#the day calamity isn’t my most treasured thing ever is the day i’m dead in the ground i LOVE them

[andi-o-geyser]

oh god he even named his new home the brass skull he’s literally never gotten over them

[thebibliomancer]

Archaia’s Jim Henson’s The Dark Crystal Age of Resistance #6

The Ballad of Hup & Barfinnious Part 2 of 4

This cover owns.

The Dark Crystal comics tend to have great covers, often with nothing to do with whats actually in the book. But you know how fantasy covers can be. But even by those standards this is a great cover.

Look at that heroic shadow Hup! Amazing!

In part one, Hup burned a lot of bridges in his tavern workplace by full force spoon smacking SkekShod the Treasurer during the Sami Thicket tithe. He then became the squire of Barfinnious the self-proclaimed Paladin-Bard and definite con artist.

Fun!

Now on with the Hup backstory.

Barfinnious: “How do I sleep? What a mature question. I won’t lie to you, young one... there are some nights I find it quite difficult. Not because of the battles I’ve won. Or the fierce beasts my squire and I have faced together over this last trine. But because injustice never sleeps. And that keeps me awake.”

The second issue starts off with a bit of a montage of Hup being Barfinnious’ squire. Which seems to lean heavy on the bard part of Paladin-Bard.

They travel around. Barfinnious tells stories of adventures that he and Hup have totally had swearsies. Hup passes around a collection plate. They move on.

Hup is getting a bit impatient for the valorous deeds portion of his training because they haven’t really helped anyone yet. Except in the sense of helping them hear a cool story.

Barfinnious: “Patience, Hup. Have we encountered any damsels? Bandits? Do you want a calamity? No. When it’s time for heroics... we’ll be heroes.”

They arrive at a seemingly abandoned village where soon everybody bursts out of hiding and proclaims in joy that the great hero Barfinnious and his spoon-squire Cup Hup are here to save the village!

Their reputation for valorous deeds has preceded them!

Village elder: “We were sent word of your approach, and of your valorous deeds! Tonight, we will feast. And tomorrow, you will help rid us of a fearsome plight!”

Hey its the exact situation that Barfinnious said they were waiting for. What’re the odds.

As they’re chilling in the pre-feast baths, Hup has misgivings.

This is the best welcoming they’ve ever gotten at a new place. In fact, this is the onliest welcome they’ve ever gotten at a new place!

Barfinnious: Untrue! There was the elder’s wife in Mu’Din!”

Hup: “The elder that ran us out of town!”

Barfinnious... did you seduce the elder’s wife?

Geez. Bards. Amirite?

At the party, Barfinnious gets good and drunk on what I’m pretty sure is Gelfling moonshine and starts telling the Arathim story again.

Hup sees a Gelfling girl named Veara leave the feast with a plate so decides to follow her, as ya do?

She feeds Barfinnious’ riding armalig something and Hup panics and sticks his entire arm in the armalig’s mouth to pull the presumed poison out but its just mintcure root.

Veara is the town healer and figured that the armalig had indigestion.

Also, she speaks almost none Podling and Hup understands but doesn’t speak much Gelfling. That’s a good foundation for hilarious misunderstandings.

As just happened.

But they have a “conversation” where Hup muses what it must be like to be a healer and that maybe he should have been a healer. Or go back to being a cook. Because he’s getting discouraged with being forever a squire.

Veara, not understanding most of what he said: “Well, if we’re talking about the same thing, I think labels, titles, and boasts don’t matter. It matters what you do, not what you say you do.”

Meanwhile, Barfinnious very drunkenly finishes telling the story of rescuing the princess.

Town elder: “You heard him. He’s our hero. And even if he’s not, we’re in too deep.”

Ominous!

Both Hup’s one-and-a-half-sided conversation with Veara and Barfinnious’ drunken storytelling is interrupted by rumbles of THE BEAST!

Now that he’s eaten all their food and drank all their moonshine, the village elder not so subtly hints that maybe the hero do some hero work? Possibly?

Barfinnious pulls out his sword and whoops. Its broke. His Arathim story did have him break his sword on an Arathim and yup its broke.

Elder: “Oh dear. You really are just a singer, aren’t you? SIR BARFINNIOUS SAYS HE NEEDS VOLUNTEERS!”

Barfinnious: “I do?”

Elder: “Yes, you do, you wrinkled wineskin of a fraud. I promised my people a champion and you -- you are that champion.”

Interesting take on that fake ultimate hero has to save the day anyway trope.

The elder figured out pretty early that Barfinnious is full of crap but he’s also out of options so he’s going to lean into it. If all Barfinnious can manage is to be tangentially inspirational then dangit it’ll have to do!

Hup being Hup he wants to run right into the situation but Barfinnious snaps at him.

Hup: “Sir, please. I can’t do it alone.”

Barfinnious: “Then you shouldn’t do anything. A paladin who runs headlong into danger is usually a dead paladin. That goes double for ridiculous Podling squires.”

Geez, Barf. Hup is an angel. Be nicer.

A small group of Veara and also volunteers armed with pitchforks and axes charge towards where THE BEAST was headed.

Barfinnious tries to get Hup to sneak away with him.

Hup: “You can go wherever you like. But I need to help.”

Elder: “Join us or don’t, bard. If your ‘squire’ is killed, we’ll give him a hero’s burial.”

Hup: “Bury me with my spoon!”

You’re a cool guy, Hup. With the attitude and spoon of a hero.

But the time Hup gets to the fracas, THE BEAST is already gone. And Vortina, the Gelfling who charged it with an axe yelling that it better get out of her yard, is slightly trampled. But she’s proud because pre-trampling she managed to wound THE BEAST.

Barfinnious, wondering why he’s still here, also wonders what could have done this kind of damage.

Elder: “That... that’s what we wanted you to figure out. Last unum, a rider came through town. Told us they’d heard the best story. Told by the warrior who’d lived the story. And that the warrior was heading this way. That’s why we cooked up the last of our larder... Didn’t realize we were wasting the food on a coward.”

Barfinnious: “Not a... I didn’t used to be a coward. You didn’t waste that food, elder. Hup and I will find this beast. Whatever it is. To this I swear.”

Huh! Between that dark musing that stories are better than reality implying that the princess Barfinnious saved actually died and him quietly saying he didn’t used to be a coward, the comic is painting an intriguing picture of Barfinnious the Paladin-Bard Who Is a Conman But Maybe Isn’t Just That.

The first arc had a strong focus on a duo of characters with Ordon and Fara. We have a duo again here with Barfinnious and Hup but what’s interesting in this issue is that its more the side characters that are influencing them.

You’d expect maybe Hup’s desire to be a cool hero guy would come into conflict with Barfinnious’ desire to skip out when the going gets tough. And they do come into conflict over it.

But its more the elder putting all his faith in Barfinnious and shaming him for his lack of actual heroism that prods Barfinnious.

While Veara seems set up to more positively prod Hup. Despite not being able to actually communicate very well.

But realizing that Barfinnious might be full of it discouraged Hup until the kind of pep talk from Veara.

So its going to be interesting to see how this situation unfolds!

[strifescloud]

the winds will lead us somewhere

6.4k words, kuwana gou/koryuu kagemitsu, G rating

getting together, fluff

-

If Kuwana listens, he can hear the joy of the soil at being tilled by Koryuu’s gentle hand, the way the things he cultivates yearn to grow under his practiced care, a joyous chime of things that thrive because they are beloved.

He hums along, because he likes Koryuu too.

read on ao3

There are many things that make up the earth, Kuwana thinks.

There is that which grows on the surface and within it, and that is what most people see, the waving blades of grass in a summer’s breeze and the vegetables of the harvest, the worms that are washed up by the rain and the thick roots of the trees you trip over in the dark. Life flourishes across its surface, gorgeous and fleeting, a cycle born from the rich soil.

But there is also that which lies deeper, the things people dig for - things that are lost and buried by calamity, the bones of the dead that are left behind after their flesh decays and nourishes the life around them, and even the beginnings of metal, the ore from which swords like them were forged.

When Kuwana digs his fingers into the dirt, soil damp and fresh against his skin, he feels like he can sense it - that this is where he came from, the beginnings of his body as a sword, and this is where he will end, his flesh offered to the earth.

The earth also sings, but Kuwana isn’t sure anyone can hear that except him.

“Do you ever listen to the earth, Koryuu-san?”   

It can’t hurt to ask.

Koryuu pauses where he is bent over their flourishing crop of carrots, his hair shifting and spilling over his shoulders as he turns to pin Kuwana with a confused stare.

“I can’t hear anything out here except us.” Koryuu rolls his shoulders, confusion melting off his face as easily as it had formed, and he turns back to his task, “Do you hear something, Kuwana-san?”

Kuwana hums, shrugs, turns his mind back to the feeling of soil beneath his hands as he keeps harvesting for their dinner. It’s a shame, he thinks, that Koryuu can’t hear it, because the soil beneath them sings brightly of his praises, in high, soft tones that echo the end of spring, the sprouting of the sunflowers in summer. If Kuwana listens, he can hear the joy of the soil at being tilled by Koryuu’s gentle hand, the way the things he cultivates yearn to grow under his practiced care, a joyous chime of things that thrive because they are beloved.

He hums along, because he likes Koryuu too.

It’s not something he thinks about too hard, because to Kuwana it is simple. He likes when they are assigned to work the fields together, sometimes in silence and sometimes spending their hours in gentle, slow conversation. He likes Koryuu’s hair, long and beautiful like a field of wheat under the sunrise, even though it always gets in his way. He likes Koryuu’s eyes, always kind and ever-wistful, sometimes staring off into the distance like he wanted the horizon to come take him away. He likes when they sit on the engawa after a long day’s work, their hands no longer in the soil but the dirt still under their fingernails, and they sit and talk about everything and nothing at all until the ache in their muscles begins to subside.

“You know, I always hear you humming to yourself over there. What, are you practicing for Kotegiri-kun’s lessons?” 

Kuwana shakes his head, smiling, and the potatoes he’s harvesting go into his basket. It kind of feels like a secret between him and the soil, but he wants to give an answer nonetheless.

“Things grow better if they know they’re loved.” 

This is true of both plants and people - and if swords could be people now, they would learn to grow as well. So it would be nice if Koryuu was a little closer to the earth, could hear the way it hums beneath them, but Kuwana understands.

I’ve been all over the place, you know, Koryuu had told him once, both of them watching the sun’s slow descent past the horizon, went from person to person, place to place, family to family. Feels like everybody else here has got their thing - lots of talk of former masters, or places they’ve been, the things that were important to them. Things that made them manifest the way they are, y’know?

He hadn’t turned to face Kuwana, but something about the way he stared out into the wide fields had seemed so melancholy as he spoke. 

I’ve been so many places as a sword, and Koryuu had smiled then, but it was neither happy nor sad, and I was wielded by so many people, but I don’t know if there’s somebody I would call “my former master”.

Kuwana had laughed, then, at the voice Koryuu had put on, a dry imitation of so many of their fellow sword warriors. 

Even now I guess I’m still looking, huh? Koryuu had shrugged, an odd vulnerability in the way his shoulders curled in, I like it here and all, but I feel like I’m missing something - that thing that tells you that you’re home. Guess they’ve all found it before, so they can see it again here. 

Kuwana had hummed at him, considering, but Koryuu had barrelled on, almost as if he needed to get the words out while he could.

I know I’m meant to be here, he’d said as he stared down at his knees, legs swinging childishly over the side of the engawa, and I know they’re my master now, for better or worse. But I keep feeling like, I dunno, I just gotta get up and walk and keep walking and see whatever it is I find beyond that horizon. 

Kuwana doesn’t really share the feeling, but he sees it in Koryuu’s face all the time. So he does get it - that Koryuu hadn’t learnt how to put down roots yet, still blowing this way and that like dandelion seeds in the wind, and maybe that airy heart of his wasn’t meant to be so attuned to the depths of the soil.

So if he can’t hear it, then Kuwana will sing along, both in hopes that it might reach Koryuu - might help him understand that the gentle affection he shows to the life he cultivates in the fields is returned, that this place already loves him even if he’s not ready for it - and because Kuwana thinks he is something that grows better with Koryuu, too. 

He wants to reach out, try and capture that fleeting, wandering presence for as long as he can before it flits out of reach. 

“Hope the potatoes can hear you, then.” Koryuu replies, his laugh echoing across the fields, “You really do love fieldwork, don’t you?”

Kuwana smiles, because it’s true, and the greatest joy he’s found since becoming alive is the feeling of soil beneath his hands.

“I was treasured by a farming family.” He says, adding more potatoes to his basket, “We fight our enemies on the battlefield, sure, but agriculture is about facing nature in its entirety. Besides, a healthy body is as great a weapon as your sword, don’t you think? It all starts from here.” He pats the freshly disturbed soil back into place, smiling down at it still like a proud parent, “Healthy soil, carefully cultivated, for a healthy diet and a healthy body.”

Koryuu’s looking at him now with a face Kuwana hasn’t learnt how to read yet, but it isn’t upset, so he doesn’t worry.

“I was with a farming family for a while too, but I guess I didn’t get all of that out of it.” Koryuu replies, but his hands are still gentle as he tends to the carrots, and Kuwana wonders if that is entirely true.

“What did they teach you?” Kuwana asks, because for all Koryuu talks of his journeys he rarely speaks of the particulars. Koryuu shrugs in response, tossing his long hair back over his shoulders from where it had fallen into his face as he leaned over.

“A lot of things,” He says vaguely, “but mostly that humans are full of mysteries, I guess. Can’t say I really get them, even after all this time - getting hung up on the weirdest things, like money and social status and who you or your parents or your parents’ parents were related to.” He shrugs again, pulls a face that makes Kuwana laugh, “It’s all kinda silly, right?”

“Yeah, I don’t get it either.” Kuwana agrees, and they both turn back to their task, silence falling between them again broken only by Kuwana’s quiet humming.

Kuwana finishes first, his basket full for the day’s harvest, so he wanders over to help Koryuu with the last of his own.

“Oh, thanks!” Koryuu says brightly, shuffling his own basket to sit between the two of them. It’s nice, Kuwana thinks as they work side-by-side, silent aside from the sounds of the harvest. Being with Koryuu was always nice, never complicated, always making the work days barely feel like work at all (not that it ever was, really, because Kuwana loved agriculture and he loved these fields). Koryuu’s presence was just warm, as if the sunset on the horizon that he chased had settled into his bones, and Kuwana thought he could spend endless days just like this one.

Koryuu sprawls in the dirt once he’s done, groaning with exhaustion and staring up at the sky.

“Now, Koryuu-san, don’t sit down after a long day’s work.” Kuwana leans down, stretching his hand out, “You’ll never get up again.” 

Koryuu grins back, his hair stuck to his neck with sweat and dirt smudges across his cheeks, and Kuwana’s heart sings in harmony with the earth. Koryuu grabs his outstretched hand, letting himself be hauled off the ground and slinging an arm around Kuwana’s shoulder once he’s standing again. 

“Fine work today again, Kuwana-san!” Koryuu pats him on the shoulder once and then lets him go, bending over to pick up the baskets that hold their harvest, and though he steps away the breeze blows his cape back towards Kuwana, the hem brushing against his ankles, as if to stop them from being truly separated. Koryuu straightens, baskets tucked under his arms, and then immediately laughs in frustration as the wind blows his long hair right into his eyes.

“Ahh, why’d I manifest with all this, huh?” He tosses his head, but the wind blows his hair right back across his face, “I should cut it all off, honestly.” 

Kuwana tugs off his glove, somehow afraid of getting the dirt on Koryuu even though it’s already streaked across his skin and hair, and reaches out with his bare hand, brushing the hair out of Koryuu’s face and tucking it gently behind his ear. Koryuu lets out a breath as Kuwana’s hand continues on its path, following the cascade of hair down his throat, knuckles brushing the dragon that peeks out from his collar before it retreats back to Kuwana’s pocket.

“Don’t cut it off.” He says lightly, Koryuu’s cape still brushing his ankles and the setting sun casting their twin shadows across the fields, “It’s nice. Let it grow.” 

Koryuu stares back at him, his fingers flexing on the baskets he carries under his arms.

“Okay,” he says finally, after the silence has stretched far beyond comfortable, “I will.” 

Kuwana laughs, tapping Koryuu on the arm as he passes, leading him back towards the citadel.

“Kuwana-san?”

The breeze is nice through their little room, a cool balm for the sweat that trickles down his throat and soaks into his shirt, and Kuwana finds himself turning into it, trying to catch more of it on his skin.

“Kuwana-san?”

“Oh, sorry, Kotegiri.” Kuwana replies absently, turning away from the window again, “I got a bit distracted.”

Koryuu is working the fields again - Kuwana can hear the distant, joyous chime of the leaves, the sound of freshly turned soil. Kotegiri frowns at him, peering out the same window into the still horizon.

“Is there something out there?” He asks, turning his confused gaze back to Kuwana, and Kuwana just shrugs.

“I was listening to the earth.” He wishes they would understand sometimes, the ever-present hum beneath their feet that no one else seemed to hear, how his mind would run with its harmonies and leave him behind.

“What’s up, Kuwa? The earth?” Buzen interrupts, clapping him on the shoulder excitedly, “What’s it saying?” Kuwana opens his mouth, but Buzen barrels onwards, “Huh? What’s it say? Anything good?”

“It says you’re nosy, Buzen.” Kuwana replies, exasperated but smiling as Buzen nods enthusiastically.

“I don’t really get it, but cool! The earth talks about me!” He says with a bright smile as Matsui laughs quietly on the other side of the room. He can hear Murakumo whisper something into Samidare’s ear, and Kuwana thinks that’ll be the end of it until the earth rumbles beneath his feet, discontented and amused all at once.

“Ah, Koryuu-san.” He blurts out in response, and he only realises he’s said it aloud when everyone else in the room stares at him again.

“Koryuu...san?” Kotegiri repeats, fixing him with a confused stare. Kuwana feels an odd burning sensation begin to rush across his cheekbones, and he swears the room feels suddenly warmer.

“Ah, it’s - he’s working on the fields today, and-” Kuwana tries to explain, tripping over his words awkwardly, but a loud gasp from Kotegiri cuts him off.

“Is that what you were looking at?” Kotegiri rushes forward, grabbing Kuwana’s arm and shaking him slightly, “Kuwana-san! Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“Tell you?” Kuwana repeats, because he had only just heard through the soil that Koryuu had tripped over a sleeping Akashi in the fields, hiding from his own duty, the earth resonating with concern and amusement. 

“Do you like Koryuu-san?” Kotegiri’s voice is insistent, shaking him again, and Kuwana smiles at the spark of light in his eyes.

“Of course I do.” That seems obvious - Koryuu is his friend, after all.

“No, no.” Kotegiri leans further into Kuwana’s space, trying to stare past the thick veil of hair into his eyes, “Do you like like him?”

“He’s my friend.” Kuwana says, tone rising almost like a question. Kotegiri sighs, releasing Kuwana from his vice grip and gesturing animatedly as he steps back.

“Not like friends! I read about it in those magazines that Master likes.” Kotegiri’s hands are on his hips now, his presence much grander than his small frame as he stares Kuwana down, “It’s about love.”

Kuwana blinks, and he hears Matsui sigh behind him.

“Ah, it makes the heart race, pumping the blood faster and faster.” Kuwana turns to look at him and Matsui sighs again, staring dreamily out of the window that Kuwana had previously claimed.

“Come on, sit down.” Kotegiri tugs at Kuwana’s hand until they’re both sitting on the floor, Buzen joining them right at Kuwana’s side, patting him on the shoulder reassuringly, “What do you like about Koryuu-san?”

“This is a little embarrassing.” Kuwana says awkwardly, but Kotegiri frowns at him.

“Kuwana-san, this is important!” Kotegiri keeps frowning, looking a little disappointed, and Kuwana sighs.

“I like spending time with Koryuu-san.” He drags one hand across the flooring, wishing it was the familiar feeling of soil beneath his fingers, and continues with a laugh, “The earth likes him too. He’s gentle. I like it when we talk, no matter what it’s about.” He stops, feeling awkward again.

“And?” Kotegiri prompts, and Kuwana tries to continue.

“I like it when he smiles. He’s sadder than he looks, so it doesn’t happen as often as you think.”

He’s treading into territory he doesn’t really want to say aloud, like how he hopes Koryuu finds that feeling of home here at last, that he stops being adrift and lost - that Kuwana wants to reach out and take his hand and hold him here, but he can’t cage him if he wants to be free.

Kotegiri’s eyes seem to sparkle, and Kuwana thinks he might be tearing up.

“Oh.” Kotegiri says, taking Kuwana’s hand again, “I’m so happy for you!”

Kuwana blinks at him again.

“Why?”

“Because it’s love!” Kotegiri leaps to his feet, clapping his hands, “And that’s something very special.”

Love, Kuwana repeats in his mind. 

He thinks he knows love already. He’s been human long enough, been among humans even longer, to know how love sits in the air. It’s comfortable - humans feel love every day. It sits in all the dusty corners of their lives, a foundation as solid as the earth to walk on.

Kuwana knows love. He loves so many things, after all - the earth, the fields, the other Gou swords, Tonbokiri-sama, all the parts of his everyday life. It’s ever-present, a constant warmth in his bones, and he never has to question it.

But does he love…

“Kotegiri,” Buzen interrupts, “why do you know so much about love?”

“When you sing and dance on stage, you have to make your audience feel loved!” Kotegiri responds enthusiastically, clapping his hands, “So I had to learn more about how to make that kind of atmosphere, right?”

“Sounds good!” Buzen stands, leaving Kuwana sitting alone on the floor.

“Let’s continue, everyone!” Kotegiri calls, and the others begin to re-assemble into their formation, “Now, repeat after me!”

“Two halves of a melon…” Samidare murmurs, and Kuwana stands to take his position.

“Five, six, seven, eight-”

There is always a comfort to be found with soil beneath his hands.

Another long day in the fields had passed, the sun beginning to set once again, and Kuwana feels that warmth in his bones. 

“Kuwana-san, are you done?” Koryuu calls, and Kuwana nods slowly.

Love, Kotegiri had said.

“Kuwana-san?”

“Koryuu-san,” Kuwana says, rolling an onion between his palms, “what do you know about love?”

He hears a long sigh above him, the sound of boots crunching the soil as they walk over to him. Koryuu sits across from him, taking the onion gently out of his hands and putting it in his basket. 

“You always ask hard questions.” He says with another sigh, reaching out and tugging at where Kuwana’s collar was slightly askew, patting it into place, and Kuwana smiles a little as the hand withdraws, “Love’s a pretty crazy thing, isn’t it?” Koryuu shrugs, pulling his now-tangled hair out from where it was stuck under his own collar, “Humans do all kinds of weird, extravagant things for love - leaving their whole lives behind, spending all their money, killing people, waging wars.”

“You think so?” Kuwana frowns at the ground again, avoiding Koryuu’s gaze. Kotegiri’s words feel like they’re ringing in his ears, rising above the ever-present song of the earth, but he doesn’t know what to do with them yet, “Were you ever loved by your master?”

Koryuu shrugs again, laughing, the sound carefree but with a note of something Kuwana doesn’t know how to handle.

“That’s different, isn’t it?” Koryuu replies, still with that same note in his voice, “A human will love a tool because it’s useful. It makes you rich, it kills your enemies. When it’s no longer useful, that love will wane,” Koryuu traces his fingers through the dirt beneath him, “like the moon. Maybe it’ll come back one day - or maybe you’ll be sold, traded, forgotten, left to gather dust somewhere. Humans are fickle like that, you know?”

“I was treasured.” Kuwana says firmly, because this is a thing that he knows, as certain as the sun setting in the west, “My former masters cherished me.”

Koryuu laughs again, clapping one hand on Kuwana’s shoulder as he rises, then extending it down to pull Kuwana up with him.

“They loved a sword they could wield.” Kuwana takes the hand and Koryuu hauls him to his feet, “It’s different when a person loves a person.”

Koryuu’s hand is still in his.

Kuwana wonders, absently, if the reason Koryuu can’t hear how loudly the earth sings of him is because he isn’t ready to accept that it loves him yet.

“Koryuu-san,” Kuwana says firmly, “you’re a person now, too. And the other people here love you.”

Plant your roots here, a part of him wants to say, but it’s selfish to keep a wanderer from the road. Koryuu’s smile is unreadable, tilting his head and staring as if he’s trying to see past Kuwana’s hair and into his obscured eyes, fingers shifting in Kuwana’s grasp.

“Our master loves a sword they can wield.” Koryuu repeats the words, but there’s a hint of uncertainty in them, a shakiness as he takes back his hand. 

“There’s other people here, too.” Kuwana says, but that’s all he’s willing to say. He picks up his basket and Koryuu follows suit, leading him back to the citadel in silence. 

Maybe that desire, selfish and selfless at once, is what Kotegiri had seen in him - wanting to spend every day just like this, the two of them wrapped in the endless song of the fields, Koryuu smiling at Kuwana’s gentle humming as the sun passes overhead. But more than that, just wanting Koryuu to know what it means to have somewhere to wander home to, for him to feel the same warmth that Kuwana feels whenever there’s soil beneath his fingers, knowing he belongs right here.

Perhaps you would call that love.

Kuwana’s walking past the kitchen when he hears a long, familiar groan.

“I don’t know what to do, Daihannya-saaaaan.” Koryuu whines, and Kuwana quickly flattens himself against the wall. He’s not eavesdropping, exactly, but the look on Koryuu’s face the other day was still bothering him a little.

“Now, now, Koryuu-kun.” Daihannya’s smooth voice is a little softer, and Kuwana tries to breathe as silently as he can, “Whatever is the matter?” There’s a scrape of cups over the table, Daihannya offering a drink to the other sword, “I’ve never seen you so despondent.”

Koryuu sighs loudly, and Kuwana hears fingers tapping on the table nervously.

“It’s about... you know.” Koryuu sighs again, “We had farm duty again.”

“Lucky you.” Daihannya replies, a note of amusement in his voice, and there’s a faint sound like skin on skin,  “Come, now, I’m trying to help.”

“I’m glad this is funny for you.” Koryuu grumbles, but he continues more hesitantly, “He was asking me about...love.” 

Oh, Kuwana thinks as a sinking feeling begins in his stomach, oh, no, I’ve upset him.

“Love? Well, there you go.” There’s a stronger hint of laughter behind the silky words, and Koryuu groans again.

“No.” There’s a thump, and then Koryuu’s voice sounds a little muffled, “I didn’t say it.”

“You didn’t?”

“Noooo…”

“Koryuu-kun.”

“I know."

Kuwana’s breath feels shallow, his skin alight with nerves. What was it Koryuu couldn’t say to him? Had he upset him? Did Koryuu know?

He steps away from the kitchen, feeling like an intruder. He walks through the halls of the citadel, smiling faintly at those he passes, and finds a quiet spot on the engawa to sit and watch the sunset.

It’s not quite the same without Koryuu at his side, cheerful voice in his ears, but the quiet can be nice too. The earth resonates with dusk in time with the gentle breeze and there is comfort in the harmonies, so Kuwana hums along as softly as he can, laying his worries bare.

“Mind if I join you?”

The sudden, smooth voice makes him jump, and when he looks up Daihannya is standing above him, two cups in one hand and a bottle in the other. There’s a faint smile on his face but Kuwana feels his heart beat loudly in his ears, that prickling sensation creeping up his skin again.

“Sure!” He says brightly still, because he likes Daihannya, and he feels like this might be important.

Daihannya sits beside him and Kuwana stares back out at the sunset, listening to the sound of liquid pouring into the cups until Daihannya taps him on the arm, pressing one into his hand. Kuwana takes a sip and it’s a sweet, gentle sake, and he lets it roll around his tongue before he swallows it, savouring the flavour.

“You and Koryuu-kun have been doing more than your fair share of fieldwork lately.” Daihannya says, taking a sip from his own drink, and Kuwana tries not to react, “Thanks for your hard work.”

“Not at all,” Kuwana replies immediately, feeling like his mouth is moving on its own, “I like working in the fields a lot.” Daihannya laughs, nodding slightly as he takes another sip.

“I’ve noticed, actually.” Kuwana feels a heat rise in his cheeks as he ducks his head, but Daihannya pats him on the shoulder, “No, no, don’t be ashamed. It’s lovely, seeing how much you enjoy it.” There’s a wistfulness to his tone as the hand falls away, returning to twine fingers around the cup in his other hand, “There’s so much to discover about ourselves - what we like or don’t like, what to name these feelings we weren’t forged with, how to navigate the world on our own two feet instead of in our master’s hand. I envy how much you Gou swords seem to know yourselves.”

Kuwana blinks, confused, and the words bring back a question that had once floated distantly in his mind.

“Are the Osafune swords close?” He knows some of the others aren’t as close as the Gou swords, the bonds of their smith strengthened by the determined efforts of Kotegiri, but Koryuu spoke of such things in fleeting bursts that it was hard to tell how he felt.

“Yes and no.” Daihannya said slowly, a pensive look growing on his face, “We’re independent by nature, but not so much that we keep a distance from one another. Mitsutada would never let that happen.” He laughs, a more genuine smile taking over, “I think if Koryuu-kun really tried to wander off, Mitsutada would just go out there and drag him back for dinner.” He puts his cup down, shifting slightly so his eyes pierce right into Kuwana’s, “But you can understand that, can’t you?”

Kuwana stills, his breath shallow, and he thinks ah, caught.

“Daihannya-san-”

“I’m not as wrapped up in my own world as he is.” Daihannya interrupts, but his tone is gentle, “but I hope you didn’t take his whining badly. He can be a bit dense sometimes.” Kuwana winces slightly, and Daihannya nods in response, “I see. Well, I’m not here to spill all his secrets, but I won’t reveal yours.” 

“...Thank you.” Kuwana offers hesitantly, and Daihannya pats him again, this time gently on the knee.

“Don’t be so nervous, Kuwana-kun. I don’t bite.” He turns back to pick up his drink again, “But I do wish you would be honest with him.”

Kuwana lets silence stretch between them, unsure what to say. There’s a weight to the words he can’t quite lift yet, and it seems Koryuu hasn’t revealed everything either. He takes a long sip of his drink, hoping the alcohol will steady his frayed nerves.

“We may have long years ahead of us,” Daihannya said, voice almost reverently quiet, “but our joys are still fleeting, and our sorrows deep, as if our lives were as short and brilliant as a human’s.” His long hair spills over his shoulder as he leans forward, conviction threading steel into his words, “Don’t let moments slip by.”

Kuwana blinks once, twice, trying to gather his thoughts, but Daihannya is already standing, taking his drink with him.

“Oh, and Kuwana-kun?” He adds as he turns away, his last words thrown over his shoulder, “It’s not a coincidence it’s always you two on duty together.”

And with that he left, leaving Kuwana alone with the darkened sky and his racing thoughts, sake cup clutched in his fingers.

“What do you think happens to us when we die?”

The question breaks the quiet of their morning, Kuwana’s hands stilling and his hum catching in his throat. Koryuu’s leaning on his hoe, using one boot to worm it further into the soil, and Kuwana frowns at the furrow in his brow.

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, like, do we leave a body like humans do? We are basically human now, so it’d make sense.” Koryuu shrugs, gesturing with one hand, “Or do we just, poof, the same way we manifested?” 

It’s an odd question, but Koryuu wasn’t one to let a thought sit in his head for too long.

“I hope we leave a body.” Kuwana replies slowly, hands kneading the soil beneath him, “I want to be buried.” Koryuu laughs, flashing him a grin.

“Of course you do! You know, when I was with a sword-testing family, they used to try their swords out on dead people - well, dead criminals, but they were still people, right?” 

“Yeah.” Kuwana says, his focus sharpening. He treasures every anecdote Koryuu shares, like precious jewels for how rare they were, little glimpses into a vast history.

“Well, eventually they had more swords than bodies, of course. So what did they do? Sewed the people back up and used them again!” Koryuu keeps laughing, shaking his head as he swings the hoe back up onto his shoulder, “It’s crazy, right? Looking back at it now, with my own body, it feels kinda wrong to me. They’d take all the bits out of them too, turn the organs into some kind of miracle medicine.”  Kuwana pulls a face, and Koryuu gestures at him, “Right? Maybe you’re rubbing off on me, Kuwana-san, but I’d rather eat some good, hearty vegetables,” Koryuu picks a carrot out of his basket, waggling it in his direction, “than bits of dead people.” He tosses the carrot back in, shrugging.

“Well,” Kuwana says, “if we do leave a body, I hope I end up in a field just like this one.” The sun’s touch is gentle on his skin, the breeze making grass sway in the distance, and the peace that he feels at the sight runs as deep as his bones, “My body will be food for the earth, to make food for people. Would that be any different?”

“Nah,” Koryuu’s voice sounds a little wistful, a little distant, and Kuwana wonders where his mind has wandered to, “I guess it’s not so different.”

Kuwana hums in agreement, but then lets the sound stretch out as he turns back to his work, weaving in quietly beneath the harmonies of the soil. The earth sings out in joy as Koryuu’s attentions return to it, and Kuwana can’t help but mimic the soft melody, his own heart filled with warmth.

“You’re singing to yourself again.” Kuwana wonders if he imagines the fondness in Koryuu’s tone, the gentle hint of laughter that rolls beneath the words,

“Not to myself.” He says insistently, but then he hesitates, “I’m just...singing with the earth.”

“With the earth?” Koryuu repeats, and Kuwana feels a familiar burn in his cheeks. He knows no one else hears it, knows it’s strange and sometimes he’s still more spirit than human, but he hopes Koryuu doesn’t think it’s too weird.

“Yeah.” And to you, he thinks, because he still wishes more than anything that Koryuu could hear how much this land treasured him, “The earth is always singing.”

“Well,” Koryuu stops his work again, dusting off his soil-stained hands, “I always wondered what it would say when you asked it something.” Kuwana laughs, delighted, and Koryuu continues, “What’s it singing about?” 

Kuwana pauses again, unsure what to say, and Koryuu looks over at him when the silence stretches a little too long.

“You don’t have to-”

“Everything, all the time.” Kuwana lets himself sink into the sound a little bit, focusing on it, trying to find the words even though he knows he can’t describe it, “The sun, the rain, the things that are growing or dying, the insects that crawl between the grass. It sings about me, about you.” He shrugs, gesturing at the field that surrounds them, the line of the horizon in the distance.

“About me?” Koryuu repeats, finally putting his tools down and coming to sit next to Kuwana, brow drawing together, “What’s it saying about me?” 

The question makes Kuwana’s heart thump loudly in his ears, almost drowning out the ever-present hum beneath his feet. Koryuu’s eyes sparkle in the morning light, his hair tousled by the breeze and stuck to his face with sweat, and he looks so beautiful Kuwana fumbles for his words, feeling them trip and tangle on their way out of his mouth.

“Everything here wants to grow for you,” he starts awkwardly, “You’re good in the fields. You care for this land.” Kuwana pauses, swallowing, aware suddenly of the sweat down the back of his neck and how thirsty he is, “Whenever you’re out here it sings endlessly for you, even though you can’t hear it, because the earth loves you. It just wants you to be here, and even if you don’t feel like it’s home it always wants you to come back.”

Koryuu is staring at him with a face Kuwana can’t read, eyes wide but intent, and Kuwana has to look away before he speaks again. He’s so nervous he thinks his hands are shaking but the words are suddenly clear in his mind, Daihannya’s voice ringing in his ears, don’t let moments slip by. 

He wonders if this is the secret Koryuu was keeping, the same fears in their mirrored hearts, both of them too afraid to speak it aloud.

“That’s why I sing with it.” His smile feels fragile even though it spreads wide across his face, a secret freed from his heart at last, “Because I feel the same way.” 

Koryuu had been leaning forward, but at Kuwana’s words he sits back, hands grasping at the fabric of his pants tightly. He looks dazed, a little frightened, and Kuwana feels a spike of fear in his stomach, I hope I haven’t ruined it. The wind has died down and the field is still, so still, and Kuwana abruptly feels like he’s breathing far too loud in the sudden silence. Koryuu shifts, the sound of his boots scraping against the earth grating across Kuwana’s ears.

His hand reaches out, gently working the hat off Kuwana’s head and placing it to the side, but then returning to Kuwana’s face. The knuckles brush against Kuwana’s cheek and he holds as still as he can, almost afraid to breathe as long fingers push the hair in front of his left eye to the side. He feels exposed, goggles still hanging around his neck and trying not to shy away, letting Koryuu find whatever he’s searching for. 

Koryuu’s eyes are fixed on his exposed one and he holds the gaze, feeling like the moment is stretching into eternity. 

The hand on his cheek trails further down, letting his hair fall back into place, breaking the raw gaze between them as Koryuu’s hand fits gently around his jaw. The other hand comes up to mirror it, cradling Kuwana’s face, the touch impossibly gentle as if Koryuu was afraid he’d break him.

“Sometimes I really don’t know what to do with you.” Koryuu says, the words almost like a sigh as he leans forward to kiss him.

Their lips meet hesitantly, chaste and nervous and Kuwana is almost thankful for it because the feeling of slightly chapped skin against his mouth is so odd and unfamiliar. But when Koryuu leans back Kuwana chases the feeling, not wanting to let him go, pressing their lips together again with more force. There’s something so sweet it makes his heart ache about the nervous way Koryuu’s hands shift on his skin and Kuwana kisses him harder, his heart racing, trying to tell him don’t worry, me too.

They break apart as slowly as they came together, Koryuu’s hands leaving Kuwana’s face to take his hands.

“Well,” Koryuu said, a veil of false bravado not quite hiding the shakiness in his voice, “okay. That was, uh, nice.”

“It was nice.” Kuwana agrees, because he liked it and if Koryuu liked it, they could do it again. Koryuu pulls a face, fiddling with Kuwana’s hand, a nervous energy taking over.

“I don’t know what we do now.” Koryuu continues with a nervous laugh, and Kuwana squeezes his hand reassuringly.

It was hard, piecing together how to be human from fragments of centuries, an ever-changing puzzle with thousands of pieces. 

“Does anything have to change right now?” The sun had shifted now, their twin shadows harsh against the field, side by side, “I am Kuwana Gou, and you’re Koryuu Kagemitsu. Today we have farm duty, and afterwards we’ll watch the sun set, like we always do.” 

Koryuu’s gentle smile could outshine the sun, his eyes soft and fond, and he nods slightly at Kuwana’s words.

“Like we always do, yeah. You’re right.” 

Kuwana takes a moment just to hold Koryuu’s hand a little tighter, commit the feeling to his memory, that fickle presence no longer just out of reach. But he lets go as Koryuu stands, following suit, both of them returning to their patch of field as if nothing had happened.

And at the end of the day Kuwana carries his harvest back to the citadel, following the bright stream of Koryuu’s hair in the afternoon breeze. They sit side by side on the engawa, the sun just beginning to set, and the earth sings of the same happiness that Kuwana feels in every corner of his heart.

“Daihannya-san said something to me I was wondering about.” Kuwana says once their silence had stretched on long enough, watching the grass sway in the breeze as Koryuu’s legs swing idly off the edge.

“Oh, geez, what did he say?” Koryuu sighs, and Kuwana shakes his head.

“Nothing bad. It was just about we’re on field duty together.” Kuwana shrugs loosely, “I like working the fields, so I don’t mind, but we do it a lot more than the others.”

Koryuu���s silence is a little longer than usual, and when Kuwana turns there’s a light dusting of pink forming across his cheeks.

“I...may have asked the Master to give us more farm duty. You and me, I mean. Together.” Kuwana’s face almost hurts from how widely he grins, unable to stop the smile from blooming, even as Koryuu continues, “But I can talk to them if you don’t want to, it’s-”

“Koryuu-san,” Kuwana says firmly, taking Koryuu’s hand that rests between them and tangling the fingers together, “I want to.”

Koryuu’s answering grin is almost blinding in its radiance, a mixture of joy and nerves, and as they turn back to watch the sunset Kuwana keeps a tight hold on his hand. They’d figure the rest out tomorrow, and the day after that, and every day after, unending years ahead of them to learn more about living. 

But right now, Kuwana wants to hold onto this one, perfect moment for as long as he can, until the sun sets.

[sangfroidwoolf]

Tony Slattery - July 2017 Telegraph interview

Returning to the Fringe for the first time in 33 years, Tony Slattery reveals to Dominic Cavendish just how lucky he is to be alive.

It’s an August evening in 1981 and in an Edinburgh church hall, a gaggle of bright young things take their bows before a cheering audience. Then there’s a big surprise, a token of good times to come.

On to the stage bounds Rowan Atkinson, who announces that this year’s festival is ushering in an exciting new award for “best comedy show on the Fringe”, sponsored by Perrier, “the bubbly water people”, and that Cambridge “bloody” Footlights have scooped the inaugural prize. Click-click go the cameras, yielding a classic “before they were famous” group photograph: Hugh Laurie, politely reaching for the cheque; Emma Thompson, looking on delighted; Stephen Fry, wearing a bow-tie and wary grin; and, behind him, a handsome young devil by the name of Tony Slattery.

Fast forward a decade and Fry, Laurie, Thompson and Slattery have become household names – reuniting in the hit 1992 British rom-com Peter’s Friends, about old college revue chums meeting up, 10 years on, to reminisce and recriminate over a boozy yet sobering weekend. Jump ahead to today, though, and while the first three have gone from strength to strength (even national treasure status), Slattery, who once hoovered up work on stage and small-screen – so ubiquitous that he was lampooned for it (in Private Eye, Viz and on Spitting Image too) – has been notable by his absence. Last year, hailing Peter’s Friends as almost “his favourite British film ever,” the late AA Gill asked: “Yes, where is Tony Slattery?”

Living, in turns out, in a rented two-up, two-down in Edgware, north London and still in recovery from a mental breakdown in the mid-Nineties that left him with a shattered career, crushed confidence and few friends. Oh, and a bank account almost empty from binge-spending on drink, drugs, impulse buys, charitable flurries and exploitative acquaintances, and years of medical help to tackle a condition belatedly identified as Cyclothymia, a form of bipolar disorder.

The man who greets me in Soho is, though it pains me to write this, a pale shadow of his former debonair self: grey-haired, with haunted brown eyes. Smiling sweetly and jittery as anything, Slattery’s speech, slightly breathless, throws up a skittering collection of heart‑stopping anecdotes, abstruse diagnostic details and such tentative expressions of hope for a fresh start to his career it almost brings a tear to your eye.

Now 57, he next month is going to brave the gladiatorial boards in Edinburgh for the first time in 33 years. The challenge? The stage‑version of Whose Line Is It Anyway? the Channel 4 improvisation show that helped make him a comedy kingpin in the Eighties and Nineties. When the call came for him to take part, “I didn’t waver for a moment. I was so excited and surprised. A bit of me thought: ‘Someone must have dropped out. They must be desperate!’ It’s a risk, I know that. What happens if the words don’t come?” He giggles. “I said to myself the other day, in a sense I’m playing the ‘F--- me, I thought he was dead!’ card”.

In the most immediate sense, it’s a minor miracle he’s even sitting here. In the past two years, he has been rushed to hospital twice. The first time, “I realised I couldn’t get up from my chair, and managed to call 999”. It turned out he had pneumonia, one lung clogged with pus, plus related sepsis. Two months on, he found himself rolling around on the floor – “There was so much pain in my stomach, I couldn’t speak”. He collapsed in A&E, and was on the operating table in 20 minutes. “Part of my lower bowel had knotted so they took out a section of my gut. I lost three stone in four weeks.” On top of that, he caught super-bug, C difficile.

All that, though, is but the stinging chaser to the life-threatening cocktail of calamity that beset him during his annus horribilis of 1996, when he cut himself off from the world in his Thameside flat in Wapping, refusing to see friends, ignoring calls, ceasing to wash, letting post pile up, and heedless of the bailiffs who hammered at the door. “I felt I had used a lot of myself up, in the wrong way, and I had had enough of it, really. I felt I had become a light entertainment construct – there was an intense feeling of waste, and self-hatred,” he says. He concedes the bitter truth of the sneering Private Eye cartoon that depicted his telephone answering machine as giving the outgoing message: “Yes, I’ll do it!” “I did a lot of rubbish. I was a scampering puppy. I didn’t take holidays. I wasn’t born into money [he grew up on a Willesden housing estate, the youngest of five, his Irish father on the production line at the Heinz factory]. So I kept saying ‘Yes’. I think people started to think ‘Oh, not him again!’ And so I stopped.”

At the “lighter” end of his behaviour during his period of turmoil, there’s the surreal incident, recounted in a documentary about bipolar disorder that Fry (the most supportive of his Footlights chums, he says) recorded in 2006: the time he tipped his electrical goods into the Thames, “with the river police shouting at me from their loudhailers”. At the darkest end, there’s a nadir he hasn’t made public until now. “For some reason, one night I took all my clothes off, then went down to [my block’s] underground car-park and lay under a car. I got bitten on my feet by rats while I was lying there.” When he managed to get to a hospital, in addition to being given antipsychotics, he was tested for plague. “I think I must be the only person in showbiz who’s been tested for plague! I thought you’d laugh at that,” he adds. I try. It’s hard.

Does he envy his fellow famous Footlighters? He claims not. “They were always in a stellar world”. He does admit to crying watching Peter’s Friends, though. “Yes, I do,” he says. “It was such a charmed time.” He’s broke now. Was he once a millionaire? “It’s possible,” he replies. “I’m terrible with money.” Was it the case he could spend £4,000 a week on cocaine, as has been claimed? Yes. “At the peak, I was taking 10g a day. A specialist said ‘You must be exaggerating, you wouldn’t have a nose left’. But I think I was snorting so much, so fast, it didn’t have time to touch the sides. That’s the only reason I’ve still got a septum.”

A bright kid – an all-rounder at school, winning an Exhibition to Cambridge to read modern and medieval languages – he dabbled with ambitions of entering academia: “I wanted to be a crusty old professor with the keys to the port cellar.” But he answered the call to become an entertainer instead, and still doesn’t regret pursuing that path, for all the troughs, not least because it enabled him to meet “the love of my life”, actor Mark Michael Hutchinson. The pair fell for each other in 1986 while appearing in the West End in Me and My Girl and have been together ever since, although Hutchinson was busy performing in the US during Slattery’s darkest times. While their relationship was common knowledge in the profession, it’s the first time he has let it slip to a journalist.

“I’m not coming out. I was never in,” he jokes. “I’m happily described as gay. I was never hung up about my sexuality. At university, I played for both sides and I think until 1986 I was unsure. But what has always mattered to me more than sex was finding someone to love. What is important isn’t someone’s body, it’s whether their smile reaches their eyes.” For all his various sicknesses, his outlook seems remarkably healthy. “What will survive of us is love,” he says, quoting Larkin.

“If all I am destined to be is a footnote in comedy history, that’s fine,” he adds. And if nothing comes of his Edinburgh foray this time round, he’ll cope. “I’ll carry on. Please don’t write that I’m a ‘survivor’,” he says, in a parting shot, cringing at the clichéd thought of it. Yet that’s exactly what he is. And he should get a prize for it.