fic dump! :D
Sep. 23rd, 2006 02:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
envious_musesEheheh.... Just had the icon dump, now a fic dump... whoo, I was lazy this summer. Should have gotten this uploaded earlier.
Title: Lifelines
Series: Diabolo
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 255
Summary: Ren counts.
He tried to count them sometimes. It was almost like trying to number stars or sand on a beach.
They told stories, though, stories of a broken trust and guilt and a broken boy who knew there should be something more. One, up above his right eye, the reason he kept his hair long so people wouldn’t see it. He’d dropped a pot while making dinner once when he was ten and that one had come courtesy of the wedding ring his mother had still worn then. It taught him to be more careful.
The fine net of lines covering his left arm where he’d stopped a glass headed for his face when he was sixteen. He’d wrapped a towel around his arm so he didn’t get blood on anything and cleaned up the glass shards. He stopped wearing short sleeves after that.
The jagged, broken line on his chest was from the one time she’d lashed out at him with a knife. He’d jumped back, but he was pretty sure she hadn’t meant to hurt him, really. At the time he’d known he must have done something horrible and now he knew that was true. Even at 14, he hadn’t blamed her.
Still didn’t. Even now. Especially now.
Most of them were just thin white lines now, silent reminders of a decade that he shouldn’t have had. That was something he knew would be fixed soon, one way or another. Only a matter of time now. There were some scars time just couldn’t heal.
Title: Loser
Fandom: Diabolo
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 221
Summary: Ren is a loser.
Notes: This connects to Kryptonite in something that will eventually become an attempt to write Diabolo drabbles for each of the songs on 3 Doors Down's album "The Better Life".
Ren winced as his head snapped back against the brick wall behind him. He’d tried to fight back at first but the four boys standing around him now were much more used to fighting than he was, so now he was just concerned with making sure nothing got permanently broken. As much as he knew these boys or ones like them or… well, someone would probably kill him eventually, he’d rather it wasn’t today.
“Loser! Freak!” He knew the chants by heart, had been hearing them for years now, as long as he could remember. Sometimes he wondered if it wouldn’t just be easier to end it himself, but… he couldn’t leave her. She needed him, more than he needed himself, whatever was left after so long. Some part of him tried to believe there was something better out there somewhere, but wishful thinking never got anyone anywhere.
He waited until the boys got bored and left before uncurling from the ball he’d been in and starting to stagger home. He didn’t know what made him push on, when he wanted so much to just stop, but he kept going. Even when he knew more of the same waited at home and the next day at school would be the same as today.
Maybe he really was a loser after all.
Title: Stylistic Differences
Fandom: Saiyuki
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 674
Summary: Hakkai's many faces
Hakkai has two distinctly different fighting styles.
Well, three really, if one counts the wars he could wage with words. He knows every manner of thrust and parry, the perfect tone to inspire confidence and trust, the perfect turn of phrase to make an enemy wonder what exactly lived behind that placid smile. Hakkai’s prowess on the battlefield of manners, where a gesture, an expression were the weapons, was well noted, but still only a thin cover for the violence beneath.
So then, first is all velvet over steel, like a fire encased in glass. Polite. Effacing. Nice. Almost as if asking your permission, ‘begging your pardon, but I’m going to kill you now.’ It’s controlled, neat, kills quickly and efficiently, just as Hakkai does everything, a deliberate sense of motion and things to be accomplished.
The difference is that in daily life, those things may be laundry or shopping or a bit of mending to be done, but here, here that purpose is only to take as many lives as quickly as possible to protect those he cares for. A blow to the neck that crushes the spine, a ball of chi that burns a hole straight through the heart, those are Hakkai’s polite ways of killing. His is a style designed to work well with his partners, to account for their weaknesses as they covered for his. A timely shield, a blow delivered while back to back with one of the others, these are integral parts of who he is in a fight, in life – protector, attacker, healer, but most of all in control.
The Other is the opposite. That’s all Hakkai has ever acknowledged the sudden, vicious desire for pain as – an other, the Other. The demon-Hakkai has only been fully released a very few times. Hakkai despises losing control far too much, but those few times have proven without a doubt that this is no polite, nice way of killing. This is a bared blade, a raging forest fire, ability without conscience or direction. It takes without asking, without mercy.
Born in and of madness, there is a crystal clarity, an unworldly grace that permeates the creature’s actions. In Hakkai, that grace, that charm, is a natural sort of beauty, but the Other is beautiful as avalanches are beautiful or lightning storms, power capable of destroying all in its path. Worthy of the awe and fear of those who cross that path. There is an edge to the grace that makes you pay attention, freezes you as easily as a snake hypnotizes a mouse. This is not the emotionless, clean killing, that energy that could as easily be turned to defense or attack. This is open brutality, violence unmasked, a tumult of lust and blood and sickening desire. There are no quick kills, only the lingering enjoyment of death, any death, and pain. This is the monster that is Cho Hakkai. The thing he hides behind his smiles and polite words and masks.
This, finally, is truth and truth is not kind.
Usually, these sides are separate. Hakkai is a creature of extremes – terrible violence and gentle healing, kind words and dangerous actions – but these extremes rarely mixed. He holds to his masks with a tenacity broken only in the direst of circumstances, and those who know him have learned to fear that which lives within. But sometimes, the mask cracks and the monster slips through, a devil with the eyes of an angel, and yet somehow even closer to perfection because of it.
When there are no warning signs, just a terrible silence, a presence that speaks death not words. When Hakkai’s still emotionlessness mixes with the lust for pain, the fluid deadliness of the avalanche. When he has been pushed past any semblance of limits, then even his companions don’t try to stop him. Then they wonder if they could become that monster, if they could lose their souls and their control and slip. An angel with a demon’s heart, a devil with soulless eyes, beautiful violent perfection.
Title: Fuhrer's Blades (the compilation plus some)
Fandom: FMA/King's Blades crossover
Rating: PG for now, probably eventually R
Word count: 3,383
Summary:Lord Mustang, formerly Sir Flame, has just been assigned a Blade, a human weapon second to none. Will this turn out to be a blessing or a curse
Notes: Alright, so this LOOKS like a big update, but it's actually including stuff that's been posted before. I just reworked most of it rather heavily and decided I wanted it all in a nice, complete package somewhere before I continued on. Added scenes and stuff, although not ALL the added scenes it will eventually have. There are supposed to be alternating POVs for each chapter, but Fullmetal isn't giving me much, so I'm just writing out Mustang's parts right now. Tis muchly frustrating.
Lord Mustang grimaced as the party rode across the barren Starkmore plain. They’d been going at a leisurely pace, granted, but surely by noon they should have reached the fame fortress of Ironhall. Not that he minded the riding. Far from it. It had been months since he’d been on a horse for more than a few minutes of trotting along Grandon’s streets. No, he didn’t mind the riding, rather it was the company which was making his fingers twitch.
The Fuhrer had decided to come collect a few Blades himself so Mustang had been limited to two companions, leaving them surrounded by the members of the Royal Guard, the Fuhrer’s loyal guard dogs. He thought that it was probably some sort of irony that someone who had once been one of the most respected Blades in the history of Ironhall’s graduates, and who now held a position of considerable power within the hierarchy of Chivial itself should be made uneasy by those who he should rightfully call his brothers. He supposed it was the sidelong glances they kept giving him, as if already suspecting that he had been plotting for months against their ward. But that was impossible. Mustang had been amazingly careful to destroy any trace of his meddling that could possibly reach back to the Fuhrer or, even worse, to the former Blade in charge of the Dark Chamber, Sir Ironblood. What he hadn’t seen to personally, Hughes had handled.
Hughes, who had been a childhood friend before Mustang went to Ironhall and a trusted companion and supporter now that Mustang was again in a position to need such things. Mustang glanced at the man beside him. If he could have anyone at his back in this pack of dogs, Hughes would be at the top of the list. A Blade’s loyalty was forced, conjured by a sword through the heart, but Hughes… Hughes he could trust not only with his life, but with his heart and mind as well.
He tugged at his riding gloves as he looked at the man riding to his other side and slightly behind him, wishing he could wear his arrayed gloves instead but knowing the Guard would sooner rip his arms off than let him keep such blatant weapons in the Fuhrer’s presence. They wouldn’t even let him carry Wit, which was his by right of being a Blade. Instead, she was tucked away safely in his saddlebag. He missed the weight of his rapier at his hip but there was nothing to be done about that at the moment.
That led him to his second companion. Jean Havoc, ostensibly a servant, was much more than the Guard could expect. While nowhere up to Blade standards, Havoc had the skill to get Mustang and Hughes something of a head start should anything go wrong. Something inside Mustang twisted at the thought of so easily sentencing one of his men to certain death, but he quickly shoved it aside. Two companions were all he had been allowed to bring with him on this idiotic trek to the edge of the world. Why one of the most dangerous men in the country should need a bodyguard… unless… No. He refused to even consider that option. No one, not even the Fuhrer could know what he was planning. Even he wasn’t entirely set on his course, yet.
At least, that’s what he told Hughes and the others when they pressed. So, no, there had to be another reason for the letter he had received last week formally inviting ‘Lord Mustang, Marquess of Ester’ to accompany the Fuhrer to Ironhall to receive the gift of a Blade. But even so, he should have heard from someone, the letter shouldn’t have just come out of nowhere… but it had.
Mustang removed one hand from the reins and rubbed his eyes. It didn’t add up and it certainly wasn’t expected and that was bad. As he was contemplating the unfairness of it all, a hand touched his shoulder. Only years of self-control kept the even more years of relying on reflex from taking Hughes’ hand off before he even registered who it was and, judging from the smirk on Hughes’ face, he knew exactly the pressure Mustang was up against. He briefly considered taking Hughes’ hand off anyway but instead quirked an eyebrow up into his most severe ‘explain-or-die’ expression. Hughes merely smirked wider and pointed at the large cloud of dust that had magically appeared, heading toward a growing structure of imposing grey on the horizon.
Ah, the sopranos’ riding class had spotted the Fuhrer’s party, then. Well, at least they were getting closer. At this pace another hour should bring them up to the main gate. He was tempted to quicken his mount’s pace, but one simply did not outride the Fuhrer, and Fuhrer Bradley wasn’t much of a rider to begin with.
He wasn’t much of a Fuhrer, either, in Mustang’s opinion, but the twenty-odd Blades riding formation around them might object to those sentiments. At least in the Fuhrer’s hearing. He catalogued the ones he knew for the twentieth time that day. Some were far after his time, but some he recognized, having known them in Ironhall or later in the Lord Marquess’ service. Thre was Strongarm, a giant of a man and one Mustang made a conscious effort not to get too close to. He was commander of the Royal Guard and all too eager in his duties. After his release, perhaps, with a few carefully placed facts, he might make a useful ally. Plus, he was one of the strongest (Mustang was forced to grimace at his own unintentional yet horrible pun) alchemists to come out of Ironhall in years, both physically and in the craft.
Glancing around, it occurred to Mustang that nearly all of the Guard carried some sort of array on their person. Interesting. While Blades were recognized as the best fighters to be found in almost any arena, around the same percentage of them had the talent for alchemy as could be found in the civilian population. They were given the best possible training in the craft, of course, alongside their studies of other skills such as horsemanship and the like, but for so many of the Fuhrer’s personal guard to be alchemists, well, he must be collecting them specifically. But then, he was the Fuhrer and they were the Fuhrer’s Blades, and he could do with them as he wished.
Mustang sighed and tossed a half-hearted glare at Hughes. He’d successfully given himself a new set of worries and a grand headache. This was going to be a long hour.
Candidate Fullmetal looked up from the junior he was sparring with as the sopranos came tearing in from their riding lesson, the old paint horse winning more by virtue of its familiarity with the game than any competence on its rider’s part. He knew the speedy entry could only mean one thing, but he turned back to his sparring, smacking his partner upside the head with the saber he was using as the boy continued to pay attention to the riders instead of to his opponent.
As they picked up the rhythm of their sparring again, he continued to think. Not that he needed too much brain power against this opponent. The boy was a good enough rapier man but with sabers he was hopeless. So, riders spotted approaching Ironhall. Looked like he wouldn’t be Prime Candidate much longer. Most Primes would have been running for their rooms to prepare for the ceremony as soon as riders had been spotted, but Fullmetal snorted at the thought. This way the Brat would know where to find him, and, while he probably should clean up, considering he had the mud and grime of a morning’s sparring and who knew what else coated on him, he wanted to let the ward see just who he would be getting as a Blade. He was a weapon, pure and simple, not a show dog, and he knew it. Fullmetal refused to primp or mince words for anyone, even the Fuhrer himself.
Mustang had made this journey a fair few times himself, first as the Brat, then later as Prime candidate for his own binding. He’d never made it by the Fuhrer’s entrance, though, so it still managed to set his nerves on edge. He had caught a glimpse of a few wide-eyed faces, candidates seeing their future liege, the Fuhrer, for the first time, as he passed his horse over to a stablehand and followed the Fuhrer to the Flea Room, where candidates met their future ward. Their youth astounded him. He hadn’t remembered being that young before he was bound. The Fuhrer was greeting Grandmaster, which meant it would actually be his turn to speak soon… Perhaps he might want to pay a bit of attention.
“-And this, as I believe you will recall, is Lord Mustang, Marquis of Ester.”
“Ah yes, Sir Flame. It’s good to see you again, brother.”
Mustang nodded and added a polite court greeting, feeling very naked and very little like a Blade with Wit’s familiar weight missing from his side.
The Fuhrer was not one to stand on pleasantries for too long. “Well, Grandmaster, tell me about my Blades.”
Grandmaster was a venerable old Blade, which was a nice way of saying he was an old cuss so used to holding Death off at sword point that he continued to do it even after his release from the Guard. He was also one of the few people willing to stare down the Fuhrer. He flicked a gaze at Mustang before responding. “How many will you be binding this time, sire?”
The Fuhrer laughed, which was usually a good sign. “One for Mustang, here, and then however many you’d like to spare for the Guard. Commander Strongarm tells me he has a few men he’d like to retire.” Strongarm nodded from his place behind the Fuhrer’s seat, as if it was a necessary confirmation of the Fuhrer’s words.
“Very well. I think I could probably let you have three right now with a fourth going as a single Blade. After that they’ve been fairly newly promoted. I’d like to give them a few more months.” Grandmaster looked like he was expecting the Fuhrer to challenge him and was surprised when he didn’t immediately do so.
“Ah, good, good. That will do fine. Tell me about the candidates.”
Grandmaster took a moment to compose himself under the Fuhrer’s gaze, which, as it usually did, looked something like a cat trying to decide if a mouse is worth playing with before he kills it. “Prime is Fullmetal. He’s a saber man, but almost as good with the rapier. Not the best we’ve ever had, but not the worst. He’ll hold his own against most opponents, but what makes him exceptional is that he’s as good with his left hand as his right. He’s quick, but he’s not your average Blade. Second is Redtree. He’s a good alchemist, but an average fighter. That will still put him above any ordinary swordsman. Bard is third, and he’s definitely making out to be a good brawler. Uses a longsword. Haven’t had many longswordmen in Ironhall lately, but he’s good. Marker is fourth in line, and I’m only willing to let him go because I think Blood will make a better Prime. Marker is going to need some polishing once he’s bound, but he should do fine with guidance.”
Mustang was surprised. He’d known Grandmaster always knew the candidates he was responsible for, but he hadn’t thought he’d know them that well, to rattle off their strengths and weaknesses so quickly.
“And which would work best alone?”
At that, Grandmaster paused. “I’d have to say Fullmetal. He’s the only one I’d trust on his own.”
“Very well. Call him. I want him bound tonight. We’ll be staying a few extra days so the Guard can try out the newer candidates. Will that work?”
”Well, sire, that would be highly unconventional. There needs to be a full day of fasting, as you know, and it’s already afternoon.” It was phrased as a polite reminder but coming from Grandmaster, it was nothing short of a command.
The Fuhrer laughed heartily, giving in in good spirits. “Very well, Grandmaster. You know best.”
“I’m glad you recognize that, Your Majesty. Now, if we’d like to move to the Flea Room, we can meet Lord Mustang’s future Blade.” Grandmaster led the way through a set of back passages designed to keep a soon-to-be-ward away from the prying eyes of the Ironhall rumor mill. As with everything else they did, Blades –even future one- excelled at spreading rumors.
They entered a small chamber not much different than any other in stark Ironhall- bare walls, single fireplace, and the most comfortable chairs that could be found. That was a difference, Mustang noted, from the torture implements he remembered from his classes. It was a widely held belief that the furniture in Ironhall was a test to see if a candidate would be willing to suffer for his ward.
Grandmaster went to the door opposite the one they had entered by and opened it. There stood the Brat. Either he had great timing or he’d been standing there since the Fuhrer had dismounted in the courtyard. Mustang smirked. He’d bet anything it was the latter.
The Brat was sent off to fetch Fullmetal and Redtree, and Mustang and the Fuhrer withdrew to the far corner reserved for future wards.. It was customary for only the ward and the Grandmaster to meet the soon-to-be-Blade, but no one told the Fuhrer he had to leave. That just wasn’t done, and since the Fuhrer didn’t leave, Commander Strongarm didn’t leave.
They didn’t have long to wait before a knock came from the door the Brat had been sent off from. At Grandmaster’s call to enter, two young men came through the doorway. Neither looked very old, but at the sight of the first - grimy, sweaty, and obviously coming straight from the practice courts - Mustang couldn’t help himself.
“Aren’t you a little short to be a Blade?” He had expected a response, but not the one he got.
“WHO’S SO SHORT THAT AN ANT COULD STEP ON HIM?!?” The candidate looked like he was ready to continue had the Fuhrer not interrupted him by laughing.
“Haha, Fullmetal, I assume? He’ll be perfect for you, Mustang.” He continued laughing while everyone stared at everyone else until he finally gestured for Grandmaster to continue.
“Oh, yes. Prime candidate Fullmetal. The Fuhrer has need of a Blade. Are you ready to serve?”
A dangerous glint came into Fullmetal’s eye as he glanced at Mustang before answering. “I am ready, Grandmaster.”
“Good.” Grandmaster nodded to Mustang. “Then may I present Prime Candidate Fullmetal. Fullmetal, Lord Mustang here will be your ward.”
Fullmetal sketched the bare minimum of a court bow to Mustang, eyes wandering occasionally to the Fuhrer and Commander. Sensing the potential for dangerous questions, Mustang decided to ask one of his own instead. “Fullmetal. That’s an odd name. Not in the books, was it?” He could actually see Fullmetal’s hackles raise as he smirked at the boy. This could be interesting.
As it became apparent that Fullmetal wasn’t planning on answering, Grandmaster barked, “Show him, Fullmetal.” With a grimace, Fullmetal pulled the glove off his right hand. Mustang had assumed it was just an affectation of some sort, his keeping one hand gloved, with the other glove tucked neatly into his belt, but after the glove came off, it became apparent that it served a much more functional purpose, covering a hand of finely crafted automail.
He glanced sharply at Grandmaster. This kind of injury was enough to end a full Blade’s career, let alone a candidate. At Grandmaster’s nod, Fullmetal quickly pulled the glove back on. “His left leg’s the same, but neither affect his performance. The only problem we’ve had is that the weight offset his growth, and there was only so much Master of Rituals could do safely. He arrived here with them.”
“How’d he lose them in the first place?” Mustang’s instincts were the only thing that kept him from jumping. He cursed himself for forgetting the Fuhrer was still in the room.
Grandmaster’s eyes were hard. “That, my lord, is of no account. The boy who came to Ironhal is dead, Candidate Fullmetal will soon become a Blade in Your Majesty’s service. That is all that matters.”
Mustang, being much more worldly, managed not to smirk at the Fuhrer’s injured dignity. Fullmetal and Redtree were not so lucky. They exited quickly under the combined disapproval of the rooms’ other occupants with Grandmaster’s gruff “Dismissed!”
Eventually, Mustang was taken down to the Forge to bathe and meditate until the ceremony could start at midnight. Fullmetal, of course, was already there, seated with his back to the big anvill where he would be run through by his ward. Mustang did his round of the tubs, washing in each in preparation for the coming ritual, noticing Fullmetal seemed to pay no attention to him the entire time. He’d either fallen asleep or he was very good at ignoring people. Mustang smirked. He would see about that.
Just as he was about to say something, though, Fullmetal beat him to it. “So you’re the person I’m gonna be stuck following around for the rest of your life, huh? Why would you need a Blade?”
Mustang wasn’t sure if he should be amused by the attitude or offended by the sentiment. “Is that a disappointment?” Many candidates dreamed of being placed in the Royal Guard, serving an easy ten or so years, then retiring. A private Blade served for life.
Fullmetal shrugged, never opening his eyes. “Better than sitting around on my ass at the palace with the rest of the dogs.” Well, that was certainly interesting.
Mustang settled down no the opposite side of the anvil from Fullmetal. He had hated this meditating when he was on the other side of the ritual, as well. At least then he’s had the excitement of what was coming to get him through the long hours of fasting and meditation. He heard Master Armorer come in and ask Fullmetal what should be inscribed on his sword. Mustang remembered cheekily telling the man to put ‘wit’ on his rapier. It had seemed like a grand joke when he was seventeen. He missed Fullmetal’s answer and made a mental note to look during the ceremony when he had the sword in his hands.
Crimson had the Blade swagger down to an art, his curved saber hanging at a jaunty angle at his hip. He’d been a year behind Mustang at Ironhall, more than close enough for the two to realize that they really disliked each other.
“So, Flame, or should I be calling you ‘Lord Mustang’ now, eh?” Dear god, Mustang hated that smirk. “Isn’t it a little odd for a former Blade to need a Blade?”
“Isn’t it odd for a Dog to question the Fuhrer’s orders?” Mustang’s mouth snapped shut as Fullmetal stepped between them, hand resting loosely but with obvious warning on Memory’s hilt. Mustang could tell he was thrumming with the stress every newly-bound Blade faces as suddenly the entire world is a possible threat.
Crimson’s mocking grin said he could pick up on it, too. “Not questioning the orders, just the wisdom. Tell me, Lord Mustang, you ever heard what happens to a Blade bound to a traitor? I hear it’s interesting to watch.”
Mustang held his tongue even as Crimson laughed at them and turned to go on his way. Was that the answer to his question? If it was…
The look in Fullmetal’s eyes said he’d noticed something of the implications in that statement. “We’re leaving.”
He blinked. “I hardly think-” He was momentarily shocked into silence as an automail hand grabbed his collar.
“We’re leaving. Now.”
The surprise settled into smirking amusement. This might be interesting. “Alright, Fullmetal, we’ll go. Let’s find Hughes and Havoc and say our goodbyes, shall we?”
He wouldn’t mind being somewhere more defensible at the moment.
Title: Lifelines
Series: Diabolo
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 255
Summary: Ren counts.
He tried to count them sometimes. It was almost like trying to number stars or sand on a beach.
They told stories, though, stories of a broken trust and guilt and a broken boy who knew there should be something more. One, up above his right eye, the reason he kept his hair long so people wouldn’t see it. He’d dropped a pot while making dinner once when he was ten and that one had come courtesy of the wedding ring his mother had still worn then. It taught him to be more careful.
The fine net of lines covering his left arm where he’d stopped a glass headed for his face when he was sixteen. He’d wrapped a towel around his arm so he didn’t get blood on anything and cleaned up the glass shards. He stopped wearing short sleeves after that.
The jagged, broken line on his chest was from the one time she’d lashed out at him with a knife. He’d jumped back, but he was pretty sure she hadn’t meant to hurt him, really. At the time he’d known he must have done something horrible and now he knew that was true. Even at 14, he hadn’t blamed her.
Still didn’t. Even now. Especially now.
Most of them were just thin white lines now, silent reminders of a decade that he shouldn’t have had. That was something he knew would be fixed soon, one way or another. Only a matter of time now. There were some scars time just couldn’t heal.
Title: Loser
Fandom: Diabolo
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 221
Summary: Ren is a loser.
Notes: This connects to Kryptonite in something that will eventually become an attempt to write Diabolo drabbles for each of the songs on 3 Doors Down's album "The Better Life".
Ren winced as his head snapped back against the brick wall behind him. He’d tried to fight back at first but the four boys standing around him now were much more used to fighting than he was, so now he was just concerned with making sure nothing got permanently broken. As much as he knew these boys or ones like them or… well, someone would probably kill him eventually, he’d rather it wasn’t today.
“Loser! Freak!” He knew the chants by heart, had been hearing them for years now, as long as he could remember. Sometimes he wondered if it wouldn’t just be easier to end it himself, but… he couldn’t leave her. She needed him, more than he needed himself, whatever was left after so long. Some part of him tried to believe there was something better out there somewhere, but wishful thinking never got anyone anywhere.
He waited until the boys got bored and left before uncurling from the ball he’d been in and starting to stagger home. He didn’t know what made him push on, when he wanted so much to just stop, but he kept going. Even when he knew more of the same waited at home and the next day at school would be the same as today.
Maybe he really was a loser after all.
Title: Stylistic Differences
Fandom: Saiyuki
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 674
Summary: Hakkai's many faces
Hakkai has two distinctly different fighting styles.
Well, three really, if one counts the wars he could wage with words. He knows every manner of thrust and parry, the perfect tone to inspire confidence and trust, the perfect turn of phrase to make an enemy wonder what exactly lived behind that placid smile. Hakkai’s prowess on the battlefield of manners, where a gesture, an expression were the weapons, was well noted, but still only a thin cover for the violence beneath.
So then, first is all velvet over steel, like a fire encased in glass. Polite. Effacing. Nice. Almost as if asking your permission, ‘begging your pardon, but I’m going to kill you now.’ It’s controlled, neat, kills quickly and efficiently, just as Hakkai does everything, a deliberate sense of motion and things to be accomplished.
The difference is that in daily life, those things may be laundry or shopping or a bit of mending to be done, but here, here that purpose is only to take as many lives as quickly as possible to protect those he cares for. A blow to the neck that crushes the spine, a ball of chi that burns a hole straight through the heart, those are Hakkai’s polite ways of killing. His is a style designed to work well with his partners, to account for their weaknesses as they covered for his. A timely shield, a blow delivered while back to back with one of the others, these are integral parts of who he is in a fight, in life – protector, attacker, healer, but most of all in control.
The Other is the opposite. That’s all Hakkai has ever acknowledged the sudden, vicious desire for pain as – an other, the Other. The demon-Hakkai has only been fully released a very few times. Hakkai despises losing control far too much, but those few times have proven without a doubt that this is no polite, nice way of killing. This is a bared blade, a raging forest fire, ability without conscience or direction. It takes without asking, without mercy.
Born in and of madness, there is a crystal clarity, an unworldly grace that permeates the creature’s actions. In Hakkai, that grace, that charm, is a natural sort of beauty, but the Other is beautiful as avalanches are beautiful or lightning storms, power capable of destroying all in its path. Worthy of the awe and fear of those who cross that path. There is an edge to the grace that makes you pay attention, freezes you as easily as a snake hypnotizes a mouse. This is not the emotionless, clean killing, that energy that could as easily be turned to defense or attack. This is open brutality, violence unmasked, a tumult of lust and blood and sickening desire. There are no quick kills, only the lingering enjoyment of death, any death, and pain. This is the monster that is Cho Hakkai. The thing he hides behind his smiles and polite words and masks.
This, finally, is truth and truth is not kind.
Usually, these sides are separate. Hakkai is a creature of extremes – terrible violence and gentle healing, kind words and dangerous actions – but these extremes rarely mixed. He holds to his masks with a tenacity broken only in the direst of circumstances, and those who know him have learned to fear that which lives within. But sometimes, the mask cracks and the monster slips through, a devil with the eyes of an angel, and yet somehow even closer to perfection because of it.
When there are no warning signs, just a terrible silence, a presence that speaks death not words. When Hakkai’s still emotionlessness mixes with the lust for pain, the fluid deadliness of the avalanche. When he has been pushed past any semblance of limits, then even his companions don’t try to stop him. Then they wonder if they could become that monster, if they could lose their souls and their control and slip. An angel with a demon’s heart, a devil with soulless eyes, beautiful violent perfection.
Title: Fuhrer's Blades (the compilation plus some)
Fandom: FMA/King's Blades crossover
Rating: PG for now, probably eventually R
Word count: 3,383
Summary:Lord Mustang, formerly Sir Flame, has just been assigned a Blade, a human weapon second to none. Will this turn out to be a blessing or a curse
Notes: Alright, so this LOOKS like a big update, but it's actually including stuff that's been posted before. I just reworked most of it rather heavily and decided I wanted it all in a nice, complete package somewhere before I continued on. Added scenes and stuff, although not ALL the added scenes it will eventually have. There are supposed to be alternating POVs for each chapter, but Fullmetal isn't giving me much, so I'm just writing out Mustang's parts right now. Tis muchly frustrating.
Lord Mustang grimaced as the party rode across the barren Starkmore plain. They’d been going at a leisurely pace, granted, but surely by noon they should have reached the fame fortress of Ironhall. Not that he minded the riding. Far from it. It had been months since he’d been on a horse for more than a few minutes of trotting along Grandon’s streets. No, he didn’t mind the riding, rather it was the company which was making his fingers twitch.
The Fuhrer had decided to come collect a few Blades himself so Mustang had been limited to two companions, leaving them surrounded by the members of the Royal Guard, the Fuhrer’s loyal guard dogs. He thought that it was probably some sort of irony that someone who had once been one of the most respected Blades in the history of Ironhall’s graduates, and who now held a position of considerable power within the hierarchy of Chivial itself should be made uneasy by those who he should rightfully call his brothers. He supposed it was the sidelong glances they kept giving him, as if already suspecting that he had been plotting for months against their ward. But that was impossible. Mustang had been amazingly careful to destroy any trace of his meddling that could possibly reach back to the Fuhrer or, even worse, to the former Blade in charge of the Dark Chamber, Sir Ironblood. What he hadn’t seen to personally, Hughes had handled.
Hughes, who had been a childhood friend before Mustang went to Ironhall and a trusted companion and supporter now that Mustang was again in a position to need such things. Mustang glanced at the man beside him. If he could have anyone at his back in this pack of dogs, Hughes would be at the top of the list. A Blade’s loyalty was forced, conjured by a sword through the heart, but Hughes… Hughes he could trust not only with his life, but with his heart and mind as well.
He tugged at his riding gloves as he looked at the man riding to his other side and slightly behind him, wishing he could wear his arrayed gloves instead but knowing the Guard would sooner rip his arms off than let him keep such blatant weapons in the Fuhrer’s presence. They wouldn’t even let him carry Wit, which was his by right of being a Blade. Instead, she was tucked away safely in his saddlebag. He missed the weight of his rapier at his hip but there was nothing to be done about that at the moment.
That led him to his second companion. Jean Havoc, ostensibly a servant, was much more than the Guard could expect. While nowhere up to Blade standards, Havoc had the skill to get Mustang and Hughes something of a head start should anything go wrong. Something inside Mustang twisted at the thought of so easily sentencing one of his men to certain death, but he quickly shoved it aside. Two companions were all he had been allowed to bring with him on this idiotic trek to the edge of the world. Why one of the most dangerous men in the country should need a bodyguard… unless… No. He refused to even consider that option. No one, not even the Fuhrer could know what he was planning. Even he wasn’t entirely set on his course, yet.
At least, that’s what he told Hughes and the others when they pressed. So, no, there had to be another reason for the letter he had received last week formally inviting ‘Lord Mustang, Marquess of Ester’ to accompany the Fuhrer to Ironhall to receive the gift of a Blade. But even so, he should have heard from someone, the letter shouldn’t have just come out of nowhere… but it had.
Mustang removed one hand from the reins and rubbed his eyes. It didn’t add up and it certainly wasn’t expected and that was bad. As he was contemplating the unfairness of it all, a hand touched his shoulder. Only years of self-control kept the even more years of relying on reflex from taking Hughes’ hand off before he even registered who it was and, judging from the smirk on Hughes’ face, he knew exactly the pressure Mustang was up against. He briefly considered taking Hughes’ hand off anyway but instead quirked an eyebrow up into his most severe ‘explain-or-die’ expression. Hughes merely smirked wider and pointed at the large cloud of dust that had magically appeared, heading toward a growing structure of imposing grey on the horizon.
Ah, the sopranos’ riding class had spotted the Fuhrer’s party, then. Well, at least they were getting closer. At this pace another hour should bring them up to the main gate. He was tempted to quicken his mount’s pace, but one simply did not outride the Fuhrer, and Fuhrer Bradley wasn’t much of a rider to begin with.
He wasn’t much of a Fuhrer, either, in Mustang’s opinion, but the twenty-odd Blades riding formation around them might object to those sentiments. At least in the Fuhrer’s hearing. He catalogued the ones he knew for the twentieth time that day. Some were far after his time, but some he recognized, having known them in Ironhall or later in the Lord Marquess’ service. Thre was Strongarm, a giant of a man and one Mustang made a conscious effort not to get too close to. He was commander of the Royal Guard and all too eager in his duties. After his release, perhaps, with a few carefully placed facts, he might make a useful ally. Plus, he was one of the strongest (Mustang was forced to grimace at his own unintentional yet horrible pun) alchemists to come out of Ironhall in years, both physically and in the craft.
Glancing around, it occurred to Mustang that nearly all of the Guard carried some sort of array on their person. Interesting. While Blades were recognized as the best fighters to be found in almost any arena, around the same percentage of them had the talent for alchemy as could be found in the civilian population. They were given the best possible training in the craft, of course, alongside their studies of other skills such as horsemanship and the like, but for so many of the Fuhrer’s personal guard to be alchemists, well, he must be collecting them specifically. But then, he was the Fuhrer and they were the Fuhrer’s Blades, and he could do with them as he wished.
Mustang sighed and tossed a half-hearted glare at Hughes. He’d successfully given himself a new set of worries and a grand headache. This was going to be a long hour.
Candidate Fullmetal looked up from the junior he was sparring with as the sopranos came tearing in from their riding lesson, the old paint horse winning more by virtue of its familiarity with the game than any competence on its rider’s part. He knew the speedy entry could only mean one thing, but he turned back to his sparring, smacking his partner upside the head with the saber he was using as the boy continued to pay attention to the riders instead of to his opponent.
As they picked up the rhythm of their sparring again, he continued to think. Not that he needed too much brain power against this opponent. The boy was a good enough rapier man but with sabers he was hopeless. So, riders spotted approaching Ironhall. Looked like he wouldn’t be Prime Candidate much longer. Most Primes would have been running for their rooms to prepare for the ceremony as soon as riders had been spotted, but Fullmetal snorted at the thought. This way the Brat would know where to find him, and, while he probably should clean up, considering he had the mud and grime of a morning’s sparring and who knew what else coated on him, he wanted to let the ward see just who he would be getting as a Blade. He was a weapon, pure and simple, not a show dog, and he knew it. Fullmetal refused to primp or mince words for anyone, even the Fuhrer himself.
Mustang had made this journey a fair few times himself, first as the Brat, then later as Prime candidate for his own binding. He’d never made it by the Fuhrer’s entrance, though, so it still managed to set his nerves on edge. He had caught a glimpse of a few wide-eyed faces, candidates seeing their future liege, the Fuhrer, for the first time, as he passed his horse over to a stablehand and followed the Fuhrer to the Flea Room, where candidates met their future ward. Their youth astounded him. He hadn’t remembered being that young before he was bound. The Fuhrer was greeting Grandmaster, which meant it would actually be his turn to speak soon… Perhaps he might want to pay a bit of attention.
“-And this, as I believe you will recall, is Lord Mustang, Marquis of Ester.”
“Ah yes, Sir Flame. It’s good to see you again, brother.”
Mustang nodded and added a polite court greeting, feeling very naked and very little like a Blade with Wit’s familiar weight missing from his side.
The Fuhrer was not one to stand on pleasantries for too long. “Well, Grandmaster, tell me about my Blades.”
Grandmaster was a venerable old Blade, which was a nice way of saying he was an old cuss so used to holding Death off at sword point that he continued to do it even after his release from the Guard. He was also one of the few people willing to stare down the Fuhrer. He flicked a gaze at Mustang before responding. “How many will you be binding this time, sire?”
The Fuhrer laughed, which was usually a good sign. “One for Mustang, here, and then however many you’d like to spare for the Guard. Commander Strongarm tells me he has a few men he’d like to retire.” Strongarm nodded from his place behind the Fuhrer’s seat, as if it was a necessary confirmation of the Fuhrer’s words.
“Very well. I think I could probably let you have three right now with a fourth going as a single Blade. After that they’ve been fairly newly promoted. I’d like to give them a few more months.” Grandmaster looked like he was expecting the Fuhrer to challenge him and was surprised when he didn’t immediately do so.
“Ah, good, good. That will do fine. Tell me about the candidates.”
Grandmaster took a moment to compose himself under the Fuhrer’s gaze, which, as it usually did, looked something like a cat trying to decide if a mouse is worth playing with before he kills it. “Prime is Fullmetal. He’s a saber man, but almost as good with the rapier. Not the best we’ve ever had, but not the worst. He’ll hold his own against most opponents, but what makes him exceptional is that he’s as good with his left hand as his right. He’s quick, but he’s not your average Blade. Second is Redtree. He’s a good alchemist, but an average fighter. That will still put him above any ordinary swordsman. Bard is third, and he’s definitely making out to be a good brawler. Uses a longsword. Haven’t had many longswordmen in Ironhall lately, but he’s good. Marker is fourth in line, and I’m only willing to let him go because I think Blood will make a better Prime. Marker is going to need some polishing once he’s bound, but he should do fine with guidance.”
Mustang was surprised. He’d known Grandmaster always knew the candidates he was responsible for, but he hadn’t thought he’d know them that well, to rattle off their strengths and weaknesses so quickly.
“And which would work best alone?”
At that, Grandmaster paused. “I’d have to say Fullmetal. He’s the only one I’d trust on his own.”
“Very well. Call him. I want him bound tonight. We’ll be staying a few extra days so the Guard can try out the newer candidates. Will that work?”
”Well, sire, that would be highly unconventional. There needs to be a full day of fasting, as you know, and it’s already afternoon.” It was phrased as a polite reminder but coming from Grandmaster, it was nothing short of a command.
The Fuhrer laughed heartily, giving in in good spirits. “Very well, Grandmaster. You know best.”
“I’m glad you recognize that, Your Majesty. Now, if we’d like to move to the Flea Room, we can meet Lord Mustang’s future Blade.” Grandmaster led the way through a set of back passages designed to keep a soon-to-be-ward away from the prying eyes of the Ironhall rumor mill. As with everything else they did, Blades –even future one- excelled at spreading rumors.
They entered a small chamber not much different than any other in stark Ironhall- bare walls, single fireplace, and the most comfortable chairs that could be found. That was a difference, Mustang noted, from the torture implements he remembered from his classes. It was a widely held belief that the furniture in Ironhall was a test to see if a candidate would be willing to suffer for his ward.
Grandmaster went to the door opposite the one they had entered by and opened it. There stood the Brat. Either he had great timing or he’d been standing there since the Fuhrer had dismounted in the courtyard. Mustang smirked. He’d bet anything it was the latter.
The Brat was sent off to fetch Fullmetal and Redtree, and Mustang and the Fuhrer withdrew to the far corner reserved for future wards.. It was customary for only the ward and the Grandmaster to meet the soon-to-be-Blade, but no one told the Fuhrer he had to leave. That just wasn’t done, and since the Fuhrer didn’t leave, Commander Strongarm didn’t leave.
They didn’t have long to wait before a knock came from the door the Brat had been sent off from. At Grandmaster’s call to enter, two young men came through the doorway. Neither looked very old, but at the sight of the first - grimy, sweaty, and obviously coming straight from the practice courts - Mustang couldn’t help himself.
“Aren’t you a little short to be a Blade?” He had expected a response, but not the one he got.
“WHO’S SO SHORT THAT AN ANT COULD STEP ON HIM?!?” The candidate looked like he was ready to continue had the Fuhrer not interrupted him by laughing.
“Haha, Fullmetal, I assume? He’ll be perfect for you, Mustang.” He continued laughing while everyone stared at everyone else until he finally gestured for Grandmaster to continue.
“Oh, yes. Prime candidate Fullmetal. The Fuhrer has need of a Blade. Are you ready to serve?”
A dangerous glint came into Fullmetal’s eye as he glanced at Mustang before answering. “I am ready, Grandmaster.”
“Good.” Grandmaster nodded to Mustang. “Then may I present Prime Candidate Fullmetal. Fullmetal, Lord Mustang here will be your ward.”
Fullmetal sketched the bare minimum of a court bow to Mustang, eyes wandering occasionally to the Fuhrer and Commander. Sensing the potential for dangerous questions, Mustang decided to ask one of his own instead. “Fullmetal. That’s an odd name. Not in the books, was it?” He could actually see Fullmetal’s hackles raise as he smirked at the boy. This could be interesting.
As it became apparent that Fullmetal wasn’t planning on answering, Grandmaster barked, “Show him, Fullmetal.” With a grimace, Fullmetal pulled the glove off his right hand. Mustang had assumed it was just an affectation of some sort, his keeping one hand gloved, with the other glove tucked neatly into his belt, but after the glove came off, it became apparent that it served a much more functional purpose, covering a hand of finely crafted automail.
He glanced sharply at Grandmaster. This kind of injury was enough to end a full Blade’s career, let alone a candidate. At Grandmaster’s nod, Fullmetal quickly pulled the glove back on. “His left leg’s the same, but neither affect his performance. The only problem we’ve had is that the weight offset his growth, and there was only so much Master of Rituals could do safely. He arrived here with them.”
“How’d he lose them in the first place?” Mustang’s instincts were the only thing that kept him from jumping. He cursed himself for forgetting the Fuhrer was still in the room.
Grandmaster’s eyes were hard. “That, my lord, is of no account. The boy who came to Ironhal is dead, Candidate Fullmetal will soon become a Blade in Your Majesty’s service. That is all that matters.”
Mustang, being much more worldly, managed not to smirk at the Fuhrer’s injured dignity. Fullmetal and Redtree were not so lucky. They exited quickly under the combined disapproval of the rooms’ other occupants with Grandmaster’s gruff “Dismissed!”
Eventually, Mustang was taken down to the Forge to bathe and meditate until the ceremony could start at midnight. Fullmetal, of course, was already there, seated with his back to the big anvill where he would be run through by his ward. Mustang did his round of the tubs, washing in each in preparation for the coming ritual, noticing Fullmetal seemed to pay no attention to him the entire time. He’d either fallen asleep or he was very good at ignoring people. Mustang smirked. He would see about that.
Just as he was about to say something, though, Fullmetal beat him to it. “So you’re the person I’m gonna be stuck following around for the rest of your life, huh? Why would you need a Blade?”
Mustang wasn’t sure if he should be amused by the attitude or offended by the sentiment. “Is that a disappointment?” Many candidates dreamed of being placed in the Royal Guard, serving an easy ten or so years, then retiring. A private Blade served for life.
Fullmetal shrugged, never opening his eyes. “Better than sitting around on my ass at the palace with the rest of the dogs.” Well, that was certainly interesting.
Mustang settled down no the opposite side of the anvil from Fullmetal. He had hated this meditating when he was on the other side of the ritual, as well. At least then he’s had the excitement of what was coming to get him through the long hours of fasting and meditation. He heard Master Armorer come in and ask Fullmetal what should be inscribed on his sword. Mustang remembered cheekily telling the man to put ‘wit’ on his rapier. It had seemed like a grand joke when he was seventeen. He missed Fullmetal’s answer and made a mental note to look during the ceremony when he had the sword in his hands.
Crimson had the Blade swagger down to an art, his curved saber hanging at a jaunty angle at his hip. He’d been a year behind Mustang at Ironhall, more than close enough for the two to realize that they really disliked each other.
“So, Flame, or should I be calling you ‘Lord Mustang’ now, eh?” Dear god, Mustang hated that smirk. “Isn’t it a little odd for a former Blade to need a Blade?”
“Isn’t it odd for a Dog to question the Fuhrer’s orders?” Mustang’s mouth snapped shut as Fullmetal stepped between them, hand resting loosely but with obvious warning on Memory’s hilt. Mustang could tell he was thrumming with the stress every newly-bound Blade faces as suddenly the entire world is a possible threat.
Crimson’s mocking grin said he could pick up on it, too. “Not questioning the orders, just the wisdom. Tell me, Lord Mustang, you ever heard what happens to a Blade bound to a traitor? I hear it’s interesting to watch.”
Mustang held his tongue even as Crimson laughed at them and turned to go on his way. Was that the answer to his question? If it was…
The look in Fullmetal’s eyes said he’d noticed something of the implications in that statement. “We’re leaving.”
He blinked. “I hardly think-” He was momentarily shocked into silence as an automail hand grabbed his collar.
“We’re leaving. Now.”
The surprise settled into smirking amusement. This might be interesting. “Alright, Fullmetal, we’ll go. Let’s find Hughes and Havoc and say our goodbyes, shall we?”
He wouldn’t mind being somewhere more defensible at the moment.