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sagechan · 7 years ago

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Darksword - Part One

Title: Darksword - A Kagehina Fantasy

Pairing: Kagehina, Kageyama Tobio x Hinata Shouyou

Characters: Kageyama Tobio, Hinata Shouyou, Oikawa Tooru, Iwaizumi Hajime (as of this part)

Rating: General Audience (subject to change)

Word Count: 7,019

Tags: Magic, Fantasy AU, Tales from Earthsea AU, Wizards, Fighting, Some Violence, First Meeting, Minor OCs

Beginnings

The oldest stories say the islands of the world were formed when old Koushi fought the demons of the Waste. When he drew demon blood, droplets fell to the world and formed lands, and there the islands sprung from the vast sea. Different stories say the islands were formed by a warrior’s sword, or a demon’s spear, or the tusks of an ancient and giant boar. Whatever the story, they all tell the same: blood fell from the heavens where the Divines reign and mixed with the world of mortals, drawing land out of the sea of Ára. When the mage Sawamura spoke the first Word of the ancient speech, and pulled the isle Nibolg’omeh from the waters, he spilled his blood with a knife into the oceans over the side of his boat. Blood has been at the center of the world since the beginning. It is the roots, old power stretching far back before men and their crafty ways of mage-works and of wizardry. The original powers were of blood. The original powers were dark and liquid, like the body, like the seas.

Now, men came to rule the islands, and with them came governance and peace, along with wartime and chaos. Periods of unrest stretched through the years as, leaderless, the scattered islands quarreled amongst themselves. Raids, slavery, thieve guilds: all were common throughout the islands. The days of peace were few and far between. The world grew dangerous, as a world of men is wont to do. The people had moved on from old powers, had forgotten the ways of the earth, forgotten how easily the tides change, how swiftly the currents move.

Then, all at once, the balance shifted, and the ways of wizardry became absolute.

Wise men and women of power, those who knew the ancient speech of Sawamura and the tales of Koushi and the islands of the world, those versed in the ways of mage-work, began to assert themselves among the cities of men. To the great halls and streets and capitols they flew, like flies to honeyed water they flew on their wildwinds. They came as guides, teachers, offering assistance, or healing, or favorable weather. They refused payment except for the only settlement a true way-worker requires: whomsoever is assisted by one with power, must give his mage an offering of blood, as in the days of true powers, and older, more violent gods.

It came to be known that, though helpful and respected, mages with power took your very lifeblood in exchange for their service. And so they came to be known as Blood Takers.

Ages passed. Rulers rose and fell. The seas were ever moving, and the islands were ever still, their roots deep in the world. The island of Nibolg’omeh became the Isle Nibomeh, a small but prosperous place. Great ports arose along its coasts. White-walled castles were built among its green hills. In spring, when the cherry blossoms bloomed, the people danced for three nights out of the first month of melting snow, to give thanks to gods of generosity and prosperity. Peace flourished, markets sprang up in the streets, cities grew, and the largest of them was Nibo, the capital.

There were still no rulers in the world of mages and war. But the world had been formed by the warrior Koushi’s sword, and Isle Nibomeh owed its life above the waves to the mage Sawamura. Wizard and warrior alike had created Ára and its lands, and so were responsible for this place of peace, and the people began to call for a rulership to secure that peace. One who could lead them as both mage and soldier. A wise man to decide their fates; a man of cunning strategy to keep the other war-like islands under control. They called for a king.

There were Monarchs from island to island, but never a true king, never one to unite the many lands. No king had existed in the history of the world. But the people had decided: they needed a king. There would be contests of skills, councils of mage-workers, meetings of generals. There would be a gathering. All the islands who threw their lot in with Nibomeh, who desired peace over the world of lands and seas of Ára, would send representatives to the capital Nibo, and there they would determine a king. There, the people would trade histories and trade goods. There, the people would sing the songs of their ancestry, of gods and demons. There, the many peoples would remember where they’d come from, and together, decide where they were going.

The stories say the world was created by a sword and a demon. It would be truer to say the world was created by a few brave men who fought for peace, and something that hid in the corners of the war-torn, rogue-filled world: honor. It would be truer to remember those tales.

What follows is one of those tales.

Naming

There was a demon with a sword

Who Koushi slew with Ára’s Word.

No greater foe, no greater kill;

The world will wait, as worlds will.

—from The Song of Ára

Winters were cold in the Miya’n mountains, high above the warmth air off the sea. During one especially cold season, when the frost settled over the farms and fields like a blanket, in one of the small northern villages, there was a boy born to a poor woman. The pregnancy was long and hard on the woman, but it was strangest once the child was born. When the two village midwives cut his cord and pulled him from his mother, he glowed. The young woman holding him nearly dropped him in fright, but the elder midwife, who’d seen her share of births and strange seemings, only cuffed the woman on the back of her head and scolded her for a near fatal mistake.

The old woman was afraid, certainly, though she was so trained she dared not show her fear to the mother, for her fear of upsetting a birthing mother was greater, and more dangerous than glowing newborns. Soon, the golden light around the infant disappeared, he opened his small mouth, and he gurgled at the young woman holding him. She slapped his rump, as all midwives do, to ensure the breath is in the body, and the baby came into the world crying, as all newborns do. Nothing more was said of it, and the babe was given to his mother. Because he had glowed like a sun in the middle of the dark winter, he was called Hinata, meaning “in the sun.”

Now, the older midwife was a cunning woman, a woman of power. She knew some of the old speech, passed to her from her great grandmother before she’d passed, gods keep her soul. Old, powerful Words that meant no more to her than a means of lifting a basket of fruit without touching her hands to it, or blessing her cow with sweet milk while cursing a neighbor’s cow with an inability to lactate. Small tricks, but enough to earn respect among the village people as a wise woman, for anyone who can touch the Way, even slightly, is respected. Respected, and feared. So the midwife kept herself apart from the village, there on the Miya’n mountains, creating a cloud of mystery about herself, enjoying the awe and veneration. She became a bonewoman, casting and reading the bones for those who ventured to her little hut at the top of Mount Gone. She enjoyed her influence over the village.

But power recognizes power, and the bonewoman knew the glowing child for what it was before anyone else, and she kept an eye on Hinata as he grew, fearing what he might bring, or what he might end. Namely, her power over the village.

In the summer of the child’s fifth year, Hinata was a cheery and round-faced boy with a shock of red hair, bright as the sun, and he was already a clever speaker. He enjoyed teasing his poor mother and father, making them laugh after weary days of toil. They loved him, but could not care for him as they wished to, for they both sold themselves to the fields, even the mother, though women did not often work ploughs. She was a woman of tough material, with arms as brawny as her husband’s. The child learned to care for himself, and loved his parents nonetheless.

As the village wise woman, the elderly bonewoman was responsible for revealing the true names of the children brought to her when it was their time. The boy she’d delivered those five years ago, who had glowed as her assistant had held him, was due to receive his true naming. She would reveal his true name only to him and his kin, and only they would share it, for names were power and words were ways of action. But her motives were not entirely pure, for even then she wished to control the boy Hinata, for she recognized in him a great strength, and wished to keep it for herself.

Hinata was brought to her in the bright months of summer, and these were truly his namesake’s days: full of light and sun and warmth. Rivers swelled with the melted snow of the past winter, and sweet strawberries grew all along the sides of Mount Gone, the village’s chief goods in their trade with the larger townships and cities down the mountain. Hinata and his parents came with a basket of strawberries and a dried fish wrapped in leaves for the bonewoman. The boy’s father had traveled down the mountain to catch the fish himself at the island’s coast. All to please the bonewoman who would name his son. This brought a curling smile to the bonewoman’s face. This was why she enjoyed her power, and why she must keep it by binding the boy to her. She knew some Words of binding that would do the trick. All she needed was to be alone with the boy.

She brought Hinata to the largest river that flowed down the mountain. The villagers used it to float their handcrafted barges full of strawberries and dried herbs down to the ports below. Here was where she had named many of the village’s children, and here was where she would bind the child Hinata to her power.

She had Hinata stand at the water’s edge. His face was bright and clear, his eyes full of mischief. A truly pure child, unaware of any malice against him. The bonewoman almost felt pity for him as she wove her spell around him, but her lust for the boy’s power was greater.

She named him. “You are Shouyou,” she said, a little surprised at the truth of the name, for it meant “shining light,” just as he had shone that night she’d delivered him. The names came from the bones, though, came from the bones, and the water, and the wind, and she did not question them, for the Way reveals only truth. Once she named him, she completed her binding around him. “Shouyou, kneel,” she commanded in a whisper.

He looked at her, his eyes bright and gold, and, thinking it a game, he laughed.

She was stunned and nearly stumbled into the water herself. She had used her strongest binding against him, had used his true name, yet the boy shrugged off her spell like it was a suggestion. She’d known he was strong, but power like this… The boy was something else entirely, beyond her understanding. She bowed her head to the child, defeated and ashamed of what she’d tried to do. What had she become? Had she no honor? Was she a wise woman, or a madwoman?

“Hinata,” she said wearily, calling him by his use-name. “Go to your parents. Tell them they must go to Nibo, and you must go too, child. There is a destiny about you, though it’s unclear to my eyes. It shines too brightly, and I’ve spent too long with my nose in the mud. Can you forgive me, child?”

Hinata looked at her, with eyes bright as a hawk he watched her. “Auntie,” he said, a reverent name she knew she didn’t deserve. “Why should I forgive you? You gave me my name. I should say thank you!” He was a good boy, polite, as his parents had taught him to be. He bowed low to the bonewoman, smiling his sunny grin. “Thank you for naming me, Auntie!”

The bonewoman was in tears now, so great was her regret for trying to harm such a pure thing. She touched his head, then withdrew her hand, not sure she even deserved to place her fingers to his hair. “Go,” she said again, urging him from the water. “Go to your parents. Get you to Nibomeh, and to the capital. There are Way-workers there who can teach you more than the fields could teach you here. There are workers of miracles and magic, there are warriors who can train you, there are governances. They look for a king. Go to the land of kings, Shouyou, where you belong.”

And so she convinced the child’s parents that their son had the gift of magic. He was Way-touched, and needed to be taught. She warned them a gift untrained could be dangerous, and assured them that if they presented Hinata before Way-workers in the great capitol, the boy would receive teaching. He had raw potential, now it needed to be shaped.

So it came to pass that Hinata left the island of Miya’n with his parents aboard a fishing vessel, which his father bartered passage on by way of his knowledge of sailing from his life before Mount Gone. So it came to pass that they crossed the blood-dark sea to the great island Nibomeh with its gleaming white cities, tall towers, wizard schools, and—greatest of them all, the jewel of the world—the sprawling capitol of Nibo. So it came to pass, as all things must pass, as the fading light, as the growing dark.

Departures

Far Sawamura’s tongue

The darkness he flung;

Bright islands emerge,

His fire would purge.

—from The Song of Ára

~ten years later~

Drums.

Drums, and the city.

They brought their dead to the dry lands.

They brought the bodies to the hills of their fathers.

Drums.

∫ ∫ ∫

The Ninth Prince of Kitaga stood on the balcony overlooking the courtyard below his room. He could hear the funeral drums across the bay that stretched two leagues and a half from where his palace stood on the highest hill of the island Kitaga’n. The vast, prosperous city of Kitaga sprawled along the shore of the bay, rolling up the sides of the mighty dunes. Ziggurat towers topped with temples dominated the skyline, then the business and trading districts caught the eye next with their massive markets filling entire streets. The port in the bay was a bustle of endless activity—shipping and fishing boats coming and going, vendors hawking their wares to sailors coming to Kitaga for the first time, mysterious dealings occurring under the cover of the docks. The great Monarchy of Kitaga teemed with characters of all colors and creeds, a circle of life and death and intrigue and adventure. A place of action and allurement.

The Prince sighed, and he slumped against the marble balcony railing, full of boredom.

“Your Highness, Prince Kageyama, you mustn’t slouch so. You’ll ruin your posture.”

Kageyama turned, his dark eyes weary and dull. “Oikawa, I don’t want to go today.”

Oikawa swept into the Prince’s room, and Kageyama came in from the balcony. Oikawa wrinkled his nose at the messy state of the Prince’s quarters. He poked his staff of Regency at an overturned ink pot and a piece of parchment with writing scrawled on one side. Three lines of runes had been written on it—all three were scribbled out. “I see you’ve once again stumbled your way through your tutoring.” Oikawa picked up the pot and paper, waving his hand gently over the spilled ink. It flowed back into the little pot, which Oikawa placed on the writing desk in the corner of the Prince’s room. He stamped his staff down on the floor, and the chairs dragged across the floor to rest against the wall, some discarded garments hung themselves in the wardrobe, and the covers of the Prince’s bed tucked themselves in. Kageyama watched it all silently.

“Oikawa, can I use magic?”

Oikawa grunted, arranging his robes around himself as he sat on the stool near the Prince’s bed. “Mage-work is tricky business. It takes time to master the skills, and there are many skills to master.”

Kageyama looked out the window, watching seabirds alight on the edge of his balcony. The drums of the funeral procession were loud like thunder from the city at the bottom of the hill where the palace stood. “But my father could use magic, couldn’t he?”

“Yes, and he was a rightful candidate to be Grand King at Nibomeh because of it.” Oikawa’s gaze fell to the floor. “His people miss him, I’m sure.”

“I don’t,” Kageyama said in a quiet voice. “Does that make me bad?”

“It makes you human, my Prince. Feel what you feel today, there is always tomorrow to worry over what it means.” Oikawa stood. “That’s what I’m here for, as Regent. You worry about yourself and the contests at the great capital. With your father…gone, the hopes of a Kitagan Monarch seated on the throne at Nibomeh now rest with you. When you get to Nibo, you will need your strength and your wits, young Prince. Leave the Courts and your father’s Monarchy to me.” Oikawa smiled, and Kageyama felt better. Oikawa’s smiles were like soft velvet, comforting and welcome during times of stress.

Kageyama spun slowly around on his toes. He had a habit of walking through the palace barefoot, and today was another shoeless day. “When we get to Nibo, do you think I’ll meet any great wizards? Do you think they’ll train me to use magic?”

Oikawa looked at him. “What makes you think I wouldn’t have trained you myself if I thought you had the gift?”

“You always say there are different kinds of magic.” Kageyama stopped spinning and looked out the balcony window again. “Maybe there are different kinds of wizards, ones who will see a different magic in me than you can see.”

“There is only one Way,” Oikawa said sternly. He rose from the bed. “Many forms, but only one Way. Either you have it or nothing. Don’t get your hopes up, Prince. You’ll meet many wizards at Nibo, but not one of them will be able to teach you what I haven’t already. Trust in me, trust your protector and Regent.”

Kageyama looked away from the window, back at his Regent. “Yes, Oikawa. I trust you.”

Oikawa grunted. “Fifteen is such a difficult age,” he muttered. “Next year, when you are of age, you’ll understand what I say.”

Kageyama bowed his head. “Yes, Regent.”

“Good,” Oikawa said. He held out his hand. He held a little knife in his fingers, like a letter opener. “Now, for cleaning up your room.”

Kageyama scrunched up his face. “I never understand this part of magic.”

“It’s the toll for our power. It’s the way of the world,” Oikawa said. Kageyama held out a finger. Oikawa pricked him with the knife, then swept it into his robes.

“What do you do with it, though?”

Oikawa smiled the velvet smile. “Wizard’s business,” he said secretly. Then, bowing, he left the Prince to his room.

The entire population of the island Kitaga’n had flooded the city to attend the funeral ceremonies for their Monarchs. The Prince passed the remaining days of the ceremonies in his room. No one in the palace saw him mourn. Servants often heard the Prince crying in his quarters for his mother, but only when he slept, only when he dreamed and could forget that she was gone. He never called for his father. The Monarch was dead, and his son could not draw a single tear for him.

When the ceremonies were over, the Regent, acting Monarch of Kitaga’n announced that the Ninth Prince Kageyama would attend the gathering in Nibo. For ten years the gathering had been unsuccessful in choosing the true king of the islands. The Regent Oikawa assured his Courts that Kageyama would be the one to become king, that he would go and claim the throne of Nibomeh. “He will be the greatest of us,” Oikawa said, and the Courtiers believe him. His sway as Regent, his renown as a powerful wizard, gave weight and truth to his words.

The funeral ceremonies done, and the Regent’s proclamation made, Kageyama prepared for his journey across the sea to the Isle Nibomeh, and the great capital, Nibo. A longboat with three dozen oarsmen—the Quick Attack, one of Kitaga’s finest vessels from its navy—was commissioned from Kitaga’s largest port. A crew was paid handsomely. A Way-weatherer was hired to watch the wind and waves. All was set to order.

“Remember the Way,” Oikawa told the young Prince before he boarded Quick Attack. “Don’t trust the wizards of Nibo. They’ve spent ten years wallowing in their power, trying to find a king. You will wipe clean the slate. You will set the balance. Trust yourself, trust the Way. Trust me.”

“Yes, Oikawa,” Kageyama said.

“And here.” The Regent parted his heavy robes and held out a sword, sheathed in fine leather, silver and jewels. “This was your father’s. It belongs with the heir of the Kitaga Monarchy. When you are ready, you will be able to unsheathe this sword.”

Kageyama took the sword reverently. Out of curiosity, he tried drawing the blade, but it was as if rusted shut, and the sword remained concealed. He bowed to the Regent. “Thank you, Oikawa. For everything.” He embraced his teacher and protector. They parted.

“Ára keep you safe,” Oikawa blessed his young Prince. “Come back to us a king.”

Kageyama boarded the boat waiting for him. He did not look back.

III

Nibomeh

The great isle of Nibomeh, greatest of the lands of Ára, and at its center the jewel of the world: Nibo, the Floating City.

—from The History of the Seas and Islands

A sheer cliff reached out into the blood-dark sea. A gleaming white knife cut into the vastness of the world and came back clean. The city of Nibo sprawled atop a giant ledge that jutted out over the ocean below, waves battering the roots of the island. But the isle held strong, like the grip of the world held the island in its fist it stayed firm. No waters could carve away the cliff that held the Floating City, the great capital of marble palaces and glimmering fountains and paved roads and markets so huge they filled the horizon. Nibo, the center of the world, the jewel of Ára.

Quick Attack made port at the base of the cliff where the docks stretched out far into the bay like great woodman and stone teeth, hungry jaws welcoming the world’s ships and traders into its maw. Kageyama saw for the first time the legendary Isle Nibomeh. The entire island was cliffside, steep drops directly into the ocean. The villages and cities spread across Nibomeh sat atop the plateau-like island. Steps cut into the cliffs were the only way to the top from the docks.

“The Isle was laid siege to, some hundred years ago,” the captain said to Kageyama as the crew unloaded the longboat. “It’s easily defended like this, though, all the cities at the top and nothing down here but stone and sea. The invaders tried to starve out the island, but ended up starving themselves. They gave up after three months and sailed home.” The captain’s name was Iwaizumi, and he had been a harsh but fair man to the crew, and to the Prince they hosted. More than once, Kageyama had learned how to earn his keep aboard the ship. Hard work before the mast during a week’s journey at sea would make him a better Monarch, Iwaizumi had told him. Kageyama reminded the captain he was to become King of the Isles, not just Monarch. Iwaizumi reminded the Prince he wasn’t king yet, and showed him where to find the mop and bucket.

By the time they reached the top of the stone stairs cut into the island, Kageyama was only just starting to feel winded. Behind him, Iwaizumi and the Way-weatherer huffed and gasped. The sorcerer leaned on his staff, and Iwaizumi leaned on the sorcerer, and together they made their way up the last couple of steps. At the top of the stairs was a little gatehouse, and a man leaned inside, gray-cloaked and holding a staff. His beard hid his face, but Kageyama thought he could see a smile in the bright eyes that watched them approach.

“Hail, travelers,” the wizard called. “What business in Nibo?”

Iwaizumi caught his breath after a moment and spoke. “I come from the island Kitaga’n bearing with me the son of its Eighth Monarch. His Highness, the Ninth Prince of the Courts of Kitaga has come to end the ten year stalemate at Nibo and claim the throne as King of the Isles.”

The gatekeeper’s eyes glittered with that half-smile. “Indeed.” He looked at Kageyama. “Child,” he said, and Kageyama bristled. “Are you this Prince the good captain speaks of?”

Kageyama started to speak, but the Way-weatherer spoke faster. “You dare address His Highness so flippantly, wizard? Where are your manners?”

“At the bottom of the sea, along with the rest of this island,” the gatekeeper said just as fast, his eyes brighter and brighter, his teeth smiling under his beard. Kageyama wanted to laugh, but he sensed Iwaizumi and the Way-weatherer were in some kind of contest with the gatekeeper, and he held his tongue. “And now,” the gatekeeper wizard said. “I was speaking to the Prince, not to you, sorcerer of wind.”

The Way-weather stammered, red in the face, but he was defeated. The gatekeeper could see right through him as nothing more than a weather-sorcerer, not a fully-fledged wizard. By refusing to return the address of “wizard,” the gatekeeper had asserted his dominance. Though he did it so playfully, Kageyama wasn’t even sure he meant to be insulting. Merely honest.

“Are you the Prince they speak of so furiously?” the gatekeeper said again, to Kageyama.

The young Prince nodded, then remembered himself and spoke. “Yes, lord wizard, I am the Ninth Prince of the Courts.”

The man’s eyes flashed like silver disks of moonlight on a clear winter night. “You hesitate to give out your name. That is good, Prince. It shows you are wise to the ways of wizards and the world. But for the sake of the city and my duty as gatekeeper, I must ask you one question. You must answer truthfully, or you cannot enter the city.”

Iwaizumi started to protest, but Kageyama raised his hand to silence him. “I understand.”

The wizard nodded. He let his head droop, his beard puffing out over his chest. The end of his staff made little circles over the ground as he fiddled with it. Then he looked up, and his eyes were clear and steeled.

“Kageyama, Prince of the Courts,” the wizard said. “Do you know who you are?”

Kageyama stared at him, stunned. This man he’d never met, how could this man know his name? It must be wizardry, some mystic way of knowing a thing or person. And what did his question mean? Of course Kageyama knew who he was. He was a Prince, son of the Monarch of Kitaga’n.

A small voice in the back of his head reminded him, You never even mourned when the Monarch died.

No, he was the son of rulers, he was destined to be king!

The voice whispered: Never mourned your father.

Destiny was greater than life, more powerful than death.

What kind of Prince feels joy when his Monarch dies?

One who knows his destiny, one who knows his destiny, one who knows his destiny—

What kind of son—

—destiny, one who knows his destiny, one who knows—

Waste. A waste of time. This is all for waste. You are a waste of a Prince—

“I don’t know,” Kageyama finally gasped, the answer wrenched from his mouth. He bent over, hands on his knees. He was more breathless now than when he’d climbed the stairs. A spell? Had the gatekeeper done this? Or something else?

The wizard nodded. His smile was gone, though he looked down at Kageyama with a gentle expression. “Then may you find yourself here.” He stamped his staff on the ground lightly, and Kageyama felt something lift from his shoulder, like a shadow passing his face. So it had been a spell. Kageyama was used to the sensation of magic because of Oikawa’s constant presence. He’d grown familiar to the feel of it. But this spell didn’t seem malign or ill-intentioned. It also didn’t feel like the Regent’s magic. It just felt different.

“Crow,” the gatekeeper called. Something behind the gatehouse scampered around to the front. “This is my apprentice, your lordships. Crow, guide these good people into the city.”

Kageyama looked down, and he was face-to-face with a boy covered in dirt all over his nose and cheeks. A tangle of a cloak too big for him hung over his tunic and pants. Bright reddish hair stuck out from under the small cap he wore as if to unsuccessfully tame the curls and knots. A small braid dangled from under the cap over his left temple. He held a staff exactly his height, which was to say, not very tall indeed. He was grinning at them so brightly, Kageyama almost had to squint, like he was looking directly into the heart of a fire. He wanted to say something princely, something full of grandeur to impress the little mite dancing in front of him.

“Your name is Crow?”

The boy frowned, and instantly Kageyama regretted speaking if it meant losing the boy’s sunny smile. “Master Gatekeeper calls me that,” the young wizard said. His eyes flashed, a light that was quick and wild and playful and dangerous. “You can call me Hinata.”

Hinata the young wizard apprentice led Kageyama and his Way-weatherer from the gatehouse along a dusty path, towards the actual city limits. Iwaizumi stayed behind to oversee the crew and ship. Hinata chatted pleasantly with Hoarfrost, the old Way-weatherer, exchanging tidbits of knowledge and rumor, as was the way of Way-workers and mages. Kageyama was lost trying to follow their conversation, so he settled in to following in silence. He wished to point out that, as Prince, he should be treated better. But who was there to hear his complaints except an old curmudgeon and a boy who looked Kageyama’s age, if not younger? No one to hear his laments but a fool of age and a fool of youth.

They crested a hill, and Kageyama caught his breath. Hinata stood next to him, nearly bursting with excitement. Old Hoarfrost muttered under his breath, “Powers preserve.”

Below them it sprawled, the great jewel of white walls and steeples, minarets and bell towers scraping the sky, marble columns and dark-wooded taverns, courtyards and glittering fountains, aqueducts spanning the width of the city, children splashing in the pools and reservoirs, markets along every road and back alley, bright flags and pennants, open duel arenas and lecterns for orators, small apothecaries tucked between buildings, rival schools of wizardry and mage-work, green pastures for farming and the wandering philosophers and their disciples, leagues and leagues of the gleaming, beautiful wonders of Ára, gathered here, centered here, the axis of the world, the hope of a thousand lands.

The Floating City. Nibo.

“I had dreamed of a place like this,” old Hoarfrost said. “No dream can replace the reality. Nibo, the Floating City. Home of the great wizards, led by the Archmage of the world himself. It certainly exceeds expectation, eh, You Highness?”

Kageyama was without words. He stared at the city below him. He had always thought Kitaga was beautiful. And it was; even now, he held his home in his heart. But his heart was growing full, for the Prince knew he had fallen in love at once. The city below him was more than beautiful. It was near holy, a place of such majestic wonder and adventure. His heart raced and skipped, pulling, yearning to run those streets, to leap over the fountains and feel the cool water on his skin, to feel the wind in his hair, to test his skill in the arenas and listen to the wisdom of the orators and philosophers, to drink in as much knowledge as he could from the wizards, to fill himself entirely with the city before him.

“Do you like it?”

Kageyama blinked, and the spell on him was broken. He looked to his side. Hinata was watching him, his eyes gleaming with delight. He was proud of his city, his home. Kageyama saw it plain on his face.

“I do,” he said. Excitement coursed through him. “I imagine myself in the streets of Nibo already. I cannot wait to meet the Archmage, to walk the markets, to see the arenas.”

Hinata laughed. “Not yet, Your Majesty! We need to get there, first! It is still a long way.”

Kageyama stiffened. “It is ‘Your Highness.’ If you will be our guide, you shall address me properly, and not mock me.”

Hinata tilted his head. “Mock?” he said, his voice lilting. “Mock,” he repeated. “Why mock a lonely prince? You’ve been through enough, I do not wish to add to it.”

Kageyama felt his skin crawl. Lonely. What did this boy know of loneliness? What could this pampered wizard’s apprentice know of his grief? More mage-tricks, seeing into my head, shoving himself into my business. Get out, get out, get out!

“Get out!” he said aloud, and he was panting, red-faced, shoulders hunched. The Way-weatherer was holding him across the chest, steadying him. Hinata stared at him from some distance away, staff held out defensively. When had he moved?

Kageyama felt his pulse in his temples, heard the rush of blood in his ears. He breathed, calming himself. Hoarfrost squeezed his arms, and Kageyama nodded once, swift and jerking. The weatherer stepped away, bowing and muttering for forgiveness for touching the Prince. Kageyama returned Hinata’s level stare. He wished he appeared as calm as the wizard boy.

Kageyama turned to the city again. “Let’s go, Crow,” he said, a nasty tone slipping into his voice. He didn’t try to correct it, or care. They were all peasants, these wizards, dabbling in their secrets and tricks. They were servants looking for a king, and he would be king.

He did not look at Hinata, but he heard him say, rather softly, “Yes, Your Highness.”

∫ ∫ ∫

They needed to stay at an inn overnight outside the city. The trip into Nibo from the edge of the cliffs took longer than Hinata would have liked because the old Way-weatherer had twisted his ankle coming down a particularly steep hill. He had not asked Hinata to lay a charm of healing on him, so Hinata had not offered. The roots of the islands go deep, they say. The roots of wizards go deeper still.

Hinata showed the Prince and the weatherer to their room after the innkeeper took them in for a few ivory pieces. It took a large sum extra of his ivory to keep the innkeeper bound to secrecy about the nature of his newest lodgers. Luckily, Hinata knew the keeper. Tanaka—as Hinata knew him—was true to his word, even if his prices could be steep.

Hinata left the travelers to their room. He whispered a ward over their door, one extra precaution, then took to his own room across the hall from them.

You shall address me properly, and not mock me.

Hinata leaned his staff against the wall in the corner nearest the door, the staff his master had given him two years ago, the staff that marked him a true wizard. Why had the gatekeeper called him his apprentice, make him seem lesser than a full-fledged Way-worker in front of the Prince? What role did the old fox want him to play?

Get out!

Hinata lay out his bedroll by the door. He lay down, hands cradling his head. He stared at the ceiling. He listened to his breath. He felt the wood floor beneath him. Outside, a night-swallow trilled in the branches near his room’s window. They favored the dark, and came out only when the last ray of the sun’s light disappeared from the sky. Hinata knew its true name, and called to it. It flitted from its branch to the windowsill, perching on the other side of the glass. It pecked at the windowpane. He smiled sadly at the bird. “We both face a wall, little friend.”

Get out.

Hinata turned over. “Let’s hope we can see over its top.”

∫ ∫ ∫

The room was dark. Outside, the moonlight shone through the silver leaves of the great oak that gnarled its way up from the center of the inn’s courtyard. But the moonlight seemed to avoid falling through the window, and so the room was dark, with one hole of silver looking out into the far night. Kageyama stared at the window, watching the leaves of the oak flash dark and silver as they fluttered in a silent breeze, catching the moonlight, playing with each other in the night.

On the other side of the room, the Way-weatherer snored softly to himself. A wizard knows sleep is important. A man needs his rest, Oikawa often said to him. And yet Kageyama found no sleep. His mind still swam in the dark waters, and the more he treaded, the stronger the tide pulled him down.

He should not have spoken to the wizard apprentice like that.

Kageyama turned over and sighed into his bedroll. The boy had meant no harm. Why get so angry at a slip of the tongue?

Because you know you are not ‘Your Majesty.’ You are not father, and never will be.

Kageyama squeezed his eyes shut. The small voice in the back of his head, the one the gatekeeper had meant for him to hear, was it back?

The room was quiet. Kageyama listened for his own heart, but his body lay still and silent. Hoarfrost snored on. Outside, a night-swallow trilled. Kageyama let out his breath before he even realized he’d been holding it. The voice was gone. He was alone with his thoughts.

He must apologize to Hinata.

Kageyama rose without waking the weatherer. The door creaked only once, and the hallway was before him. It was narrow and dark. Something shifted in the far corner, a shadow flitting against the eye. Kageyama touched Hinata’s door. He made to push it open.

The knife came at him quick, a glint of light in the dark, a flash of silver in the night. He only stumbled away because of the instincts driven into him from the years of swordplay and battle-training his instructors had put him through since he could hold a sword. Instantly, he was on his feet, squaring off with his attacker. A robed figure, face hidden by a heavy hood. A burglar!

Kageyama backed away, towards his open door. If he could wake the weatherer—

The thief sprang forward, knife swinging down. Kageyama sidestepped him, but narrowly avoided the blade. He felt the wind of the man’s arm pass him like a gust. He was strong. His form wasn’t that of some common burglar. This man had one purpose. To kill.

He was an assassin.

Kageyama straightened, heart racing. He wants my death. The assassin faced him. He wants my death. He tossed the knife from one hand to the other, playing with it like the leaves in the oak. He wants my death, he wants my death. Dark to silver, light flashing in the dim hallway. Kageyama felt his heart grow still.

“So,” he said, and his voice broke the strange spell over the darkness in his eyes. He saw clearly now. The man would stop at nothing for his goal. “You want my death,” Kageyama whispered.

The assassin snarled. Under the hood, his eyes flashed hate and fury. He leapt toward Kageyama again.

Kageyama stood there. The voice from the gatehouse returned to him.

What kind of son are you, Prince? Waste of a time, waste of a Prince. You do not deserve the title of Monarch. You do not deserve to be called king!

Kageyama dropped his head, waited for the final blow. The blade fell, and the night sang with silver.

Then all was dark again.

Kageyama looked up. He was alive. The assassin was on the ground, thrown bodily against the wall. An angel stood over him. No, not an angel, a man who glowed so brilliantly he only looked like one. No, not a man.

A boy.

Hinata turned to face Kageyama. He was smiling. “That was close, eh, Your Highness?”

Kageyama felt his body coiled, like a great spring. He was breathing heavily, practically panting like a dog. Cold sweat beaded on his skin. He looked once more at the lump on the ground that was his would-be murderer. Then darkness closed around his vision, and he collapsed to the ground in a heap, exhaustion taking him at last.

End of Part One

This is going to be quite a journey. Thank you for taking the first step with me. There’s still so much more world-building to go, so much more development between Kageyama and Hinata.

Yesterday, I learned that we lost a very dear artist and friend of this community. The first part of this work is dedicated to her memory and the spirit of bringing light to all. In times of mourning, we grieve and remember and hold tight to our loved ones. Then we get up, we see the insurmountable wall. And we grow wings and fly. We have work to do. We have to create. This story is based off the Earthsea Cycle, which reminds us: ‘Only in dark the light.’ In our darkest hours, over the edge of the furthest wall, the sun is rising. The day begins. It’s going to be beautiful.

Pixie, this one’s for you.

Read Part II here

#kagehina #hq!!#haikyuu!!#kageyama tobio #hinata shouyou #hq fanfic #haikyuuwriters #hinakage #oikawa tooru #iwaizumi hajime #fantasy #darksword fic #sageart

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colethewolf · 7 years ago

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ravewulf(.)tumblr(.)com/post/163778147780/hi-i-saw-that-you-were-one-of-the-few-that what you think?

I definitely got a headache from reading all of that. Ravewulf really loves to pretend that Jeff Davis is just an average, everyday, completely harmless & lovable showrunner that acts like every other showrunner in existence. He acts like Jeff doesn’t maliciously do things to provoke & antagonize people. And he pretends as though Jeff Davis isn’t a compulsive liar.

The first thing he does is proclaim that Jeff twists the truth & misleads people to keep important plot details from getting spoilers. In reality, we know that’s a lie, because Jeff Davis has blatantly lied to fans about a variety of things. He has kept his own cast members & fellow co-workers in the dark about things. And has continuously gone on to pretend that something in the show is more important than originally perceived, not because it actually is, but because he’s too lazy to fix his own plot holes.

Next, he goes onto say that one of the reasons people hate Jeff is because fan expectation corrupted what fans want the show to be VS. what the show actually is. He says that fans have gotten it into their heads that Teen Wolf was a light & happy show, instead of it actually being a dark & intelligently written show... which is why it doesn’t make sense when fans complain about fan favorites being tortured, not being happy, out of character moments, & plot holes.

First off, the show did use to be a funny, somewhat light-hearted, & ridiculously campy show. Sure, there was violence, emotion, blood, guts, mystery, darkness, etc. But the main difference is that the show didn’t take itself too seriously. You had main characters that were high-schoolers, that tried to live as normal high schoolers whilst dealing w/ the supernatural. There was humor. There were light moments that balanced out all of the serious moments.

The show doesn’t do that anymore. It hasn’t honestly done that since season two. The show takes itself way too seriously now & tries too hard to be clever & shocking. Jeff tries so fucking hard to move in a direction that fans won’t see coming, that in the end, it just doesn’t make fucking sense. I mean... a werelion Nazi? Are you fucking serious? Stealing plotlines from Sterek fanfic? Really? Kate coming back from the dead as some sort of werejaguar bonewoman La Loba because she drank rainwater out of a paw print? Literally....fuck off.

Also, completely disregarding plot holes, continuous & unnecessary abuse of certain characters (ahem...Derek), and total out of character-ness (Derek being completely chill & zen for no fucking reason) & (Stiles not even showing signs of PTSD after being possessed)...ugh. This isn’t cleverness. This is just lazy, unimaginative writing. This is just Jeff Davis throwing bullshit at the wall, hoping that it sticks, and hoping that fans will be too tired to point out how it all doesn’t make sense.

Teen Wolf derailed the entire show the moment Jeff & the writers fell into the whole, “darker & scarier equals better” formula. Which isn’t an exaggeration. Literally, each new season is promo’d as being “this is going to be the scariest season ever”, “looool, we’re going to go darker than ever this time”. And guess what...it’s nonsense. But the writers are completely aware of their absolute failure at keeping the show popular, so they continue their attempt to infuse new seasons with season 1-2 nostalgia... things like lacrosse, carbon copied characters for the show’s new generation, Mason’s out of place, watered-down, completely dry impression of Stiles’ S2 happy-go-lucky humor...ugh.

Okay, so then ravewulf decides to say that the PR is to blame for most of the shit that went down with the show & the mistreatment of fans, and that people blame Jeff Davis for everything when they shouldn’t. Not true. Ex-fans blame Jeff, the writers, & the PR department as a collective, because they all played their hand in destroying the show & tormenting the fans.

Jeff does, in fact, take the brunt of the fandom’s anger. As he should. And why’s that? Well, it’s because he’s the showrunner. It is his job to lead the show & it’s his job to speak out when things go wrong. Thus far, he has completely ignored his duties as a showrunner & the fans aren’t going to play games with him. Every other showrunner will take to social media or release some sort of interview or statement to help ease fandom unrest for any sort of reason, but Jeff has been silent since 2012 because he can’t handle critique, criticism, & simple trolls. Other showrunners also try to improve their weaknesses & fix errors within their show. Jeff ignores everything and has barreled forward through multiple seasons with the hope that fans will forget...we didn’t.

Not only that, but Jeff has prided himself as the showrunner multiple times. He has openly bragged about being not weighed down by MTV executives & that they typically don’t cast shadows over whatever creative vision he wants to implement into the show. And he has boasted to fans that he is the one that makes the decisions, that fans have no say in what happens, & that he’s going to do whatever he wants whether people like it or not. That’s not how you make a show...that’s how you get your show knocked down from scoring 2+ million views per episode, right down to barely scraping by with 400k views.

So....Jeff’s going to take every bit of shit that fans decide to give him. This is clearly the way that he wanted things to pan out for himself, because if he wanted things to be different, he would have built a better relationship between himself & fans. He would have course-corrected, listened to fandom noise, listened to his cast, analyzed all of the signs that he was sinking deeper into failure, & he wouldn’t have laughed himself out of the chance to stay beloved by fans.

Ravewulf does say that Jeff Davis is the figurehead & scapegoat for the fandom’s negative experience with what happened on & around the show. And that’s very true. But you know what, it’s his show. It’s his brand. It’s his vision. It’s his choices. He shouldn’t have been so smug & childish when it came down to mending the dissolving relations with the fans that supported his show from the beginning. He doesn’t get to complain about the price he now has to pay.

At the end of the day, I truly believe that Sterek was the make it or break it element for Teen Wolf. The show’s decision to use Sterek shippers as a tool to gain viewers & recognition, followed by the show’s decision to completely shut Sterek fans out & remove all Sterek from the show was their breaking point. Jeff’s decision to purposely shut out fans & write against/ignore everything fans wanted (even small things: like learning Derek’s age, or Sheriff’s name, or seeing Allison’s funeral, or Stiles dealing w/ PTSD, or Stiles’ bisexuality, etc.) broke the show.

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