kept lording himself, he should have been able to pass.
Well, the stuck up Hyuuga took him down a few pegs at least. Not for any nice reasons, though, because saying someone who has failed is destined for failure is also pretty messed up. But no one really wants to argue with the likely Top Rookie of the year, especially when he’s making an obnoxious jerk shut up… and when he sort of has a point.
If you didn’t pass the exam because of a low score, fine, maybe next time study harder or something–though if you didn’t bother to the first time you’re probably too lazy to the second. But if you didn’t pass the exam because you physically cannot and will not be able to do ninjutsu… they’re called ninja for a reason.
All of that just means she should probably reconsider the kunoichi senpai or ask Uzumaki. Because that’s who the blonde kid was: Uzumaki Naruto, not a Yamanaka clan kid. Although, that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t half Yamanaka, he might be a bastard child. But even in that case, Mochida-sensei wouldn’t dare be even half so caustic if he were related to one of Konoha’s major clans, unofficial as it might be.
Something about his name sounded familiar, despite that. Uzumaki isn’t a clan name, she knows, but it still sounds like she’s heard it before. Maybe he’s related to someone from their textbooks. Or, from the way the teacher has been glaring at him when not outrightly ignoring him, maybe someone from the bingo books.
She has no idea why he still seems familiar, even though she knows she’s never seen him in her life–she’d remember such a bright orange suit. But what really bugs her is that she doesn’t understand how Uzumaki could have taken and failed the final exam already but still be a year younger than her.
If he were a genius, getting admitted early or skipping a few years, then he should have been able to pass. Unless, since he failed, he’s not good enough at a specific skill or he has a lot of potential, but hasn’t been been taught how to reach it. With the way Mochida-sensei has made his day difficult, she can believe it.
She doesn’t want that hostility to be turned to her, even though Uzumaki looks like her best choice for the deal. He doesn’t have any grating character flaws from what she can tell, and his reason for failing may be something she can help him with. And if he’s really aiming to be Hokage, as he yelled earlier in the day, even though it’s unrealistic that just means he’ll be more desperate to pass. She’ll have more leverage during negotiations. As long as it’s outside of class it’ll be fine, Mochida-sensei won’t know. It’s not like she wants to be friends: their association will be strictly business.
A/N: I didn’t want to have a missed post today but I’m just all blargh. And any excuse to practice with my mic and Audacity, you know?
Anyway, here’s a weird completely out of order scene from Unintended Consequences–might not make sense but… enjoy?
~
She loves her hair. The color is a nice deep black, it’s straight and easy to manage. She loves how long it is, and while the texture isn’t as soft and luxurious as she sometimes wishes, she meticulously manages it, trimming the ends when it gets too crunchy and split.
It’s a liability. Especially since she doesn’t like to tie it up, as TenTen does. That is what she created Kaminari no Kami for, but it’s still… she’s not really skilled enough to pull off long hair like some of the more experienced ninja. She’s been considering other techniques to make it less of a liability and more of a tool, but it’s too specific a task to be high priority.
She considered, once, having tiny razor blades in her hair. But considering one of her best moves, Jibasousa, flings metal away from her body she’d probably end up ripping out chunks of her scalp.
She should probably just give in and, at the very least, tie it up in a pony tail if not cut it shorter. But it’s her one vanity–it’s a silly thing, but it’s something that reminds her that she isn’t always a child soldier. She can be a pretty girl and kick ass.
Then, Komadori hands her a box. It’s not terribly big, just barely the size of a set of three scrolls. She’s a little confused, because they haven’t shared paperwork since they both got promoted, and even the occasional collaborative brainstorming of new techniques wouldn’t require scrolls when usually they just plan a shared training day. And why would he still be standing there? Does he want her to read them in front of him?
“Just open the box, Tetsuki. Please.”
She does. Inside are caltrops. At least a dozen gleaming black spikes arranged in the box.
“Happy Birthday.”
Oh, well… it’s nice of him to have remembered but… caltrops aren’t really useful for ninja. Very rarely are enemies riding mounts, and even then ninja hardly keep their feet on the ground. If she throws them, she’d lose them very quickly. And these aren’t exactly buy-in-bulk kunai. She smiles at him anyway, though her doubt must peek through.
“They’re for your hair. I figured obsidian would be better than metal, since your lightning natured techniques tend to… you know. And they… uh. They match your hair better, too.”
They do. They’ll be easier to hide because they already match her hair color. And the star shape is better than a flat razor blade in deterring grabbing hands. They’ll be easier to fix in her hair too.
JackSGreyson Says 