#sageart

[sagechan]

hi wow i’ve been pretty absent here but i just posted a new little ushihina fic over at my AO3 right here. this one’s for @beanjournal because wow what a lovely friend <3

[sagechan]

Yamaguchi Tadashi is one of those people who’s quietly beautiful.

girls will giggle at him from across the class before homeroom. they’ll shoot him sly looks and flirt with him, twirling their hair between their fingers. he smiles and flirts back. he’s grown in confidence, now that he’s a third year, and he doesn’t put himself down as much as he used to. he lets the girls see his smile, the dimple in his left cheek, below the smattering of freckles over the bridge of his nose.

he’s grown in...other areas, too, these last few years. sometimes, before the teacher walks in, the girls like to crowd around his desk and gossip with him. they can trust “Yama-chan” not to spill their secrets about who in their grade they like, or who’s dating whom, or what the latest drama is regarding the second years. Tadashi smiles and nods and laughs his bright, sunny laugh. and the girls are charmed. they’re pleased they have a cute boy to gossip with. especially a boy with such a nice body, because--let’s be honest--all those workouts at volleyball practice definitely pay off. they like to lean on him, to wrap their hands around his biceps maybe. or slip a comfortable hand through his dark hair. rest probing fingers on his broad shoulders. he lets them. he smiles. he laughs.

but no one ever gives him chocolates on Valentine’s day. no one ever invites him to parties or to hang out after school. he’s quietly there. something the girls in his class like to entertain themselves with during the school days, but forget about once the weekend arrives.

he doesn’t mind, though. he’s not even interested in girls. hasn’t been for a long time. not since...

and anyway, he knows he shouldn’t expect things from people just because they’re nice to him sometimes.

still...

most days after school he walks home by himself. and it’s the loneliest walk in the world.

Yamaguchi Tadashi is beautiful, but he would never say that about himself. not out of self-pity, but out of the genuine belief that no one wants him.

but then, he steps into the gymnasium.

slips into his sneakers.

puts on a practice jersey.

the afternoon sunlight coming in through the windows falls on the hardwood, and the room is lit like gold.

the squeak of shoes, the smell of salonpas and gym socks and rubber soles. a whistle blowing, then a rush of wind, a swirl of black feathers in the golden light, then a silent hush, a ball goes up, a player follows, the smack, a sound so satisfying it still sends shivers down Tadashi’s spine whenever he hears it, and then the crack, the boom of the ball as it slams to the floor on the other side of the net. the spiker crowing in victory. coach ordering ‘again.’ teammates chanting ‘nice kill!’

someone calls to him. “Yamaguchi! Glad you’re here! Get in line for spiking practice!”

Tadashi nods, quietly. he smiles, a truly broad and happy grin. they call to him, this band of misfit crows. and he answers. he calls back, every time.

hands slap his shoulder and pat him on the back as he joins the line. hands of his friends and teammates. firm, honest hands. when they grip his arm, it’s to help him when he’s fallen. when they ruffle fingers through his hair, it’s when he’s made another amazing serve. when they rest on his back, it’s to let him he’s not alone on the court. he’s never alone on the court. none of them are.

Hinata goes up again into the air, Kageyama already tossing to him. Tadashi watches with his breath held along with the rest of the team. it’s a marvel every time to see their Little Giant fly.

Tsukishima alone blocks one of the second years’ spikes in the scrimmage, and Tadashi cheers louder than anyone else on the sidelines. it’s a marvel every time to see their unbreakable wall.

again and again, his teammates perform miracles on the court. chemical reactions sparking new transformations and combos. it’s a marvel every time to see how different each set will be. never the same. never to be repeated again. always something unique and remarkably beautiful.

a quiet kind of beautiful. to other teams, they seem like nothing more than scrappy crows. a band of misfit cogs shoved together to somehow, miraculously, create something that moves.

Tadashi loves nothing more in the world.

he loves to be here, with the hands he knows better than his own, the friends who welcome him with joy and honest love. he walks into the orange-golden light of the gym, and he is home.

Yamaguchi Tadashi is quietly beautiful. he’d never tell you that himself. but here, in the slanted light and the smell of sweat and the sound of sneakers, he shines like a diamond. here, where the whole team is utterly devoted to their gentle, kind captain. here, where he is wanted. here, where he wants to be. here, on the court, where he is never alone.

some days, the road he walks is not so lonely.

some days, he walks with a smile on his face, and a spring in his step.

some days, he smiles purely to let in the light, and to shine the light back on the world. because after being with friends he loves so much, he doesn’t feel lonely. he doesn’t feel unwanted.

after being with friends he loves, he doesn’t feel anything less than beautiful.

[sagechan]

A:TLA & Forgiveness

I think what gets me about Avatar: The Last Airbender (because, yes, I still think about it daily and engage in critical debates with my own inner thoughts) is that while, in a sense, it’s a love story, the typical “romantic” love story takes a backseat to a much more important type of love: forgiveness.

Take the show on a microcosm level. Since it was geared for a younger audience, each episode (especially in the earlier parts) usually involved the characters learning some type of lesson. No, not how many hot dogs they can fit in a picnic basket; you could flip over to House Of Mickey on Disney Channel for that kind of lesson. It was more like the characters learned lessons about their own human failing, and being able to own up when they did something wrong. How many times throughout the entire series has each character ended up apologizing to the others for doing something stupid, or acting a little nasty, or putting the group in danger?

A:TLA is a show about being able to forgive, especially since none of these kids really have much of a family to return to. Aang’s entire people are lost, Sokka and Katara’s father is at war, and Toph’s parents neglect her. Each face a form of familial loss, and they come together, form bonds together, become their own family. And in a family, you need to be able to forgive when someone screws up. One of the most important aspects of forgiveness isn’t just the person doing the forgiving, but the person who is forgiven. How do they change? How do they become better?

How do they redeem themselves?

Sound familiar? A:TLA is famous for having one of the most well-written redemption arcs on television. Forgiveness works two ways: one person accepts that another messed up, and the one who messed up strives to do better. When you strive to change for the betterment of yourself, to become good, you are earning people’s forgiveness. And who is it that goes through this intense arc of self-doubt, insight, turmoil, and eventual redemption?

I think one of the most common misconceptions about this show is Zuko’s redemption arc. It’s not just about Zuko redeeming himself. Someone can prove their worth again and again, but unless the person they want to prove themselves to is open and willing to see how they’ve changed, they’ll never earn that long-sought forgiveness. Remember in the scene of this exact gif? How many times the group berates and rejects him? He tries to prove himself, but they’re not ready to accept him. They’re still hurt by what he’s done. They still don’t think they can trust him. They aren’t ready to forgive.

Zuko and Aang always reflect each other throughout the show. It’s most obvious in “The Storm” and “The Avatar and The Firelord” episodes, but it’s a prevalent theme across the board.

Some reflections about their ability to forgive:

1. Zuko finds it hard to forgive. He never forgives his father, even encouraging the Avatar to kill him. He can’t forgive himself after he betrays Iroh. And he can’t forgive Azula, deciding he needs to take her out in their final Agni Kai for the throne. Forgiveness comes hard to Zuko, probably because of his twisted and abusive family members.

Aang may not find forgiveness “easy” (see: the debacle with the sandbenders after he finds out they muzzled and stole Appa), but when he’s thinking clearly and has his morals at heart, he is more ready to forgive. He forgives Katara for stealing Appa. He refuses to kill Ozai, acknowledging that he may be a horrible person, but “He’s still a human being.” He forgives and he forgives and forgives, because (as we established) forgiveness is a form of love. And Aang is a character so full of love.

You know who else Aang was ready to forgive? Who he reached out to, before anyone else?

This scene is one of the most undervalued parts of the entire show. Aang isn’t just spouting hypothetical optimism here. He’s recounting a story of his actual friend from the Fire Nation from before the war. He connects Zuko, the one who has been hunting him literally since he woke up from an iceberg after 100 years, to his former friend. (Also, notice the similarities of Kuzon and Zuko’s names; take from that what you will.) He forgives Zuko so many times, and so readily, it borders on ridiculous. Really, Aang? You’re gonna save the guy who’s trying to capture you by bringing him out of the snowstorm? Okayyy.

Now, some people will say Katara was the first to trust Zuko because of the cave scene, but let’s put that in perspective. By this time, Zuko was already wavering on the knife edge of good and evil. He had undergone his “metamorphosis,” but clearly it wasn’t enough, and he ends up betraying Katara, Aang, and Iroh at Azula’s pressuring. While Katara and the others may not have known what Zuko was going through, in the city of Ba Sing Se it was clear that Zuko was no longer the dogged pursuer. He’s running a tea shop with his uncle, and this is where Katara first sees him. To reach out to him then and trust him is not that inconceivable.

Also, in the third season, Katara is the bitterest towards Zuko, becoming the last to accept him into the group. It’s not an accident that the last “canon” episode before the quartet of “Sozin’s Comet” episodes is Katara learning how to forgive not only the Southern Raiders captain, but also Zuko. With that moment, Zuko’s redemption is complete, and Katara grows as a character. She can finally forgive.

But, and let’s acknowledge this, Aang did it first. Then, in the first season, after being captured by Admiral Zhao and then rescued by a mysterious masked figure who turns out to be the same enemy who has pursued him since he learned about the war, Aang asks for friendship. In the woods, beaten and bruised and alone with the one who has sworn to capture him and bring him to the Firelord, Aang looks at him with compassion. There is no conflict within Zuko at this point in the series. There is only the drive to capture the Avatar, no matter the cost. And still, Aang is willing to reach out into that mire of self-hate and doubt and anger.

He cuts through all of that with a simple question: “Do you think we could have been friends too?”

Avatar: The Last Airbender is a show about more than one form of love. While the romantic love is important, there is another, equally awesome and powerful form of love that’s almost so obvious we forget it: forgiveness. The power to forgive is hard, but almighty. Think of the expression, “To err is human, to forgive is divine.” Of course Aang is ready to forgive Zuko. Zuko is only human, and he errs again and again. Aang is the Avatar, literally the “One” who is connected with cosmic, near-divine power. When we forgive, we accept that people are human, and they make mistakes. But our love can overcome that, our compassion and our humanity can reach into the darkness of another person’s torment.

When we forgive, the darkness always yields to purifying light.

While the romance is important, it’s really given a backseat to the main form of love in this show, forgiveness. Pay attention to how often characters say they’re sorry and acknowledge they were wrong. Pay attention to how each of the characters forgives. But especially pay attention to how Zuko and Aang interact, how they learn to forgive together. Their interactions are those of love: Aang is always ready to forgive, and Zuko is always striving to change.

[sagechan]

The last time Bokuto saw Hinata he was still a lil second year bird baby. He was toned yeah but still easily pickupable and squirmy like a squirrel. So, really, no one can blame him for not recognizing him in the gym five years later. He’s still short, reaching for 5’7 like his life depends on it. But his thighs look weighty and his shoulders and biceps are round and sturdy and before he sees him, round face splitting into a surprised BOKUTOSAN, he looks almost intimidating with his defined jaw

Great, now you’ve gone and done it, anon.

You finally gave me an excuse to write BokuHina.

It was his jaw that did it.

Bokuto stared at the fierce-eyed expression on Hinata’s face as he leapt into the air. The gym floor rocked like waves on the sea, the very wind beneath Hinata splitting around everyone in the immediate area as if they were buffeted by a rising storm. When he jumped, people all around the gym stopped to watch. When he jumped, the old coach gripped his seat a little tighter, as if the years were melting away from him, and he too would leap into dizzying flight. When he jumped, the sunlight from the window seemed to bend towards him, following his path through the air like a halo of fire. When Hinata jumped, he clenched his jaw in a determined grin, a deliriously happy smile that radiated across the net at the very opponents he was playing against. Sheer, unbridled joy coursed through him when he played. Absolute bliss.

It was a smile Bokuto remembered well. It was a smile he’d once worn on his face, in another time, in another place. It was the burden of the ace to get his team out of a pinch. But it was the pleasure of the ace to score point after point, spike harder, run faster, to cry “I’m here” and to really be there.

Hinata landed, and the world seemed to settle again with a sigh. His eyes were alight with the same determined glint Bokuto remembered staring across at him when Hinata had first used a feint against Fukurodani. His jaw was still set in that fierce, primal grin. His shoulders were bunched with excitement, his feet planted wide. From where Bokuto was standing, he could mostly see...

His back, Bokuto thought. His breath caught in his throat; his eyes widened. The back of an ace.

A shiver ran up Bokuto’s spine, a slight chill of premonition. Hinata was almost intimidating. Powerful, definitely. But his growth was...scary.

The coach called for the end of practice, the players shouted their thanks to him, the underclassmen started packing things away.

And Hinata turned. He saw Bokuto. Suddenly, the firm jaw was replaced by the soft, excitable, round face Bokuto remembered.

“BOKUTO-SAN!!!”

A squeak of sneakers, an excited yell, then Hinata was leaping through the air again, this time his legs splayed wide, his arms held out and ready to be embraced. Bokuto saw wings spread out behind Hinata, saw the smile on his face like sunlight, saw his favorite spunky spiker return to him again. He stepped forward, all apprehension melting away in the face of purifying light.

He caught Hinata in his arms, catching him under the thighs and hugging him close. Hinata laughed as they spun around, Bokuto twirling happily in place and nuzzling his face into Hinata’s stomach, Hinata wrapping his arms around Bokuto’s head and neck, holding tight, tight, tight.

“Hinata!” Bokuto roared, laughing with him. “I missed you so much, Shouyou!”

It had been five years since they’d last seen each other. They’d gone to separate universities, had struck out on different paths, but both kept volleyball in their lives. Now Hinata was in his last year at uni, and Bokuto’s visit back to Tokyo after going abroad was proving full of surprises. First he’d heard about his old friend, Tetsurou, getting married to that wily Kenma kid. Then he’d bumped into his old flame, Akaashi, and finally reached some peace after carrying that torch for so long.

And now here he was, seeing Hinata again, the bright spot in his trip. The brightest point in his trip so far.

He set Hinata down, but Hinata clung to him, wrapping his arms around Bokuto’s waist and beaming up at him. He called his teammates over to say hello, laughing at their unease. He was still considerably shorter than Bokuto, but Bokuto realized that there was a certain heft to Hinata now.

He’s...thicker, he thought, feeling guilty as he gripped Hinata’s broad shoulders, held on to his arms just a second longer. He’s definitely stronger.

Hinata’s teammates came over and bowed nervously to Bokuto, some of them coming forward to shake his hand. He hopped around them, excited to meet so many new faces, but he stayed near Hinata, and Hinata hovered close to his side, his fingers tangled in the bright green nylon jacket tied around Bokuto’s waist.

After meeting everyone, Bokuto caught Hinata’s eye. He jerked his head towards the door, wiggling his eyebrows. Hinata smiled, giggled. He glanced at his coach, then whispered something to one of his teammates. The younger boy nodded, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. Then he ran towards the coach, yelling, “Coach Kuzo! Coach Kuzo! Your mother is at the window again!”

While the coach screamed and whirled around, covering his face and hurrying away from the window, Bokuto took the opportunity to grab Hinata by the hand and pull him to the gymnasium door. Laughing together, they burst out into the sunlight. Warm air kissed their faces. Pink and red buds from blossoming trees across the gravel path rode the breeze, dropping lightly into Hinata’s hair. Bokuto picked out one of the tiny buds, holding it up to Hinata’s mouth between his finger and thumb. Hinata smiled up at him, then closed his eyes and blew gently on his fingers, making a wish. The bud flew from Bokuto’s fingers. It swirled gently to the ground.

Hinata’s hand was still in his, and he drew him away from the gym, down the path, swinging their arms between them.

“How long are you here for, Bokuto-san?” Hinata said, skipping to keep up with Bokuto’s longer strides.

“Just a few weeks,” he said, unable to keep his eyes off the smile that radiated from Hinata’s face. “I’ve got a job outside the city, so I’ll be moving back to the suburbs soon. But I missed Tokyo. And I missed you!” He reached over and ruffled Hinata’s hair, making him squawk indignantly. But he still beamed happily, and Bokuto grinned back.

“Yeah, but you didn’t miss just me, right?” Hinata let go of Bokuto’s hand and skipped ahead of him, turning to walk backwards so he could face Bokuto.

“Well, no,” Bokuto said. “I missed a lot of people. I missed the city, its bustle and boom! I missed my family. And Kuroo! That lucky bastard, gettin’ married! I missed Tsukki and my old teammates. I missed...Akaashi.” His voice caught a bit, but he pressed on. “I missed a whole bunch of people who are important to me.” He stopped walking. He looked directly into Hinata’s eyes. “But I missed you a lot.”

Hinata stopped walking backwards, a couple paces away from him. He stretched his arms above his head, then rested his palms against the back of his neck, his elbows bent on either side of his head. He studied Bokuto intensely. Bokuto wasn’t sure Hinata knew how to do anything not intensely.

The sun was lower in the sky now. Afternoon slowly sank into the early twilight of evening. On the left of the path was a large black pine tree, its boughs spread wide and healthy and green. The red and gold light of the spring afternoon came through the pine needles like falling stardust. Standing in front of it, with that same determined clench in his jaw from the gym, Hinata looked like he was wreathed in a halo of light.

“Would you,” Bokuto found himself saying, “want to get something to eat? With me. Right now. At a restaurant. With me. Just the two of us. Food. Us.” He silently congratulated himself for staying smooth and not throwing up.

Hinata looked at him.

There had been a moment during that first summer when Fukurodani and Karasuno had trained together. There had been a day during that training camp when Bokuto and Hinata had met in the showers—Bokuto entering, Hinata leaving, dripping water from his lean body. Hinata had looked at him, his eyes glazed with a far-away expression, as if peering into some distant future.

“What do you see, when you look at me like that?” Bokuto had asked, wrapping his towel around his waist and stepping into the shower.

Hinata had closed his eyes. He had broken the spell, and there was steam and soap and water. “You,” Hinata said. “I see all of you.”

And now Hinata looked at him with that far-away gaze again. Maybe back then, he had seen this moment on the gravel path outside the gym, the silence stretching between them, the sunlight lapping at their bodies like waves on the shore. Maybe now, he saw another five years into the future. Bokuto wondered if he was in that vision. If, in another five years, they would still be in each other’s lives.

“Yes,” Hinata said. He took Bokuto’s hand. Their fingers curled together automatically, as if their bodies would do all the speaking for them. And Hinata smiled, a beam of sunlight touching the night-dark earth. “Us.”

Bokuto reached up and brushed his forefinger along that firm jaw, that still soft face. “Us,” he breathed.

Above, the clouds opened as curtains on a revolving stage, and daylight slipped into the maw of night, leaving two boys holding each other under the streetlamp’s light.

[sagechan]

the crown ain’t worth much

so @byesweetheart and I have been going back and forth like kids in a candy store about ZukAang, which is a horribly under-appreciated ship in the Avatar: The Last Airbender fandom. and what do you do when there’s not enough content for your faves?

you bloody make it yourself.

Ava, this is for you, dear one <3

Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender, ATLA

Words: 4,740

Rating: General Audience

Pairing: Zuko X Aang, ZukAang

It was spring when Firelord Zuko, son of Ozai and Ursa, Crown Prince of the Fire Nation, at last returned to the royal city from his annual liaison to the Earth Kingdom. The past five-and-a-half years had been hard on the whole world, but particularly on the young Firelord. He was only twenty, almost twenty-one, and already, so much of the world had changed in the wake of the fire Nation’s assault upon the Earth Kingdom. There was so much that needed to be rebuilt, so many years of prejudice and hatred to put behind them, so many bonds of trust that needed to be forged and reforged. Zuko’s father had left an indelible mark on the world. It would take time to heal.

His father…

Inside his palanquin, Zuko curled his fingers into the folds of his robes as his bearers carried him down the ship’s gangplank to the grounds outside the palace. Large crowds had gathered in the harbor to welcome their Firelord home, and the ship’s captain was throwing a fit about security. Much to the captain’s chagrin, Zuko insisted on being seen by people wherever he went. His palanquin was uncovered—he refused to hide behind curtains. He refused to hide the face his people needed to see, needed to believe in.

Zuko raised one hand to his left cheek, touching it gently. He suddenly remembered himself in a dark cave of crystals, miles below a great city, a young waterbender shouting at him about the face of her enemy.

My face…

Yes, his father had left many marks on the world.

The bearers brought him swiftly down the gangplank, then proceeded towards the palace at the heart of the royal city. The young Firelord waved to the crowds outside his palanquin, a little embarrassed at the number of young women screaming his name and throwing themselves at the line of guards. Fortunately, the captain’s soldiers kept the Firelord’s fans at a respectably safe distance. Zuko only shook his head, and he blew the hair out of his face.

As he was marched through the city, a messenger approached the line of guards. He was allowed through, and the young man quickly caught up to the palanquin, jogging beside it to keep pace. As he was unable to prostrate himself while moving, he put his hands together in the formal hand symbol and bowed his head. “Firelord Zuko,” he said. “Forgive this intrusion…”

Zuko waved a hand lazily, sitting back in his cushions. “Not at all, Lee.” He recognized the messenger from the palace. The young man was usually running around from one place to another. He was a trustworthy aide.

Lee bowed his head again. “We’d received word he would be on his way, but he arrived a little earlier than expected, Your Excellency, and we haven’t prepared—”

Zuko sat up, frowning. “He? Hold on, Lee, who’s here? Who comes to the Firelord’s palace uninvited?”

Lee hesitated. He glanced at the road ahead to make sure he didn’t run into any of the guards or loose arms sticking out from the cheering crowd. “Well, my lord,” he huffed, turning back to Zuko. “The Avatar.”

Zuko’s breath caught in his throat.

Outside, the cheers grew dim in the background, the crowds disappeared, Lee’s voice faded, and all Zuko could feel was the sunlight. It broke through the clouds above, falling on his face, warming his hands clutching tight to the edges of the palanquin. His skin grew warm, like a great fire was building within, a burst of energy and light.

“—Yu Dao province,” Lee was saying, “wants to discuss the movement of Fire Nation troops out of—”

“Aang is here?” Zuko interrupted, not hearing a word the man had said.

“Yes, Excellency. Avatar Aang arrived just a day ago.”

“The Avatar has been here a day,” Zuko said, looking directly into Lee’s eyes, “and nobody told me?”

Lee cringed, bowing his head while jogging. “I apologize, sir, but—”

Zuko held up a hand. “Stop!” he shouted.

The palanquin bearers, though surprised, halted at once. Lee paused with them. The soldiers holding people back glanced over the shoulders. Even the crowd seemed to hesitate for a moment, watching, waiting to see what their young ruler was going to do.

Zuko stepped out of the palanquin.

Almost at once, every single person gasped, then dropped to the ground, prostrating themselves before Zuko. Even in their fervor, no one in the crowd would dare stand in the presence of their Firelord.

A soldier hurried forward. “Firelord Zuko, Your Excellency, please, for your safety—”

Zuko turned to the soldier, his eyes narrowed. The man dropped at once, bowing.

The square was quiet. No one spoke, and a slight wind blew in from the harbor, rustling Zuko’s robes. The sunlight fell upon them all, and a great calm fell over the city.

“He is here,” Zuko said softly. He could feel it. It was like the entire Fire Nation had grown warmer, lighter. Like the very world knew the One who’d saved it was nearby.

The one who’d saved him.

Later, the soldier who’d approached Zuko would tell people he actually saw the Firelord smile.

Zuko abruptly pulled his robes over his head, tossing them into his palanquin. They’d only get burned up and in his way. Despite their prostration and respect, several people in the crowd screamed when they saw him shirtless. He faced the palace. “Catch up with me later,” he said over his shoulder to his bearers. “Sorry, but a palanquin is too slow.”

Then he crouched, and he thrust both hands out behind him. Fire blasted from his palms. He shot up and forward, skated over the heads of the crowd, and flew the rest of the way to the front door of his palace.

•

Zuko threw open the palace doors, ignoring the servants and Imperial Firebenders who scurried up to him trying to offer help or service. He brushed past them into the first atrium. “Where is he?” he snapped at one of the servants as he marched towards the guest wing of the palace. He passed red marble pillars and hanging scrolls of past Firelords. “Where’s the Avatar?”

“Your Excellency, the Avatar is, uh, not that way,” the elderly man stammered. Zuko paused, turning back. “Lord Aang wished to—”

“Don’t call him that,” Zuko said, giving the man an odd look. He tried not to laugh at the thought of all his servants gushing over Aang—the “simple monk”—calling him stuff like Lord. “The Avatar is above such titles,” Zuko explained, a little gentler.

The servant bowed his head. “The Avatar,” he continued, “wished to stay somewhere, ah, closer to you, Your Excellency.”

Zuko frowned. He started walking back to the center atrium at the front of the palace. “So he’s not in the guest chambers?”

“No, sir, no he definitely isn’t.”

“Well, where is he?” Zuko demanded.

The servant sighed. “He’s in…your chambers, my lord.”

Zuko stopped walking.

Behind him, the servants cringed. The Imperial Firebenders took a step back.

Then Zuko laughed, and all the anxiety of his recent trip, all the worry and stress melting away at once. He shook his head, a smile flickering across his face. “Of course he is,” he said under his breath.

“My lord, I don’t wish to insult, but it is not proper…”

Zuko glanced over his shoulder at the servant. “You do insult,” he said, cutting the man off bluntly, and the servant bowed his head at once. “Did you know that before I was Firelord, I camped out on deserted islands and abandoned temples with the Avatar?” Zuko asked, the ghost of an amused smile at his lips. “I’d rather the Avatar be by my side, than send him all the way across the palace.” He grinned then, fully, as if at some private joke. “How will I make sure he’s doing hot-squats from my room?”

“H-hot…squats, Excellency?” the servant asked, his face growing redder, clearly trying not to burst into a fit about “propriety.” All Zuko’s servants and advisors seemed to want to do was coach him on how to be Firelord. As if they still didn’t trust him to do the job after all this time. “Are you…his teacher?”

Zuko snorted. “Of course I am. Who else is going to teach that airhead firebending?”

“Sir, it is beneath you to—”

Zuko turned sharply, and the servants and Imperial Firebenders at once dropped to their knees.

Zuko looked down at the servant, his patience wearing thin. “The only thing beneath me,” he said quietly, placing his right hand on the man’s head, “is you, right now. When it comes to Avatar Aang, nothing is beneath me. Understood?”

The man gulped, and he nodded underneath Zuko’s hand. “Yes, Firelord Zuko.”

Zuko turned away brusquely, clutching his hand tightly to his bare chest as he stalked off to his chambers. Where had that come from? That confidence, that…ferocity?

He shuddered. Sometimes, he was afraid there was more of his father in him than he thought. He paused in the center of the atrium, and he looked up at the hanging scroll portraits. His father’s hung right next to the newly installed scroll, Zuko’s own portrait as Firelord. His hand—the hand he’d threatened the servant with—trembled. Maybe the servants coached him so much because they didn’t think he was worthy of the throne. Maybe it was a mistake for him to be the Firelord. Surely there was someone better. Someone who’d not been tainted by his father’s malice.

Unquestionable honor? But I’ve made so many mistakes.

Zuko’s hand grew steady. Looking upon the portrait of his father’s face, he remembered his uncle’s voice.

Yes, you have. You struggled. You suffered. But you have always followed your own path. You’ve restored your own honor. And only you can restore the honor of the Fire Nation.

Zuko stared at the depiction of his father hanging before him. “I follow my own path,” he said to himself, his voice a hushed breath in the atrium. “There is nothing of you inside me,” he whispered to the picture of his father.

Then he turned, and walked away.

He didn’t look back.

•

Zuko wondered how many of his own doors he’d have to keep bursting into today. He threw open the doors to the royal chambers, the personal rooms for the Firelord. Recently, they were empty a lot. Zuko had been on his liaison to the Earth Kingdom, and Mai hardly stayed in the palace anymore. She was busy traveling around the Fire Nation, studying to rework the prison system. She’d even visited some of the ex-colonies to fight for the release of alleged criminals, working with the Earth Kingdom government and ex-Fire Nation governors to release wrongfully imprisoned earthbenders now that the Hundred Years War was over.

Mai was doing a lot of good for the Fire Nation. Which was why Zuko had decided they should take a break from their relationship.

Mai had thrown a fit, of course, what with happened the last time he’d ended things (poorly). The servants were still finding shuriken embedded in the walls. But Zuko eventually calmed her down enough to tell her he didn’t want to break up—never again. But he did want to give her time to discover herself, so she could be her own person. Zuko knew the politics of being the wife of the Firelord; they’d consumed his own mother. He didn’t want that to happen to Mai. Zuko wanted her to be able to be herself first.

Of course, Mai had always been strong. But Zuko convinced her that one of the best—and hardest—things he’d ever done had been going out on his own for a while.

“You’ll learn about yourself,” he’d told her. “Who you are, and what you want. And if you still want me when you come back, you’ll know right where to find me. I’ll be waiting with a plate full of fruit tarts just for you.”

She’d called him a few more names, and there had been tears. But she knew he said these things out of love. And she’d eagerly jumped at the chance once she decided to reform the prison systems. She was doing so much good, for the Fire Nation, and for herself.

But now, throwing open the doors and entering the royal chambers after a long trip away from home, Zuko felt the slight twinge of loneliness when he imagined the empty rooms.

And then he saw Aang.

The Avatar sat in the middle of the room, on the floor instead of on any of the plush couches or ottomans. He flicked little bursts of air from his fingers at his flying-lemur, Momo. He was smiling, his eyes alight, his clear laugh ringing like the glass bells in the palace banquet hall. He wore traditional Air Nomad clothing: the long, ceremonial yellow robes and a string of meditation beads around his neck. The formal clothing of a fully-realized airbending monk.

When Zuko walked in, Aang’s eyes turned from Momo to the door instantly. His face lit up even more than it already was, and he sprang up on a little puff of air beneath him. “Zuko!”

And all the loneliness, all the hesitation and doubt, all his anxiety—all of it vanished from Zuko’s heart, like a passing storm, like a drifting cloud.

Like a gust of wind.

Zuko ran forward to meet Aang, who leapt for him at the same moment. Aang yelped, Zuko cried out, and they tumbled into each other in their excitement, a tangle of limbs and robes and beads. They both howled and giggled, trying to disentangle themselves as they helped each other up, then sprang into each other’s arms at once. Zuko wrapped his arms around the rough cloth of Aang’s robes, hugging him close. “Aang,” he said softly. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Aang hummed, happily clinging to him. Then suddenly, he pulled away, holding Zuko out in front of him. “Uh, Firelord Zuko,” he said, holding back a laugh. “You’re not wearing a shirt.”

Zuko looked down at himself. His robes…the palanquin…

“Ah,” he said after a moment. “You’re right. That’s…hm. Hold on.”

He clapped his hands together. At once, two servants entered the room. If they had anything to say about their Firelord being shirtless while embracing a strange visitor in the middle of his room, they held their tongues. “Yes, Excellency?”

“I’ve lost my robes, Qín Lí,” Zuko said to the one who’d spoken. “Fetch me something to wear so I’m not half-naked in front of my guest.” He noticed Aang’s blush, and he smirked at him. “And bring something for the Avatar to eat. No meat,” he added, nodding to Aang. Aang smiled, bowing his head slightly.

“A bowl of cherries and cream as a refreshing snack, then, Firelord?” Qín Lí offered.

Zuko glanced at Aang. Aang nodded, grinning. “That’s perfect,” Zuko said.

“Wonderful, Excellency.” The two servants bowed out of the room.

Once they were gone, Aang leapt at Zuko again. He hung on Zuko’s arm and beamed. “Zuko,” he said. “I’ve really missed you! How is everything going here in the Fire Nation?”

Zuko sighed, and—shaking himself from Aang’s grip—he threw himself down on the couch near the door, sinking into the pillows. “It’s like I’m building the entire country up from scratch. There’s so many old doctrines to overturn, so many traditions that need to break. Part of the problem that led to the war was intense nationalism, and while I want people to be proud Fire Nation citizens, I don’t want that kind of blind devotion anymore. It’s time for people to choose for themselves…”

He glanced at Aang. The Avatar was staring off into space, watching Momo circle Zuko’s hairbrush on the bureau. Zuko smiled. Of course, he was preaching to the choir. All life was sacred to Aang. In Aang’s eyes, every individual should obviously be their own person. In Aang’s eyes, every individual person held dignity.

Even my father’s life… The Avatar spared even my father.

Zuko chewed on the inside of his cheek absentmindedly. He couldn’t help it. Every time he saw Aang, he could only think of the rage he’d felt towards his father for so many years. His father, who had dueled him, scarred him, split his soul. His father, who had devastated the balance of the world. His father, who he hated.

And then Aang would meet his gaze, and all that rage disappeared into purifying light.

It was like when he’d learned the true art of firebending from the dragons Ran and Shaw. Fire was not rage or hatred, but energy. Light. Life.

Aang saw that same light inside every person. Even Ozai.

Zuko smiled, coming back to himself. He watched Aang for a moment more before clearing his throat. Aang snapped to attention, looking away from Momo on the bureau. “What happened?” he said quickly. Then he blushed, embarrassed. “Sorry, Excellency, I didn’t mean to drift off like that.”

Zuko frowned. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “You don’t need to call me ‘Excellency,’ Aang.”

Aang smiled softly. “I should, though. You’re the Firelord, Zuko! Even though we’re friends, I should respect that.”

Zuko shook his head, chuckling. “You still don’t get it sometimes, do you? Aang, you’re the Avatar. If anything, I should be the one to pay respect to you.”

Aang frowned. “But I don’t want you to do that. I’m still me; just because I’m the Avatar doesn’t mean—”

“And just because I’m Firelord doesn’t mean I’m not still me, either. You don’t need to go around calling me stupid titles.” Zuko got up and crossed the room to his bureau. Momo chittered at him and licked his fingers when he offered his hand to the little lemur. He scratched behind Momo’s ears, smiling at his content chirps. “We’re friends first, Aang. Always. Before any titles, we’re friends first.”

He looked at Aang. How many times had they had this conversation over the last five years? Sometimes he thought Aang was too apologetic. He bent too much to other people, deferred to them. He was very respectful, but he was also the Avatar. Honor went both ways, and Aang, more than anyone, was most deserving of people’s respect.

“My great-grandfather,” Zuko said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the bureau. “Firelord Sozin thought Avatar Roku should have gone along with his war just because he was a Fire Nation citizen and should’ve stayed loyal to his Firelord. It’s exactly because you’re the Avatar that you don’t need to worry about loyalty to any one nation or ruler. Instead…” He walked over to where Aang sat and grabbed him up by the robes. Aang yelped, but he saw Zuko’s smile and laughed. Zuko wrestled with him for a moment, then got Aang’s head under one arm and dug his knuckles into the top of his shaved head, making Aang yowl like an alleycat.

“Instead,” Zuko said, letting him go with a grin, “try listening to your friends for a change.”

Aang rubbed the top of his head, scowling at Zuko. But he couldn’t hide the glimmer of light in his eyes, the glint of humor. “Okay, okay,” he said, fake sighing. “Geeze, no need to get so violent.”

Zuko laughed, just as the servants returned with a fresh robe for him and a bowl of cherries and cream. They’d also brought a pitcher of chilled lemon-water and two cups of tea. They set the refreshments on a small side table next to the couch Zuko had sat on, then helped Zuko into his robes. Aang watched—fascinated, Zuko figured, by how he didn’t have to do anything as the servants slipped the loose clothes over his body for him, then tied them neatly at the waist. “Have something to eat,” Zuko said to Aang as Qín Lí helped him into his robes, waving to the bowl of fruit and the cups of tea.

Aang jumped up and grabbed some cherries and a finger-swipe of cream. He popped the cherries in his mouth one at a time, smiling delightedly at the sweet juices mixing with the smooth cream. “Delicious,” he sighed, smacking his lips and sipping quietly from his cup of tea.

Zuko sat on the couch and helped himself to his tea and cherries. Aang glided forward on a little puff of air. “Scooch over,” he said, hopping on to the couch next to Zuko. “And don’t hog all the cherries!”

“Will there be anything else, Excellency?” one of the servants asked.

Zuko smacked Aang’s greedily searching hand away from the cherries in his own palm. “No,” he said to the servants. “That’ll be all, thank you.” He paused, then added, “Make sure no one disturbs us for the rest of the day. I’m sure the Avatar needs to rest after his journey. We’ll retire for today.”

The two men bowed, then left, closing the doors behind them.

“Zuko, I got here yesterday,” Aang said. He was making a cherry spin in his hand with airbending. The stupid marble trick he kept showing Zuko, but this time with a piece of fruit. “Someone made me wait,” Aang added, eyeing Zuko cheekily. “But I’m all rested up! No need to retire so early.”

Zuko leaned back into the couch, throwing his arms over the sides. This meant his left arm was behind Aang’s shoulders, if he were to lean back as well. But Aang sat crosslegged on the cushion, leaning forward and chucking cherries at Momo, who was catching them out of the air. So Zuko figured this was safe.

“I know,” he said. “But I’m tired. I just got back. And I’ve missed you a lot! And I…just want you to myself for a while before I have to go out and do all my public, official, Firelord stuff with you in front of the whole palace.”

Aang lowered his hand, still holding the cherry he’d been about to toss to Momo. His face was flushed a little. “Oh,” he said, his voice small. He looked at Zuko. He smiled.

“Good, ‘cuz I wanted you to myself, too, before I have to do all my public, official, Avatar stuff with you in front of the whole palace.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

Zuko stared at him. Then he laughed, throwing his head back and really laughing. Aang giggled, then cracked up, and their laughter filled the room like the sunlight filtering in through the lowered blinds on the window.

“Well,” Aang said once they both caught their breath. “Since we’re both so thrilled about doing official business, I think we should put it off until tomorrow. Maybe I am a little tired…” He grinned, chuckling.

Then he leaned back into the couch, and the back of his head rested on Zuko’s arm.

Zuko quelled the slight shiver that ran through his body, and he turned his head to look down at Aang.

They were only three years apart in age, barely. Aang had always been slight in build, smaller than Zuko. But he’d filled out over the last five years. His shoulders were a little wider, his arms a little stronger. Even with the robes covering nearly his entire body, it was still obvious.

It wasn’t like the changes were sudden. It wasn’t like Zuko hadn’t seen Aang for years and years. The gang still stuck together, and met up very frequently. But they were all heroes who’d ended a war of monumental importance. They were busy people. Sokka and Katara were rebuilding the Southern Water Tribe. Toph was teaching metalbending to select agents in Ba Sing Se. They could all go months without being in the same place at one time.

But they made sure to do it, to meet often, to stay in touch, to stay friends. They couldn’t let go of each other, not after everything they’d all through together.

So why was Zuko suddenly so aware of Aang’s physical changes?

Well, he knew, of course.

“Katara and I are taking a break from each other,” Aang suddenly said.

Zuko felt the room around him grow very, very quiet.

“Why?” he asked softly. Then, immediately after, “Are you alright?”

Aang smiled gratefully. “I’m fine.” The back of his head rubbed against Zuko’s sleeve as he turned. He looked at Zuko, smiling that sad, soft smile. “She was the one who suggested it, actually. She said I needed to be free to become the Avatar I needed to be. She said she’ll wait for me until I become who I am, not who I think I’m supposed to be.”

Zuko lowered his head. It sounded like what he’d told Mai. “Katara is very wise, sometimes,” he said.

“Sometimes?”

“Well, there was that one time, with the Southern Raiders…”

“And whose fault was that, again? I specifically remember you being the one to encourage her!”

Zuko pushed away Aang’s finger that he was sticking in his face. “Whatever,” he said. “It’s in the past. How are you feeling about this…break?”

Aang shrugged. He curled up his legs underneath him and huddled in closer to Zuko. Zuko held his breath, then slowly lowered his arm from the back of the couch to wrap it around Aang’s shoulders. Aang seemed to appreciate the comfort, and he leaned against Zuko’s chest.

“Girls are confusing,” Aang sighed.

“Yeah,” Zuko said. “But we love them.”

“We do,” Aang agreed quietly.

Zuko squeezed his arm around Aang a little tighter. Aang really loved Katara a lot. Zuko knew this must be killing him. He felt his own soul ache for the two of them. They were his friends, and he didn’t want either of them to get hurt.

“Do you think,” Aang said, his voice still quiet. “Do you think you can love more than one person?”

The sunlight filtering through the windows was growing a hazy golden-orange as the sun outside sank towards the horizon. Momo lay curled up in a patch of carpet warmed by the sunlight. Cherries littered the floor around him. His tail curled in and out as he snored softy, in and out, in and out.

Breathe, Firelord. In and out. In and out.

“What?” Zuko whispered, his voice as quiet as Aang’s, as if what they spoke of might alert the entire palace to their presence.

Aang looked up at Zuko. “Can you love more than one person at a time?”

Zuko licked his lips. They felt very dry. So did his throat. He swallowed. “Do…do you?”

“I think so,” Aang said. “They’re very close to me, and very important to me. I used to think we’d never even become friends, but then we did. Best friends. We went through a lot together. We learned a lot together, and from each other. But I’m afraid…afraid they don’t feel the same about me.”

“Maybe you should tell them,” Zuko rasped, suddenly extremely conscious of his arm wrapped around Aang. He didn’t pull it away, though. That would be too obvious.

“Maybe I’ve tried already,” Aang said. He wasn’t looking at Zuko. He watched how the sunlight fell into the room: on the lush red carpet; the silken bedsheets; the crimson curtains on the bedposts; the dark cherrywood furniture; the golden tiles around the room’s baseboard. “Maybe I’m just too afraid they’ll reject me.”

Zuko reached up with the hand that wasn’t wrapped around Aang’s shoulders. He touched Aang’s chin gently, turning his face towards him. Aang’s eyes were wide, their storm-cloud gray overwhelming him with how terrified they looked, how ancient.

“Aang—”

At that moment, the doors burst open. An Imperial Firebender marched in, dropping to his knees in the doorway.

And Zuko and Aang pulled away from each other. Quickly.

“What is this?” Zuko demanded. He rose from the couch an cleared his throat. “I specifically ordered that no one—”

“Firelord Zuko, forgive me,” the Imperial Firebender interrupted, his voice echoing within his helmet. “But it’s urgent, sir. The New Ozai Society—your father’s supporters—they’re rallying outside the palace gates.” The man raised his bowed head.

“They’re threatening to blow up the royal city!”

[lol, binch you thought. to be continued...]

[sagechan]

Start Now

Happy New Year’s everyone. What better way to ring in the New Year than with my fave dumbasses being mushy?

Also on AO3!

“But Kageyama,” Hinata whined, “it’s a tradition.” He butted his head into Kageyama’s shoulder.

“Since when?” Kageyama grumbled, shoving away Hinata’s face.

“Since…um…” Hinata put a finger to his chin, thinking hard. “Since now!” He beamed, pleased with himself. “We can start now.”

Kageyama made a disgusted face. “But why would we…you know…do that?”

“Because,” Hinata explained patiently. “It’s how you celebrate the New Year! It’s a way of showing, um, affection! And stuff! For—for people you…care about.”

Kageyama looked down at Hinata. The other boy was avoiding looking directly at him, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the television in Kageyama’s living room. Ever since their first year, Hinata had spent New Year’s Eve at Kageyama’s house. He didn’t know how it started, but now it was their third year, and here they were again, in his room, watching some old guy in America count down the minutes to January 1st. It wasn’t even the traditional Japanese New Year, and Kageyama wondered why Hinata was so excited for—

“Kissing?” Kageyama screwed up his face. “But why do people do that for New Year’s?”

Hinata shrugged. “Dunno,” he said. He kept his voice light, but Kageyama heard something in it that made him narrow his eyes. He knew that Something. It came into Hinata’s voice when he was trying to keep a secret. The last time Kageyama heard that Something, Hinata had led him into a trap. Sixteen snowballs, several bruised arms, and one nearly unconscious Tanaka later, Kageyama had stood victorious amidst an ambush from his own team like some snarling wolf, and Hinata had just laughed from the sidelines, delighted.

He could be quite devious, and Kageyama had learned not to trust that Something.

“Hinata,” Kageyama said, lowering his voice threateningly. He reached over and yanked on the curls that Hinata was letting grow down over the back of his neck. Hinata yelped and jerked his head back. “What aren’t you telling me, dumbass?” Kageyama demanded. “What are you planning?”

“Nothing!” Hinata exclaimed. “How could you even think that I, your best friend, would be planning—”

“You’re not my best friend,” Kageyama said bluntly.

Hinata cringed. “Wow, rude, Bakayama. So what am I, then?”

“You’re…” Kageyama waved his hand vaguely in Hinata’s direction. “You’re, you know.”

Hinata raised one eyebrow. “No, I don’t know, dummy. What am I?”

Kageyama let his hand drop, exasperated. “Why does it matter?” he asked, trying to change the subject. “Why do we have to be ‘best friends’? I didn’t even know we were ‘friends.’ And, don’t forget.” He stood, slowly rising from the couch. On the TV, the announcer was screaming into his mic over the roar of the crowd. Some glittering ball was dropping to the ground. But Kageyama had eyes only for Hinata. “You’re my rival,” he said.

Hinata’s eyes flashed. He stood too, but he rose quickly, his chest heaving, his nostrils flared. Nothing about him was calm or slow. He was never steady and methodical, like Kageyama. No, everything had to be about speed with him. Everything had to be powerful and out in the open. He couldn’t just accept things the way they were. He had to name everything.

Kageyama breathed hard now, and his pulse jumped. Where had all of that come from? Was he still thinking about Hinata as a player? His speed? His ferocity? How weak he’d been when Kageyama had first met him? How strong he had become?

How dangerous he was.

Kageyama backed away from Hinata. This. This was dangerous.

“Why does it matter?” Hinata asked, repeating Kageyama’s words. His eyes were bright. They reflected the light from the TV, the glittering ball, the celebration of a new year going on all around them. But they were here, together, eyes locked on each other as if the whole world had grown still. Maybe it had. Maybe this was all that was left. Maybe this was all there ever had been: the two of them, eye-to-eye, standing at the top of the world, battling to be the best, destined to destroy the other—

Kageyama blinked.

No.

Hinata’s eyes were wet. His lip was trembling, but he was still trying to look stern.

No, not that.

Kageyama reached out, and put his hands on Hinata’s shoulders.

Never that. Destroy him? Destroy us? This? How could I?

He brought Hinata close to him, and Hinata immediately wrapped his arms around his waist.

I don’t want that.

“Why does it have to be as complicated as all that?” Kageyama murmured into Hinata’s hair. His arms dropped from Hinata’s shoulders to wrap around his back, holding him tight. “Why do you always have to make it so complicated?”

Hinata shook underneath his arms—from crying or laughing, Kageyama couldn’t say. “How is wanting to be your friend complicated?” he asked, his voice watery. Kageyama flinched inwardly. Crying, then.

“Because it is,” he said simply, expecting Hinata to understand.

Hinata rubbed his face up and down on Kageyama’s shirt, and Kageyama realized he was nodding. “Yeah,” Hinata said softly. “It is.”

Kageyama grunted. Of course Hinata had understood. Who else could he trust to understand—

Kageyama’s eyes widened. He looked down at the fluffy head of hair buried in his chest and sniffling into his shirt. Something in his chest squeezed. I’m an idiot, he thought, wanting to smack himself. But he didn’t move his arms from Hinata’s back. Instead, he tightened them.

Hinata understood him.

And he understood Hinata.

“You don’t want us to be best friends,” Kageyama whispered.

Hinata stiffened in his arms. “Kageyama…”

“You don’t even want to be just friends.” Kageyama squeezed a little tighter. He didn’t want to let Hinata go until he’d said what he figured out. Fortunately, Hinata wasn’t moving. Unfortunately, Kageyama wasn’t good at saying things out loud. But he wanted to say this. He wanted to try. For Hinata.

He wanted to start now.

Next to them on the TV, the ball was a couple dozen feet from reaching the ground. Kageyama didn’t notice it. He’d stopped noticing a lot of things, apparently. His own partner (he nearly choked just thinking about that—partner) was trying to confess something to him, and he couldn’t even hear it. Wasn’t he supposed to be the genius? Wasn’t he supposed to know Hinata as well as Hinata knew him?

“I really am an idiot,” he said. Hinata looked up at him, his face blotched red and wet from crying into Kageyama’s shirt. Hinata sniffed, his mouth wobbly. Kageyama smiled down at him, trying to make it as pleasant a smile as he could. Judging from how much redder Hinata’s face got, he was certain he’d succeeded. “I care about you too, dumbass,” he said softly. He lowered his face to Hinata’s. “I want to show…affection, sometimes, like you said. But it’s…it’s hard to know how to act lots of times. You move so fast. You move like light.”

Kageyama blinked. Had he really just said that?

Hinata stared at him, his mouth hanging open in a little ‘o’ of astonishment.

“I want to keep up with you,” Kageyama continued. “But I’m afraid.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m afraid you’ll surpass me, or…or get bored, or—”

Hinata was shaking his head. His eyes were closed, his mouth pressed into a firm line. “Kageyama,” was the only word he choked out before they both moved at the same time, like brightness over the dark earth, like a ball of light finally reaching the ground, and the new year begins again, and the past washes away in a moment of clean and pure understanding:

We can start now. We can start again.

Kageyama kissed Hinata, and Hinata kissed Kageyama, just as the ball on the TV dropped, just as screams and cheers and whoops and tears roared from the little TV set, and an old brass band began paying Auld Lang Syne, and all over the world, the brightness ate away at the dark, and life went on as it has forever, and love was shared, and love was given, and love was at the center of everything. And in a small room, two boys embraced, crying into each other’s shoulders with tears of joy, or sorrow, or anger, or love, or all of them. They kissed and kissed, and the New Year began with love.

We can begin again. We can be better to each other, for each other.

We can start now.

[sagechan]

Kagehina//hinata meeting his old teammates? I dunno :/

Ack! Sorry I’m just getting to this prompt now! Finally have time to do some quick prompts now that my semester is over! Thanks for the prompt! It was a fun one :D

Snow fell from the sky.

Hinata stuck out his tongue to catch snowflakes in his mouth, eyes closed. Little crystals of ice fell on his tongue, and he grinned, then slipped his muffler back over his face. It was too cold to catch snowflakes for long. He rubbed his mittened hands together, bouncing in place on the balls of his feet. He glanced at the clock on the station wall, impatience gnawing at him. How long did it take to get to Tokyo, honestly? They should have been here by now.

Finally, he heard the distant rumble, then saw lights on the tracks. The train chugged up to the station, coming to a smooth halt in front of the platform and letting out a tremendous roar from its horn. Hinata watched the train doors along the cars, not sure which one they would—

A hand raised over the crowds spilling from the train. It was curled in a fist, one finger pointed to the sky. Other fists nearby raised next to it, one finger on each hand pointing up, like a mob of crows gathering in single-minded pursuit, like a flock ascending into the clouds. Hinata saw them and felt a thrill run through his body, a chill that didn’t come from the snow. He knew those hands. He’d watched them set and receive and block and toss and defend and attack and lift up and break and crush and cry and love and hold and hold and hold him.

Hinata started forward, and the crowd split like the sea around a dock, and they were there, swarming around him, holding him again, reaching to him—Daichi and Sugawara and Asahi and Tanaka and Nishinoya and Yachi and Yamaguchi and Ennoshita and Tsukishima—they were all there in front of him again.

“HINATAAA!” Tanaka roared, startling the people around them. He ran forward, and Hinata raced to meet him, laughing and crying, and Tanaka lifted him up and spun him around, whooping and cheering like they were back on the nationals stage and they’d won all over again, all over again they were there illuminated by the lights, and then the rest were on him too. Nishinoya and Yamaguchi screamed in Hinata’s ears, Tsukishima ruffled his hand over Hinata’s new undercut, and Daichi peeled him off Tanaka and wrapped him in a giant embrace—which made them all cheer even louder.

Sugawara stood everyone by the wall, ordering them to pack in tight together as he took out his phone for a giant selfie, reunion style. They screamed at the camera, faces bright and shining, making peace signs and waving—Tanaka stuck up both his middle fingers, grinning cheekily—and then they all tumbled together again, intent on getting as close to Hinata as possible.

“Shouyou, we’ve missed you so much!” Nishinoya hollered, his voice already hoarse from screaming, and everyone cheered in agreement, babbling amongst themselves. “You’ve got to show us all over Tokyo,” Nishinoya said, hopping up and down with Hinata.

“We’ve all already seen it, Yuu,” Tanaka reminded him, arm slung around Hinata’s shoulders. He’d staked his claim and he wasn’t letting Hinata out of his sight. He ruffled Hinata’s curls on the top of his head. “I wanna see his apartment!” The others chimed in their agreement.

“Yeah!”

“Me too!”

“That’s a great idea!”

“Yeah, show us the new pad, Shouyou!”

Hinata grinned at them all, face growing red. Tears still ran down his face. He hadn’t felt so happy in such a long time. All his friends, everyone he’d missed so much—they were all here with him again, together.

“Okay, okay, I’ll show you our new place, but everyone has to tell me what you’ve all been up to since we last saw each other. University’s been so lonely without you guys!”

They all cheered and started forward, but Yamaguchi raised his voice. “Wait, wait, Hinata. You said ‘our’ new place. Who’s your roommate?”

Hinata froze. Oh, crap. He blushed and fidgeted with the tassels on his hat. “Um, well, actually it’s—”

“Oi, dumbass.”

As if in slow motion, everyone turned around. Kageyama came up the stairs to the platform, holding two sodas in his hand. “They didn’t have strawberry, so I got you—” Kageyama froze at the top of the stairs, mouth open. He stared at the group, and everyone stared back, gaping at him.

Tsukishima turned to Hinata first. “You live with Kageyama,” he said, at the same time that everyone else erupted into their loudest cheers yet and rushed for Kageyama. He dropped the sodas and turned to run back down the stairs, arms pumping. Tanaka and Nishinoya howled and led the chase. Hinata laughed and grabbed Tsukishima’s arm, and they followed.

In the hallway, the old team had captured Kageyama and were taking turns jumping on him and hugging him and punching his shoulder playfully and marveling at his new undercut, too, asking if he’d copied Hinata or if Hinata had copied him. (Kageyama immediately said Hinata copied him, to which Hinata yelped in protest.) Kageyama relented and started giving out hugs to everyone, bowing respectfully to Daichi, Sugawara, and Asahi before letting them sweep him off his feet in a three-senpai-embrace.

Hinata wriggled his way through them and stood next to Kageyama, taking his arm. “We live in a really nice flat, almost twenty floors up!” he said, hopping excitedly on his feet. “Kageyama’s got a job at the local gym as an instructor, and I’ll be starting my second year at university soon!” Hinata’s hand unconsciously slipped into Kageyama’s, and they interlaced fingers for a moment.

“We only live so high up because it’s a cheap apartment building,” Kageyama said, taking his hand out of Hinata’s so he could wrap his arm around Hinata’s shoulders and lean his chin on Hinata’s head, nuzzling him gently. “Dumbass,” he said, smirking.

“Yo, hold up,” Tanaka said suddenly, pointing at them. Everyone looked at him. “What’s all this…cuddly stuff?”

They all looked back at Hinata and Kageyama. Hinata glanced up, and Kageyama looked down at him. “You didn’t tell them?”

Hinata squirmed. “Um, surprise? Tobio’s my boyfriend?”

Tanaka sputtered, and Hinata was worried he’d short-circuited. Then Tanaka smiled—a genuine, wide smile—and he put his hands on his hips and bellowed with laughter. “My little kouhai,” he crowed. “All grown up and in love!”

Yamaguchi and Tsukishima patted Kageyama on the back, congratulating him. Kageyama nodded back solemnly, telling them that he was definitely the lucky one. Hinata smirked up at him and pressed a kiss to Kageyama’s nose, whispering in his ear, “Okay, you just earned bonus points tonight.”

Everyone heard him, naturally. Nishinoya whooped. Tanaka drawled, “Gaaayy,” and Sugawara and Asahi both smacked each of his shoulders. Yachi gave Hinata a high-five, and Kageyama just shook with laughter, pressing a kiss to the top of Hinata’s head.

Hinata glowed with affection, for Kageyama, for his old friends, for the bonds that never broke or bent no matter how much distance or time lay between them. They swarmed out of the station together, jumping into the city air, their breaths like ghosts floating around them, or angels, or dragons, or crows. Hinata, arm-in-arm with Kageyama, led his old friends through the city to their apartment, and the snow fell on them like laughter, and the sky was open like a friend’s arms, and the clouds raced by like the years, and the day lay before them all—open, and possible, and loving, and right…right there.

[sagechan]

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.

                                                               I

                                                         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.

                                                               II

                                                       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.

Drums.

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