Sans-solecism

Chapter Five - Pelusia

Posted by Jacky on Feb 22, 2008

Within a week the group finds themselves on the last stretch of reddish rock dotted with pale green flora, looking out over a bustling port city. Snatches of traditional Madrogan music waft up on currents of air to play about the companions’ ears. A high mud-brick wall surrounds the city, protecting against invaders, and an elephantine bronze door allows for passage in and out of the city. In the centre, a large, square palace rises high above the other brick buildings, tall banners flying high in the wind. The banners are imperial, bearing the crest of a white tiger and an orange tiger, each opposite the other, perpetually stalking each other in a circle, similar in appearance to a yin-yang symbol.
“There it lies,” Xereas announces. “Pelusia, City of the Gods, and shining capital of Madrogar.” He smiles, grin blissful and nostalgic, setting off down the rocky slope with a renewed spring in his step. Erin looks at her brother, the corners of her lips twitching upwards. He reciprocates.
By now they’ve all shed their cloaks and pushed up their sleeves past their elbows, but the hot sun is merciless. It and the sand seem to be trying to incinerate the party of seven from both ends, conducting heat through the dark leather soles of their boots and pouring down on them in rays of molten gold light. The shade of the city walls offers some relief, and passing the guards, they enter Pelusia through the massive adorned bronze gates.
Inside, the city is bustling with people, so much so that it’s near impossible to move without walking into someone else. Merchants and street vendors sell their wares, broadcasting their products’ merits loudly to any who will listen. Flowing robes of all fabrics and colours – rich reds, luxurious blues, royal purples – and unwashed urchins dressed in rough brown cloth display a plethora of class and culture, the Ardinealdan hub that is Pelusia.
“Ah, Laerhua! It feels wonderful to be back here!” Xereas can hardly contain his excitement.
Arandir looks horribly lost. Never before has he seen so many people and so much action in one place before, being from a land where the next nearest family lives at least ten kilometres away. “Yes, only, we haven’t any coin,” he points out. Xereas’s face falls, and he groans in frustration.
Christian walks up behind him, again startling the crew. No one had noticed his absence. He still wears his dark cloak, even under the harsh sun, and none of the awnings happen to conveniently shade them, either. “Haven’t we now?” he says, more as an incredulous statement than a genuine question, holding up a bulging purse and giving it a little shake. The jingle of metal upon metal confirms the fact that the purse is indeed filled with coins.
“Good lad!” Xereas claps Christian on the back a little harder than the cloaked boy should have liked, overly exuberant and caught up in a flurry of excitement. He plucks the purse from between Christian’s thumb and forefinger. “The baths of Pelusia are known across Ardineald for their exceptional service, and after all that travel, a bath would suit me well. What say you?” Inclining his head, he raises his eyebrows and surveys the group.
“Sounds good,” Jonathan concedes with a smile.
“Lovely,” Xereas says brightly, throwing an arm about Jonathan’s shoulders, forgetting the run-in with the Imperial Guard earlier that week which has rendered him so wary of the boy, and leading him off down the busy street, the five others in tow.
The bathhouse is not discernible from the other buildings of Pelusia; it seems a continuation of the edifice next door – an inn – and contains no particular defining features, at least not on the outside. Thick green vines sprout pale violet blossoms as they cascade from the tops of two short, rectangular pedestals on either side of the entrance. Welcoming scents waft out from the open doorway, inviting the travellers into the stone-floored foyer.
A woman approaches Erin and Roxanne. She has auburn, curly hair, ornamented with numerous blue and silver pins and beads, and thick lines of kohl surround her eyes.. She smiles warmly and inclines her head. “Welcome,” she greets them. Erin and Roxanne return the gesture. “This way,” she motions for them to follow her into an adjacent chamber off to the left. The men in their party are led in the opposite direction by a slender young man in a royal blue tunic fastened with a golden belt.
The room into which he leads them is sparingly decorated, with just a few chairs, and floored with the same beige bricks that make up all the Pelusian architecture. None of them, save for Xereas, has ever seen a bath so large, measuring about four metres long and three wide, and lavishly tiled in shining blue flecked with gold. Steam rises from the surface of the water where white flower petals float languidly with the eddies of hot water.
Removing his travel-dirtied and worn clothes, Xereas steps into the bath, sliding down along the wall until coming to sit upon the tiled bench that runs around the interior perimeter of the bath, at just the right height to rests one’s arms on the stone floor. Jonathan follows suit, and then, feeling a bit out of place, so do the other three, spreading out to take full advantage of the space given to them. Jeffrey sets down the quiver Aiyla gifted to him in a corner before entering, removing his glasses and setting them down beside the pile of dirty clothes, which are whisked away immediately to be washed by an attendant passing through.
Four other attendants enter, carrying stacks of folded clothes and linens, and soaps and stoppered bottles of oils and perfumes. Each kneels behind one of the customers and combs his hair before dipping his head back into the water and applying soap and lathering.
“Could I possibly get a shave?” Jonathan requests, running a finger along his now nearly fully-bearded jaw.
“Whatever you wish,” answers the soft voice of his attendant, giving the chestnut hair a final rinse.
“Ah, yes,” Jonathan breathes, sliding down further into the bubbles forming around his chest. “You’re a darling.”
“We’ll all have a shave and our hair trimmed,” Xereas decides. His tone hasn’t lost the authority of a royal yet.
His attendant rinses the last of the suds from the prince’s inky curls and picks up a razorblade, holding it against his jawbone. “As you wish, Prince Xereas,” he breathes into Xereas’s ear, lips ghosting the shell of his ear. Xereas’s eyes snap wide open with a sharp intake of breath. “I could do it, you know,” he continues. “And it would be so easy. But I believe my lord Javan would be displeased with me for denying him the privilege.”
* * *
There is already another woman in the bath when Roxanne and Erin shrug out of their clothes and slide into the tiled cavity. Her hair reminds Erin of strawberries and gold, although admittedly she’s never seen the two together, and it’s pinned up with a comb of gold and deep orange seashells. A few ringlets drape over one shoulder, tips skimming the surface of the petal-strewn water where they fan out, like fingers trying to reach every corner they can possibly touch.
“Hello,” Erin says nervously to the strange woman, trying to strike up some conversation while an attendant washes her hair. “I’m Erin.”
Roxanne gives her a subtle nudge under the water’s surface, which translates to, “Perhaps you ought to be a bit less divulging with your information now.” Erin sinks down a bit, until the water reaches her chin. “Roxanne,” the older girl introduces herself.
The woman with strawberry-sunshine hair smiles pleasantly. “Lydiene,” she says.
“What a pretty name!” Erin exclaims.
Lydiene blushes. “Thank you. Your names are unusual, though. Are you from around here?”
“I’m afraid we’re not, but merely visiting the city.”
A knot of polished silvery-blue stone hangs from a chain around Lydiene’s neck. Noticing the talisman, Erin says, “What an interesting stone. Where did you get it?”
“I’m a priestess of Laerhua,” Lydiene explains, a bit slowly, as if she thinks Erin should already be aware of this fact.
“Laerhua?” Erin asks.
Lydiene laughs softly. “You must be from very far indeed to be unfamiliar with the name of Laerhua. She is the goddess of the waters and patron goddess of Pelusia. All of her acolytes receive this talisman upon passing the initiation rites, and must wear it always lest they pass from this world or leave her service.”
“Oh,” says Erin. “Well, it’s very pretty.” She feels a bit foolish having nothing more substantial to say to a priestess.
“You’re a priestess,” Roxanne preludes. “So does that mean you can do magic?”
Erin looks at Roxanne in surprise. Magic? No one had told her. Roxanne merely smiles knowingly, and whispers, “You don’t learn that until second semester.”
“Yes,” Lydiene answers. “I can.”
“Will you show us a little?” Erin asks, hopeful.
“Well, all right,” Lydiene laughs that lilting laugh again. She lifts on hand above the water’s surface and moves her fingers as if leading a marionette in its dance, and a dolphin moulds out of the water, leaping in a few arcs before the priestess relaxes her hand and it returns to the bathwater. “Of course that’s just play; I can do useful things as well.”
“That’s brilliant, that is,” Erin declares, awestruck. Roxanne tries to look nonplussed, but she can’t help but to be a bit impressed, having never seen magic before herself.
The three attendants lay out fresh white linen cloths. Lydiene emerges from the bath and lies face down on the soft cloth. Erin and Roxanne take this as a cue to follow suit.
“So,” the priestess begins as the girl waiting on her rubs scented oils into her back. “What brings you to Pelusia?”
The two Academy students exchange nervous looks.
* * *
“You now cannot say that you’ve not experienced the fabled Pelusian hospitality,” Xereas says with a pleased sigh as his boy works the last of the oils and perfume into the muscles of his back and newly-groomed curls. He rises from the linen cloth covering the floor and allows the boy to attire him in a cloth of sea blue, fastening it at one shoulder with a large golden brooch and tying a chain of gold around his waist. Lifting his feet, one at a time, Xereas allows the strange boy – the boy whose knowledge of his identity unsettles him tremendously – to fit the sandals on his feet and wrap the leather straps up and around his calves. He extracts the appropriate amount of coinage from the purse Christian acquired and presses it into the boy’s palm, who hands Xereas his highland clothes, cleaned, in exchange. He waits for the others to dress before departing.
In the antechamber, Erin and Roxanne await the men’s arrival.
“Hullo,” Erin greets them brightly. “Feel better? I know I do. We met this lady, her name is –” At this point in time, Lydiene enters the room, replacing the seashell comb in her hair as she does so.
“Lydiene?” Xereas asks in disbelief, too hopeful that it might be true.
Upon hearing her name, the priestess looks up, realisation dawning on her face as she recognises the rightful Madrogan prince. “Xereas!” she exclaims, throwing herself into his strong embrace. After a moment he releases her, and she steps back, still smiling brightly up at him. “It’s been too long.”
“So it has,” Xereas agrees. “And look at you! Priestess of Laerhua.” He grips her shoulder proudly.
“Well, I’d be damned if I was going to continue to serve the palace, given what’s up there now,” she explains.
“Can’t say I blame you,” Xereas confesses. “But here – you’ve not been introduced. I understand you are already acquainted with Erin and Roxanne, but this is Arandir, Jonathan, Jeffrey, Christian,” he names the boys as he points them out, one-by-one.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Arandir says, with a genuine gentle smile.
“It’s a pleasure,” says Jonathan, bowing his head, grin charming as ever.
“We’re looking for a good inn,” Xereas changes the subject, steering Lydiene out the door and back onto the street. Twilight has fallen upon the city, and the last straggling street vendors pack away their merchandise as the more boisterous characters of the night begin to filter into the streets. “Any chance you could recommend one?”
“I think I might be able to,” Lydiene considers. “There’s one situated near the palace, and it’s also rather close to the temple. Very convenient for you.”
Jeffrey has a bit of difficulty prying a clearly inebriated, giggling night crawler from his arm, where she seems to have taken on the role of a boa constrictor attempting to immobilise its meal. “Bit on the early side for you to be so intoxicated, isn’t it?” he calls over his shoulder to the dejected and rumpled form left in a heap in the cobblestone street as he trots to catch up with his group.
After some time walking, everyone is ready to retire from the streets to a quiet inn room. Jeffrey is just thinking that he doesn’t really think he’d like to spend any more time out-of-doors when Lydiene announces, “Here it is.”
The building looks just like every other in Pelusia. The doorway is open, and a lively tune plays somewhere inside. Without hesitation, they step inside, and make their way to the innkeeper, a middle-aged man sitting on a chair and taking a long-overdue break. Once he sees Xereas and the rest, he jumps up, trying his best to look alert and cheery. “Welcome, sirs and ladies,” he greets them. “How may I help you?”
“We’d like two rooms, if you have them, kind sir,” Xereas requests.
“I have got some available, yes. Up the stairs, down the hall, last two doors on the left,” the innkeeper directs them with a smile. “It’ll be ten gold for the night,” he adds.
Xereas fishes in the purse for the required coinage and extracts ten gold pieces, dropping them on the counter and heading off in the appointed direction.
The rooms are comfortably furnished, but not luxurious by any means. Two torches provide a source of light, and two fairly large beds sit low to the ground, dressed in simple white sheets, and a stone washbasin and pitcher of water rest upon a wooden table.
Xereas sits down on the edge of one of the beds. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to introduce you properly before,” he begins, “but Lydiene was a servant girl in the palace when I was prince. She’s the one who lied to Javan about my existence.” Although they are alone now, his voice never exceeds a loud whisper. “But I’m concerned,” he starts again after a pause. “That boy working in the baths – he knew me. I don’t know how. But it just says to me that we need to act all the sooner.”
“What exactly does ‘act’ entail?” Jeffrey wants to know.
“Death of the viceroy,” Xereas explains simply, in the same tone that one might use to remark about the weather. “He must be eradicated.”

Chapter Four - The Journey South

Posted by Jacky on Feb 22, 2008

Three days later, the seven – Xereas, Arandir, and the London Five – stand at the front door to the modest homestead. Aiyla has equipped the five newcomers with a pair each of serviceable boots, and everyone carries a small pack of provisions for the journey. Xereas believes the sojourn will not take too long, provided they encounter no real troubles along the way.
They say their farewells to Arandir’s family, their gracious hosts for the past few days.
Aiyla addresses Jeffrey. “Are you not the archer in this group?”
He nods. “I am.”
She exits the room and returns moments later with an exquisitely carven quiver, placing it into Jeffrey’s arms. Looking down, he notices the pattern of vines etched into the leather strap, the unique silvercraft of the buckle, and the strange yet beautiful designs chiselled into the body of the quiver. “I was planning to sell it come springtime, to perhaps pay for some of the things we will not have, since Arandir is departing, but I see that it would be better suited to your use.”
Jeffrey shakes his head. “I cannot accept this, Aiyla.”
She laughs. “Oh, I’m afraid you’ll have to. I’ve no intent of accepting its return.” Her smile is an encouraging one.
For a moment, no words escape the bespectacled boy’s mouth. “It’s beautiful,” he finally manages.
“They’re all symbols of our lands. The buckle is a traditional design, and the vines on the strap signify the woodland nature of our realm. And the carvings in the wood are sacred of Agerian, so that our patron god will provide you with protection.”
“I cannot thank you enough.”
“You already have,” she assures him, and with this, the companions set off across the hillocks in the light of the early morn. The amount of conversation wanes as they go along, until Erin finds the travel exceedingly dull. She’s all to eager to comply when the sun is nearly set and Xereas suggests that they set up camp.
Since departing, they’ve entered a steadily wooded region, so there’s no shortage of wood to make a fire, and their election to forgo the bedrolls to keep travelling light is rewarded by the soft carpet of pine needles on which they might more comfortably sleep.
“I’m sorry you five didn’t have a chance to spend more time in the highlands,” Xereas apologises. “It’s a wonderful place, but I really hoped to beat the cold down south. Highland winters are invariably brutal, but in Madrogar they’re more mild, and even hot in the really bad years.”
“What do you plan to do in Madrogar?” Jonathan inquires.
Xereas sighs, leaning back against a rock. “I was really hoping to muster some forces for a march across the world, to Avindor to confront Javan. But I don’t know – Arandir and I have been talking, and we’ve agreed that maybe it’s a more realistic goal to at least stir up some rebellion towards the Empire. If I can, I’d like to fight any battles we might have to have in Madrogar. I know the land, and, well, perhaps it’s hoping for too much, but… I really want to reclaim my position.”
“As prince?” Roxanne asks.
“As king. I’ve inherited my father’s position.”
“Unless I’m very much mistaken, haven’t you said that Javan’s set up his own monarchy in your stead?”
“Yes, every nation now operates under a viceroy, a figurehead through whom Javan rules,” Xereas explains.
“Are you going to kill the Madrogan one?” Christian’s voice comes from behind Erin. Startled, she gasps and jumps. When had he gotten there? She’d never even heard him coming! And judging by the looks of shock on the others’ faces, neither had they.
“Yes,” Xereas answers, after a pause. “Yes, Christian, I am going to kill them all.”
The dark-haired boy nods in acknowledgement. “You’re a vengeful man, Xereas.”
The prince looks away into the shadows of the wood. “It was not always so. But they took from me all I had to live for, and I’m going to take back what’s left, and tear down everything they’ve built for themselves.” With this determination, the fire is doused, and darkness sets in upon the camp.
* * *
As their journey progresses, the lessening in proximity to the southern shores of Madrogar becomes evident through the warming of the air. The woods thin, giving way to vast savannas and red clay expanses.
“We’ve crossed the border into Madrogar,” Xereas announces.
“How can you tell?” Erin wants to know.
“The highland realm has no terrain like this,” Arandir explains. “The climes are changing here. Madrogar is vastly different from the highlands, especially in that respect.”
Not a quarter of an hour passes before the sound of hooves beating the dry rock resonates towards the group. Arandir hears it first, spine snapping into straightness, eyes wide and alert.
“Arandir? What is it?” Xereas asks, his voice full of genuine urgency.
“Horses,” Arandir identifies the cause of his concern.
“Imperial?” Xereas seems a bit nervous.
“I don’t know. No, wait – yes, they wear the imperial colours.”
Swearing under his breath, Xereas holds his head. “I had hoped we would not encounter them.”
The mounted men approached the travellers. “Good day,” the one at the foremost tip of the triangle addresses them. Xereas bows his head. “Are you lot… from around these parts? Bit oddly dressed, aren’t you?”
Xereas glances at the party. It’s true – woollen cloaks don’t exactly fit the description of Madrogan dress. “We’re returning from a sojourn to the highlands,” he explains. “And I’m bringing some of the folk from there to experience the wonder that is Madrogar.”
“Oh, how nice of you,” the horseman says, toying with a silver button on his deep red velvet jacket. “Highland folk are so very uncivilised that I believe Madrogar will do them a favour.” His smile couldn’t be more condescending. Arandir tenses and looks like he wants to strike the imperial constable, but Erin puts a hand on his shoulder, reminding him to keep his cool or risk jeopardising their cause. “Additionally, the government in Madrogar is stronger. I always say the viceroy has no real power over the highlanders. But he doesn’t do too terribly much anyhow, so I can’t see as it matters, really. Well, anyhow, best be on your way now, hadn’t you? Ta.” He picks up the reins and urges his horse into a bounding gallop, stones flying and dust stirring behind him and his two comrades.
“Bastards,” Arandir spits, shaking off Erin’s hand.
“Wait – where’s Jonathan?”
As if on cue, the chestnut-haired youth emerges from the trees, and a stir of hooves and burgundy velvet rockets away from him, off in the direction of the departed constabulary. “Right here,” he assures them.
“What were you doing in there?” she demands.
“I was having a wee, if you don’t mind. Then on my way back, he chatted me up.”
“What’d he say?” pressed Xereas.
Jonathan shrugs. “Nothing of tremendous consequence.”
“Everything is of tremendous consequence, boy, especially when it involves a member of the Imperial Guard getting you alone and speaking to you.” Xereas’s tone is full of distrust and angry skepticism.
“I promise you, I really did not in truth pay him any mind,” Jonathan said, as if it were no trouble at all. “Honestly. Let’s keep moving.” He tosses his bundle over his back and trots off. The others exchange looks of worry and hesitation before setting off after him. Roxanne appears especially put out; she knows this is not behaviour customary of Jonathan.
“Something’s wrong,” Xereas whispers to Arandir. “Keep an eye on that one.”
Arandir nods solemnly. “Of course.”

Chapter Three - Xereas

Posted by Jacky on Feb 22, 2008

The five hurtle through the time-space continuum for relatively no time at all, given the distance it would seem they have travelled, finally landing in a pile of tangled limbs with a rather loud thud! on an expanse of grass at the edge of a copse. Erin sits up, rubbing the small of her back, while Jeffrey removes his glasses, blows them off, and wipes the lenses on his school shirt before replacing them on the bridge of his nose. He glances around, doing a quick mental headcount – Erin, Roxanne, Jonathan, Christian – yes, all there. They’ve made it, hopefully to the place to which Caldwell had intended for them to come.
“Well, pardon yourselves,” comes a half-affronted, half-amused voice from somewhere to their right. The five turn, some of them jumping upon seeing the tall, dark-haired man sitting on the grass and leaning against a fairly young oak.
“Hello,” Jonathan ventures.
“Ooh, you’ve an accent,” the stranger notes, corner of his mouth tilting up in a lopsided grin.
“Yes, we’re not from around these parts.”
“Of course you’re not. You’re from the other side.”
Surprise becomes evident on Roxanne’s face. “H-how’d you know?”
The curly-haired brunette pointedly averts his gaze to the pale green stone lying not more than a foot from Erin’s hand. “Signs of travel. You might want to give your foreheads a little rub, too,” he suggests, dragging the back of his hand back and forth across his forehead in exemplification. Roxanne pulls her sleeve down over her hand and wiped her forehead off. She stares at the cuff, now stained a curious silvery colour, as if she’s spilled iridescent paint on her sleeve. “For what purpose have they sent you here?”
“We don’t know,” Jonathan admits after a moment of awkward silence.
“Caldwell didn’t tell you?” The man looks a bit skeptical, one eyebrow raised.
“No,” Jonathan replies.
“Hold on,” Jeffrey interjects. “How do you know Caldwell?”
The stranger sighs, his head falling back so he can gaze up at the fading afternoon sky. “I know a great many things that most don’t, but I’ve no longer any use for them.” Erin is struck by a pressing urge to find out more, but Jonathan changes the subject.
“If you don’t mind my asking, sir, who exactly are you?”
“My name is Xereas,” he replies, simply. “Who am I, you ask? Quite honestly, I’m not entirely sure anymore.”
Erin thinks it only polite that they should tell him their names. “I’m Erin, and this is my brother Jeffrey, and that’s Jonathan, and Roxanne, and Christian,” she points them out as she identifies them. “But I can’t help but notice that you allude to your past a lot. Something really momentous must have happened.”
Xereas sighs. “And you want to know?” Erin nods, as do most of the others. “Well, as you are from the other side, I suppose it will not do any harm. That is, if you even believe me,” he adds with a cynical snort. “Most don’t. I was a prince, once, of Madrogar.”
“Madrogar?”
“Kingdom in the south, then the greatest power in all the world, though you wouldn’t know it today, given the state of things. I forget that you aren’t familiar with this side.”
“But, what happened?” Roxanne asks. “People don’t just stop being princes.”
“The Empire happened. The Empire of Avindor, ruled by Javan.” He extracts a rolled scroll from his cloak, unfurling the curled paper and spreading it out on the ground so that they can see. The world is divided into several smaller regions, all labelled with their respective names, and large letters covering the entire landmass read: “The Avindorian Empire.”
“My god,” Roxanne breathes. “He’s taken over the world!” Horror and disbelief project through her tone.
“What’s this Javan like?” Jonathan inquires.
“Kings he has killed, people he has subjugated, resistances he has quelled. And he’s got so damn much charisma that they all think he’s fantastic. It’s like they forget what he did. How he killed their families, burned their villages, when they didn’t come quietly. They forget the old lines of kings, and now know only the rulers Javan set up to replace them, to act as his puppets in the far reaches of the world.
“My family was one of them, victimised by Javan. We resisted, of course, and he slaughtered them all. I’d been out of the city, of Pelusia, the capital, and when they were all dead, he asked a maidservant if he’d missed any. She didn’t give me away. I owe her everything, if ever I’m to see her again.”
“We’re truly sorry for your loss,” Jonathan speaks for the group in his leaderly way.
“Why didn’t you try to re-establish yourself, then? As the ruler, that is,” Erin wants to know.
“Have you ever tried to persuade someone to believe that you’re a person they’re convinced is dead?”
“Well, no, but –”
“Precisely. Besides, I can’t take on Javan by myself. He has the entire world at his disposal; no country is free from his rule. His forces are too great. Arandir and I are building up a resistance movement, and since it seems you five have no idea what you’re supposed to be doing here, I’d like to recruit you. Will you accept?”
“Yes,” Jonathan replies. “We will do our utmost to support you in whatever way we can, Xereas.”
“I appreciate it.” He pauses. “By the gods, what are you wearing?”
Roxanne looks down. “Oh,” she says. “Academy uniform.”
“Is that so?” Xereas sounds fascinated. “You’ve all… got garments you wear to look identical? Quaint. I’ve never seen an Academy student. We’ll have to get you some proper clothes. You stand out something frightful. Oh! That reminds me,” he adds, on second thought, getting to his feet. “How old were you when you left?”
“Fifteen,” say Jonathan and Roxanne, rising.
“Fourteen,” the twins answer in unison, following suit.
“Fourteen,” Christian mutters, hands shoved deep into his pockets, standing as well.
“Great Jeixorin! Seems they still haven’t figured it out.” The strokes his chin thoughtfully. “Hm.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Roxanne admits, hesitantly. “Figured what out?”
“Oh, well, I trust Caldwell warned you about changes you might experience while travelling between the worlds, yes?” The five nodded. “It’s merely a side-effect,” he explains, blowing off the subject.
“Yes, that’s all very well,” began Jeffrey tactfully. “But what exactly is that side-effect?”
“How should I say this? You’re six years older, but only physically. Mentally you haven’t matured at all.”
“Thought my shirt fit a bit snugly,” Roxanne makes the connection, tugging at the hem.
“Oh, blazes,” Christian curses loudly, making it the first phrase he’s voluntarily said since passing through the barrier. Picking up a lock of hair by its end, he glances at it forlornly and lets it fall back into place among the strands now significantly longer than when they left. Jonathan runs a hand along his strong jaw, making a face upon feeling the excessive amount of facial hair that seems to have taken up residence there.
Xereas laughs at them and then begins to walk away from the forest, holding his cloak closed tight about him. “I can give you a place to stay for a night or so, but I’m actually planning to depart for the South rather soon, so your timing was really impeccable, I must say,” he calls back at them over his shoulder.
The setting sun casts dancing shadows across the crests of the hills over which they walk, blades of grass flickering and waving in the gentle breeze. A chill sets into the air, and the English children wish they have with them something a bit warmer to wear than their cotton school shirts and woollen shorts or skirts.
Presently they come to the crest of a hill, looking down upon a modest little house set upon a knoll at the edge of a small, winding tributary. “Nice place, isn’t it? I believe we’ll be able to put you all up there until we leave,” Xereas explains, setting off down the hill towards the river. They follow him, eager for someplace warm, something which the curl of smoke rising from the chimney tells them the house can offer them.
Upon reaching the front steps and ascending them to the door, Xereas twists the knob and pushes the door inward, sticking his head in through the newly-opened aperture before following it with his whole body. “Arandir!” he calls into the meagre, empty foyer. There is no reply. Xereas waves the five into the house, Christian pulling the door to behind him.
A shuffle of feet sounds from one of the rooms off the foyer, and moments later a woman emerges, wiping her hands on an well-used apron, wisps of greying hair falling out of the knot tied at the back of her head. She looks up and sees Xereas. “Welcome back,” she greets him. “Enjoy your thinking time amongst the trees? Have a plan yet?” she smiles knowingly, and then catches sight of the five foreign children. “Agerian!” she exclaims. “Who’ve you brought home, Xereas?”
He leans forward, dark curls falling forward as he whispers into her ear, “They’re Academy students. They’re going to join me.”
She straightens suddenly, taken aback, hand flying to her chest. “Is that so? Oh, you lot are not at all equipped for the climes of the Ardinealdan highlands,” she notices, peering at them around Xereas. “Aiyla!” she calls over her shoulder into the room from whence she had come, presumably the kitchen. A girl of about sixteen or seventeen years of age enters at her mother’s call, head titled upwards in expectation as she awaits her task to be assigned her. “Aiyla, take these people upstairs and see if you can find them some appropriate cloth, all right?” The girl nods and motions for the five to follow her up the stairs, her slippered feet dancing up the steps, and long golden hair swishing with her movements.
At the top of the short flight of stairs, she leads them through a door to their left and into a dark room. A small, circular window at the opposite end provides the only light for the quarter, but it is enough to outline several wooden chests of varying shapes and sizes. Aiyla kneels beside one, flicking the latch open and lifting the top to reveal stacks of folded cloaks, tunics, breeches, and woollen stockings. “You four,” she points to Erin, Jeffrey, Roxanne, and Christian, “will probably be able to find something in this chest. But you,” she sits back one her heels and throws her outstretched finger at Jonathan, “are probably going to need some of father’s old things.” She opens another trunk, its wood darker and its shape larger than the other, to reveal clothes similar to those in the other trunk, topped with a thin layer of dust.
“Thank you,” he says graciously, inclining his head toward her. With a smile, she returns the gesture, before bouncing off to the others. As Christian shrugs out of his school shirt, she shakes out a greyish-blue tunic and draws it down over his head. He turns around in shock, and she counters his harsh surprise with a gentle smile of her own. The brunette tries to smile, but the effort is lost when he realises he can hardly remember how. A lilting laugh escapes her lips, and she bends down to pick up a long, sleeveless, worn black leather overtunic, holding it out to him. He takes it an slips it on, buckling and knotting his belt over it. A nod undulates his head as he bites his lower lip and looks everywhere but at Aiyla.
Turning away, she stoops to remove five folded cloaks from the bottom of the trunk, passing them out to the foreigners. “You’ll need these at this time of year. Winter’s coming, and the highlands are fairly far north, so we get a lot of cold weather.” Everyone’s changed now, and they each take a greyish woollen cloak. Jeffrey holds the bundle up, letting the cloth unfold as it falls. Throwing it about his shoulders and pinning it with the small and worn, but intricately adorned, bronze brooch, he notices the outstanding thickness of the fabric, and evident superior craftsmanship of the garment.
“These cloaks are of exceptional make,” he observes to Aiyla. “I noted also that the cloths you gave to us to wear are well-made as well.”
Aiyla’s seemingly perpetual smile broadens. “Yes, our people are known for their commendable craftsmanship. My brother – Arandir – is a smith.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes,” she confirms, leading the group out of the room and back down the stairs. “He should be in by now, so I’ll introduce you.” Peering around the door frame into the kitchen, she catches sight of her brother, and runs to him, throwing her arms about him.
Arandir is a tall man, well-built and strong, but still retaining all the features of youth. His teeth show through a wide laughing smile, and he pats his sister’s what-coloured hair, kissing the top of her head. “I was not gone so long, little sister,” he says.
“Nay, brother, but soon you shall be gone longer than ever before.”
Arandir’s smile fades and he stares wistfully past his younger sibling. The sight of the five strange young adults standing awkwardly just inside his kitchen draws him from his reverie. “Is this them, then, Xereas?” he calls over his shoulder.
“It is,” comes the familiar voice of the Madrogan prince.
“They look a rather good lot!” Arandir observes enthusiastically. “And you just found them out at the copse?”
“They’re from the Academy.”
“Oh, right! Well, then, they’re just the ones for the job.”
“So I thought, yes,” he agrees, breaking off a bit of bread and dipping it into his goblet of wine.
“All of you, come sit down and have a little something to eat,” Arandir’s mother invites, and the seven standing comply. They while away the evening, talking and laughing, discussing matters of grave importance but also enjoying life, for this night is one of their last together.

Chapter Two - Crossing

Posted by Jacky on Feb 22, 2008

ÜBER-BREAK
So, I went to this little lecture thing at MIT called “Your Mind Sucks,” and it was about psychology and how your mind’s a dirty, filthy liar. So unless the cute Freshman giving the course lied to us, your brain should totally fill in the massive, elephantine bit of story that I elected not to write at this point in time.
–

“Bring me the London Five.”
With a bow of his head, Drake exits. Professor Camden sighs. “You’ve decided, then? It’ll be them?”
Caldwell nods. “You know the laws, Camden. A group must be sent.”
Camden concedes. “Yes, yes, sir, I know. I just hoped not them.”
“Don’t let your biases and personal feelings get in the way,” Caldwell warns.
“But it’s so dangerous!” Camden argues. “And they’re only kids!”
“Pierce and Taylor are fifteen already,” Caldwell counters.
“And the others are still fourteen. They’ve hardly even studied at the Academy, yet. They’re not ready!”
“Don’t question my judgement, Camden,” Caldwell warns. “I’ll not take second-guessing from the likes of you.”
The bespectacled teacher turns away from the headmaster, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. A knock sounds from the door frame, followed by Drake’s voice.
“Here they are, sir.” He holds the door for the five confused children.
“Very good,” Caldwell commends Drake without setting eyes upon him, turning to survey the group. “You five, henceforth known as the London Five in regards to your home city, have been summoned here for a very important purpose.” At this point, Erin raises an eyebrow. People always say that before something disappointingly anticlimactic. “You’ve been at the Academy for a couple of months, now. Do you know the laws – or rather, law – that keeps this institution running?”
“No, sir,” Jonathan replied, speaking for the Five.
“Even you, Pierce? A second-year?” Jonathan shakes his head. “Very well, then,” he begins, but he is interrupted by Roxanne.
“Please, sir,” she says. “The other world allows us to keep this school open, to guard the secret of their existence, and in exchange we must send trained students to them when needed.”
“Good, Taylor,” Caldwell commends her, looking pleased. “And that’s precisely why you’ve been brought here.”
“Sir, you can’t mean –” Roxanne swallows.
“Can’t mean what, Taylor?” Caldwell raises his eyebrows expectantly.
“To send us over there.” She looks away from the headmaster’s boring gaze.
“Oh, but I do,” Caldwell assures her. “So clearly the rules by which you deigned that do not apply to me.”
“There are others,” Jonathan speaks up. “Ones who have been trained longer, who know more, who are more qualified than us.”
“You and Taylor are second-years, Pierce: fair game. Montgomery’s a clever lad. And your two, Camden,” the headmaster addresses the professor, “have had previous training, correct? For you knew that they’d end up here, and so you prepared them for this. You decided in their childhood that your children would attend the Academy.” At the sickly sweet smile on Caldwell’s face Camden feels he might be ill.
“’Your two’?” Erin said in disbelief after a moment of deathly silence. “’Your children’?”
“You knew.” Jeffrey’s words are not a question. “You recognised us, and you didn’t say anything. And all those years, you never visited or called. You wrote us maybe once a year. But no return address, so we could never talk to you, only listen.”
“Didn’t he tell you?” Caldwell queries, although the uncertainty in his tone seems anything but genuine. “He always said he wanted to meet his kids, now that they were a bit older, every year. But then when he does find you? Nothing? Imagine that.”
Camden looks caught in a three-way automobile crash between tears, fury, and joy. Caldwell ignores his apparent distress.
“In any event, you’re to be sent over,” he says to the Five. “You will acquire the things you need over there, I think, but just in case – Drake, will you make a run to the armoury for me? I think we’ll take, oh, three swords, a dagger, a bow, and a quiver – make sure it’s got something in it.” The boy bowed and trotted out.
“Now, sir?” Erin questions. “Isn’t this a bit sudden?”
“Of course it is. Done best that way.”
“Yes, well, we aren’t exactly ready –”
“This academy is not about whether or not you are yet ‘ready’, Holmes. You ought always to be ready, didn’t we teach you that? You’ve been selected. You will go. And you’ll go now.” At this moment, Drake returns, arms balancing three well-used but serviceable blades, a belt with a sheathed dagger, and a longbow, quiver full of arrows strapped to his back. “Thank you, Drake.” Caldwell approaches Drake and begins to relieve him of some of the armaments. “Ms. Holmes, Pierce, Taylor – swords for you,” he assigns, handing them each in turn a blade. “Dagger for you, Montgomery,” he explained, tossing the belt to the dour-looking brunette. “And, Mr. Holmes, I believe you’ll do rather well with the bow.” Drake unslung the quiver from his back, placing it and the longbow into Jeffrey’s arms.
“Fine, then, sir,” Roxanne says, stepping forward, sheathed sword in hand. “Let’s go.” Jonathan comes up to stand at her side and nods.
“There we are! That’s the spirit!” Caldwell’s face emanates encouragement and excitement. “Now all five of you, together, here, come on,” he waves them over emphatically. The twins and Christian comply, silently but skeptically. “Hold out your hands, there we go,” he orders, dropping a shining pale green stone into each outstretched palm. “No, no, Montgomery – right hand. Yes, that’s better. Make sure not to touch each other just yet, no contact. Now close your eyes, and hold still, don’t move no matter what.” Drake handshim a pot of questionable silvery liquid, and Caldwell dips into the clay jar two fingers and swipes them in the shape of a crescent moon across Jonathan’s forehead, repeating the figure on each student’s forehead. “Make a fist around the stone, and step forward, do try to make certain that your fingers touch two others’; I would hate to have to send one of you after the others, and he might not come out in the same place. Eyes closed, Holmes! There may be changes in your travels to the other side, perhaps a bit unexpected, but nevertheless–”
“What?” Erin bursts out. “Couldn’t you have said anything before?” But then the floor begins to fall away beneath her, and they were falling.
“Take care of yourselves! I’m sure you’ll manage!” comes Caldwell’s voice, calling after them, distant and lost somewhere in the ether.

Chapter One - Boarding School

Posted by Jacky on Feb 22, 2008

I got bored writing this bit, and decided to skip ahead. As yet, this chapter remains unfinished, but it does give some semblance of background, so if you plan to read later chapters, I suggest you peruse this one first.

I also switched from past to present tense after this part, so I had to go back and change this into present tense before posting. If there are still some inconsistencies, things I missed, I apologise. Please let me know. =)

—-

“That’s good enough for today,” comes the strong, unwavering voice of the short, muscular martial arts instructor. Erin Holmes sighs, panting, and scoops up her sports bag on her way to the changing rooms. She’s been doing this for years, and she is in very good physical condition because of it, but somehow, every class leaves her completely tired out.

Less than a minute later she emerges, bag slung over her shoulder, and meets her brother, Jeffrey. The two are twins, alike in appearance, but not so similar in personality. Jeffrey is the thinker, and he keeps his head. He doesn’t say a tremendous amount save for when prompted, but when one engages in a conversation with him, he often has plenty to say. Perhaps his rectangular-lensed glasses add to his intellectual appearance, or maybe they just seemed stereotypical.

Both dressed simply, in t-shirts and jeans, the twins stroll out onto the streets of London, where dusk begins to tip the buildings with its fading light. Silence presides over them for the first few minutes of their trek home, as they weave through the people on the streets, searching for a bus to shorten the journey.

“I don’t understand why we have to do this,” Erin confesses to her brother, stopping on a corner at the sight of the approaching bus.

Jeffrey merely shrugs. “I’m sure there’s a reason. There always is. And someday, she’ll tell us.” Sometimes Erin questions too much, the boy thinks. She always has to know what was happening next and to try to figure out how to keep one step ahead of it. Jeffrey doesn’t do that. He waits for events to unfold and make the best of them.

The bus pulls up at the stop, emitting a puff of steam as it brakes. Erin trots up the steps, dropping some change into the conductor’s hand, Jeffrey following close behind. They dropped into a seat near the front in order to make a quick escape, and Erin gazed out of the window. Neither says anything for a moment, no sound save for the soft murmur of conversation from the other occupied seats, until the she said, “I suppose so. It’s just that I get kind of –”

“– Impatient, I know.”

“Yeah.”

Jeffrey rises and walks down the aisle as the bus came to another puffing stop, descending the steps first. They walk down the street to their apartment home accompanied by the soundtrack of evening traffic and bustling people.

A voice greets them as Erin turns the key in the lock. “Welcome home!” it said.

“Hello, mum,” Erin replies, dropping her things as Jeffrey pulls the door shut behind him.

“’Lo,” he says. Erin pulls out a chair and sits in it, resting one elbow on the kitchen table and placing her chin in her hand.

Mrs. Alice Holmes puts down a bowl and flings the dish towel over her shoulder. “How was school?”

“Dismal, as always,” replies Erin earnestly.

“Oh, well, that’s nice.” Alice has a tendency to miss things like that, things to which she perhaps ought to have paid a bit more mind, but hadn’t. Usually it meant something more pressing occupied her mind. “I hope you’ve said good-bye to all of your friends.”

“We haven’t any friends,” Jeffrey reminds her.

“What?” Erin questions simultaneously.

Alice rummages about in a drawer in the counter and withdraws two envelopes. “You’re going to boarding school!” she informs them with the largest grin the world had ever seen.

Erin raises an eyebrow. “You just… applied for us? Never asked us or anything?”

“It’s something your father and I decided,” Alice replies, as if that should explain everything.

They don’t talk much about Edward Holmes. The children had never met him, as he’d gone away shortly after their birth. Alice never spoke poorly of him, only saying that he was busy elsewhere, and perhaps they’d meet him someday, if all went well. She said he helped people, selected people, that he taught them things, things that normal folk could never fathom. Things they’d never believe.

Needless to say, no one responded to that.

“Let me see,” Jeffrey orders. His mother tosses one of the envelopes down before him.

Mr. Jeffrey Holmes
23A Feridsen Road
Batterson, London, SW11

He turns over the envelope and lifts the previously-opened flap, extracting the letter. It reads:

Dear Mr. Holmes,
We at The Academy are pleased to offer you a position in the current enrolling class. Thank you for showing interest in our institution.
Please send word by the 15th of the month regarding your acceptance of position.
You have been selected. Signed,
Julian Caldwell, Headmaster

 “Well,” says Jeffrey, replacing the letter into the envelope. “Fellow knows how to mince his words, doesn’t he?”

“And what sort of a name is ‘The Academy?’” criticises Erin, who has just finished her own letter, which had been precisely the same save for the title by which she’d been addressed. “Honestly. You’d think they could be more creative.”

Alice ignores them. “I’ve responded for you. You’ll be going. All arrangements are made.”

A heavy silence hangs over the family. “Are you trying to get rid of us or something?” Erin wants to know. “I mean, you don’t ask our permission, don’t even tell us until you’ve made sure there’s no way we can get out of going. It’s kind of ridiculous.”

Affrontedness shows itself on Alice’s face. “Of course not! You two mean more to me than anything. But your father and I decided this before you were born. You’ll understand when you get there.”

“Oh, yes, we really ought to let our estranged father map out for us our lives!” Rage risese in Erin’s voice.

“Erin, calm –” Jeffrey holds out an arm to quell his sister’s temper.

She turns to the boy, shoving him away. “I will not calm down! This is bloody ridiculous! It would be one thing if she’d ask us first, but she’s just all, ‘Oh, no, this has been predetermined! No, you haven’t any say! I won’t be respectful enough to tell you, even!’”

Even Alice’s mere 167 centimetres seems to tower over the twins. “Erin Holmes, I will have you know that I am in complete support of choosing one’s own path, but this is the only matter in which you will ever have no say. Do I make myself heard?”

The girl’s countenance still projects defiance, but she looks humbled. Jeffrey elbows her for good measure. “Yes, mother,” she concedes.

“Good.” Alice’s smile returns, making her once again the loving and gentle figure as everyone knows her. Things are normal again in the Holmes household.

The family of three pushes its way through the bustle of people as they hurry along the platform.

“I’ve made arrangements for your bags to be sent on ahead,” Alice informs them.

“Yes, so you’ve told us,” Jeffrey reminds her.

“About thirty-seven times,” Erin adds.

“Well, I’m just a bit anxious,” Alice says with a sigh. She kisses them each on the forehead. “I don’t know if I’ll see you again.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Erin asks.

Her mother ignores her. “Here are your tickets.” She hands them each an oblong piece of card-paper. “Do not miss the train. Anything else? Oh, yes. You’ll need the phrase.” She rummages about in her purse and extracts a pen. “Have either of you a slip of paper?” Wordlessly, Jeffrey holds out his hand. His mother uncaps the writing implement and scrawls something across his palm. “Remember, the train will only take you so far. You’ll have to get the cab from the end of the line, and that’s where you’ll need this.”

Jeffrey turns over his hand to look at what his mother has written. “’I feel as a sunbeam dancing across the horizon at the break of day, or as the molten silver of stars hung high in the velvet sky,’” he read. “Think I shan’t ask about this one. Bit odd, that. Poetic, though.”

Readying to leave, the conductor calls for last-minute boarders. Alice’s head shoots up. “Oh, quick! You mustn’t miss it!”

Erin rolls her eyes but trots off in the direction of the train’s open door and the waiting conductor, her brother following close behind. Stopping on the steps, he turns and waves to his mother. “Bye, mum,” he calls. “Take care of yourself.” And then he disappears onto the train.

Few seats remains unoccupied, but the twins manage to find a pair of empty seats across from a particularly morose-looking boy. In appearance, he is about their age, fourteen years, perhaps a bit older. Scraggly brown hair wiggles into limp curls, shielding his face from view. He sits in the seat beside the window, pressed up against the wall, back hunched and chin resting in his hand. When the train shoots forward, he gives a great lurch, but never seems to pay any mind, just taking things in stride, as if he is impervious to anything and everything.

Jeffrey notices that all the time they’ve been on the train – several minutes, at least – Erin has never taken her eyes from the boy’s dejected form. “I’m going to go talk to him,” she resolves.

“Really, Er, I don’t think he wants –” Jeffrey stops short when his sister leaps up and across the aisle, plopping down in the vacant seat next to the other boy. He sighs, pulling his long blond ponytail over his shoulder and twisting it thoughtfully. “Will she ever listen to me?” he murmurs to the ceiling. “No, I don’t think so, either,” he decides, as if the ugly yellow lights on the roof of the car have prognosticated the future in order to answer his question.

“Hey,” Erin begins brightly. The dark-haired boy says nothing. “I’m Erin. Who’re you?”

“Christian.”

“Oh, lovely! Where’re you going?” the blond presses, practically bouncing in her seat at this point.

“School.” The kid seems fond of one-word answers.

“Oh, so are we! My brother and I, that is.” She waves across the aisle at Jeffrey, but Christian never looks away from the window. “Where do you go to school?”

Chocolate waves swing around fast enough to whip Erin across the face. “Would you just leave me the hell alone?” he explodes.

Never before has Erin looked so affronted. “Oh,” she begins, startled. “Yes, well, if you’d like, yes, of course.” Dazed, she rises and crosses the aisle, collapsing into her seat beside Jeffrey, who just gives her an I-told-you-so look. “Oh come on,” she pleads. “He looked so miserable, I just had to try to make him cheer up.”

“By the looks of it, you didn’t succeed,” Jeffrey notes.

“No,” she replies, absent-mindedly. “What an odious boy,” she adds with a disgruntled sigh. Jeffrey merely shrugs and looked back out the window at the countryside hurtling by.

The sun hangs low in the afternoon sky as the train pulls into the station at Fishguard. Erin and Jeffrey disembark into a station flooded with greyish light. Few passengers had remained on the train this far, but Jeffrey does not fail to notice that Christian has also gotten off.

“Look who it is!” he says, pointing out the gloomy, dark youth. “Mr. Sunshine.”

Erin rolls her eyes. “Not amused with your sarcasm now, O brother mine.”

In an attempt to change the subject, he asks, “Haven’t we got to get a boat now?”

“Yes, I believe so,” Erin responds, absently, making for the exit of the station. “Come along. ‘S getting late.”

They emerge into the quiet little Welsh fishing port, searching around for their next destination. “Excuse me,” calls Erin, spotting a short little man stepping out of the door of a pale blue building and waving to get his attention. When she calls, he looks up, glancing around for a moment before catching sight of the pair, and the blond girl trots over, brother in tow. “Could you tell me where to catch the ferry for Wexford, sir?”

Stroking his chin, the man looks towards the cloudy grey sky in consideration. “Well, it’s not a mile from here, but seeing as it’s getting on in hours and I’ve finished all me work, how about I give you two a ride?”

“Oh!” exclaims Erin, surprised. “Thanks, that’d be lovely.” She turns to Jeffrey. “Are people always so nice hereabouts?”

“We can only hope.”

He is a funny little man, in his bright yellow macintosh and Wellingtons. As he walks he whistles a tune, a bright and cheery melody, occasionally throwing in a few notes of vocalised song. Droplets of rainwater splashes up from around the soles of his boots as he walks, puddles left over from a past storm or storms. His step is not an even one, and every once in a while he sidesteps in a step of a lost jig.

Presently, the trio comes upon a pale blue vehicle, modest in size and appearance, clearly prioritising service. It doesn’t shine, but not a scratch or dent can be found on the entire body. The way in which it sits on the rain-soaked pavement reminds Erin of a dog faithfully awaiting its master.

“’Op in,” the man orders with a jerk of his head as he opens the driver’s side door and slides into the seat. The twins complied, scooting into the back seat. “So,” he began. “What’re you going to Wexford for?”

“School,” Jeffrey answers.

“In Wexford?”

“No, in the country. But we’re to meet someone in Wexford.”

“Oh, I see. Ever been there before?”

“’Fraid not, no.”

There is a pause. “Whereabouts are you two from?”

“London,” Erin pipes up.

“London! Boy. City folk, then, eh?”

She gives a meek laugh. “I suppose so, yes.”

“I think you’ll like the country, though. It’s lovely.”

“Indeed…”

The next few moments they spent in silence, but in almost no time at all the man stops the car. “Well, there you are,” he says, turning to farewell the pair over his shoulder. “If ever you’re back in Fishguard, come see me, Albert Hopkins.”

“We’ll be sure to do so,” Jeffrey assures him. “Thank you ever so much.”

“My pleasure,” Albert replies, his mouth turning up in a bright smile that caused his round cheeks to flush with colour.

Stepping out of the car, the twins catch sight of a large ferry docked at the quay. Erin grabs her brother’s arm and runs towards the ferry, so suddenly that the jolt causes Jeffrey to need to push his glasses back up his nose. At the quay, she stops, almost as suddenly as she’d taken off. “You stay here, and I’ll go pay fare,” she ordered. Jeffrey is left, sighing on the quay, and wondering if his sister would ever be any less authoritative. He doesn’t suppose so.

They board the ferry, Erin insisting that they take a spot on the bow, looking out over the rail at St. George’s Channel. Jeffrey doesn’t mind, really – open water helped him to think.

The boat began to move, and Erin turns to lean on the rail, gripping the white-painted bar with each hand. “So, The Academy… what’re your thoughts?” she queries.

“Dunno,” begins Jeffrey, truthfully. “Name sounds a bit foreboding, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose, yes. But it’s just so general. The Academy,” she tests it. “The Academy of what?”

Jeffrey shrugs. “Beats me.”

“I mean, do you suppose it’s some sort of military training camp or something, and mum’s sold us off to the government for use in a teenage army or something?”

“I think you’ve a bit of an overactive imagination,” Jeffrey reminds his sister with the same patient tone reserved for the clinically stupid.

She laughs. “Maybe, but it just doesn’t make any sense…” she trails off, staring at a point behind Jeffrey’s head, brow furrowing.

“What is it?” he wonders aloud, turning to look for the thing which has caught her attention.

Oh. Christian. He should have known. That head of unruly black hair seems to be following them everywhere this day.

“Why is he always anywhere we go?” Erin whines. “His whole presence just sets me off.”

“You don’t suppose that he’s –”

“No. Absolutely not.”

Don’t Touch My Ylang-ylang

Posted by Jacky on Feb 22, 2008

Things had been quiet around the Torchwood institute lately – so quiet, in fact, that any real happenings had mostly ceased, and threatened to come to a standstill entirely if something didn’t happen soon. They went home early every day, consumed inordinate amounts of cheap beer and takeout Chinese food, and slept loudly, much to the chagrin of Ianto who seemed to binge-drink his own coffee these days – he was going to have to chide Owen about his snoring when he thought of it, but this never happened due to the fact that the only time he ever remembered was right after the horrid sounds began, and he had forgotten by the time Owen woke up.

Tosh couldn’t pry herself away from her computer, although they all knew full well that she had nothing to do there, causing Ianto to spend hours brainstorming what activities she could possibly engage herself in – so far he had come up with several lists containing ideas such as: writing a Tolstoy-length novel full of sentences that were too long for the human cerebral attention span; drafting articles full of nonsense and science that no one would ever be able to comprehend but earn her millions when she sold them to some geeky science journal so that she could spend the rest of her life as a secret undercover millionairess until she chose to reveal it to the world and take a small island nation as her domain so that all would bow to her as she steadily climbed the socioeconomic ladder; or chatting with blokes.

And Gwen had taken to sighing and staring forlornly down onto the conference room table.

No one knew what Jack did, although he did take the time to chat with Ianto, which helped to break up the monotony. But it didn’t cut it.

If Ianto was forced to listen to the vibrations of Owen’s respiratory system, the clicking of Tosh’s keys, or Gwen’s bored exhalations anymore he was going to find out if one can fatally overdose on caffeine. If not, maybe he’d at least get to the emergency room, which would liven things up a bit.

Apparently Jack felt the same way, for the next day he emerged from his office and announced that they were taking a holiday.

No one knew if Torchwood was allowed to take holidays, but no one really cared either. The next day they all boarded a compact little jet for God-knows-where-but-who-really-cares?

Such a place turned out to come in the form of a minuscule, nearly uninhabited island somewhere in the South Pacific. It bore the name – well, actually, no one can pronounce it, not even the natives, so perhaps it’s best to just let it alone.

Upon disembarking, the group took a glance around at their surroundings, comprised mostly of green plant matter and brightly coloured flowers. The birds were there, yes, one could hear them, but they never appeared before the alien-chasers.

“I suppose they don’t have wireless, then,” Tosh said, defeated.

“You’d be lucky to find running water or even an outhouse,” Jack informed them. “Who remembered toilet paper?” Tosh, Gwen, and Ianto raised their hands; Owen looked as if he had just awoken a sleeping dragon. “Well, then, Owen, you’ll just get to learn to use leaves if you have to take a shit – just make sure you’re not allergic to that type of plant.”

“Oh, yeah? And how the hell am I supposed to know what it is, anyways?” Owen retorted.

“I’ve brought along some field guides,” Ianto piped up, holding up his rucksack.

“Lovely, Ianto. Always prepared.” Jack clapped him on the back and beamed. Ianto grinned sheepishly.

“You know, when you mentioned we were going somewhere tropical, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Owen snapped.

“Unfortunately for you, it’s exactly what I had in mind,” returned Jack.

Just at that moment, a small man in ragged clothes and a wide-brimmed straw hat stepped out from the trees.

“Oh, this’ll be our guide, then!” Jack noticed triumphantly. “Hello!” he greeted the man, waving.

The man waved back as he approached Jack. “Hello,” he replied, in clearly very shattered English. Then he pointed to himself and said, “Jati.”

Jack poked a finger into his chest and said, “Jack.” The others followed suit. “Can you show us through the jungle?” he asked slowly. Jati made a gesture indicative of non-comprehension.

“I don’t think he speaks English,” Gwen observed.

“Right,” Jack replied. He pointed to Jati, then grabbed Ianto’s hand and dragged him a few steps to mime leading – though Ianto got a bit of a jolt up the spine as their hands met – before gesturing to the group and miming the parting of plants.

Realization dawned on Jati and he nodded fervently. Jack grinned widely as the tanned man motioned for them to follow him, but paused as he turned to leave as if remembering something all of a sudden. Placing a knifed hand to his forehead as if to salute, Jati appeared to scan the horizon as a sailor shielding his eyes from the sun might. Then he tensed his fingers into claws and growled.

“Watch out for tigers?” Tosh murmured, hoping she had interpreted the gesticulations incorrectly.

“Tigers?!” Owen exclaimed, having stood close enough to Tosh to hear. “No, Jack, you didn’t say anything about any bloody tigers!” His voice crescendoed with every word that passed his lips. Jack merely shrugged, but he didn’t look so amused this time, having been unaware of the fact that they were in danger of ambush by large striped jungle cats himself. “Well, I’m not moving from here. I’m not going out there so some dirty great cat can eat me!”

“Fine, then. No one will be around to hear you scream for help,” Jack retorted. Owen gave a resigned sigh and trotted off after Jati and the group.

After several hours of hidden aviary serenades, trudging through soggy earth, and low-hanging branches that dripped onto anyone who passed under them – it soon became apparent that Jati’s hat was not for fashion purposes – the party arrived at an undersized building, presumably one-room, made entirely from roughly-hewn rainforest trees, with limbs of banana trees poking through gaps in the wood.

Jati turned to face them, grinning broadly, and pointed to the group, then placed his hands under his head and closed his eyes.

Jack nodded. “Looks like this is where we’re staying.”

Needless to say, Owen looked skeptical, Gwen raised her eyebrows and her countenance bore the features of contemplation, and Tosh just shrugged. Ianto glanced at a stopwatch he had drawn from the pocket of the windbreaker he wore over his casual clothes, and announced that a mere hour and a half had passed since they’d disembarked the plane.

“Really? Felt more like a million years,” was Owen’s snide response. Ianto chose to ignore him.

Jack re-shouldered his rucksack and led the way into the dilapidated bungalow. Any suspicions as to the size of the interior soon evanesced – there was indeed only one room with a solid dirt floor. Claiming a corner as his sleeping place, Jack set up his bedroll and tossed his rucksack down beside it. Ianto unrolled his next to Jack’s, in an attempt to conserve space – or so he told himself.

Night fell swiftly upon the jungle bungalow. Jati had left hours ago for his own home not far away, and since then the institute members had dined on an insufficient supper of water biscuits and cheese and tried to talk before turning in early, since the only thing to do at night seemed to be sleep.

Ianto tossed and turned, hoping desperately that slumber would find him soon. Such a thing failed to happen, however, and as he lay listening to the tropical insects and fluttering of the leaves as nocturnal beasts disturbed them, he heard another rustle, one that did not belong to a beast but sounded from right next to him.

“Ianto?” the voice said, soft, so as not to wake any of the others.

“Yes, sir?”

“Fancy a moonlit walk with me?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Call me ‘Jack’, Ianto. We’re on holiday,” he reminded the younger man as he rose from the shadows.

“Yes, Jack,” Ianto complied, uncertainly, testing the new name. Shouldering his rucksack, he followed Jack as his leader crept across the cushiony dirt floor of their shelter and out the door frame into the cooler night.

“Ahh,” Jack breathed the fresh jungle air. “Better.”

As they entered the forest from the clearing in which the bungalow was situated, the darkness became more apparent.

“Damn, Ianto – did you perhaps remember to bring a flashlight?”

“Of course, Si – Jack,” he replied, fishing through his rucksack for the desired item and procuring it for the Captain.

“Have you got everything in there?” Jack wondered, hefting the flashlight and smiling appreciatively at Ianto.

“Pretty much,” Ianto replied, with a small smile back.

“Amazing,” Jack murmured before turning to press onward.

They walked along in silence for some time, Jack a stride ahead of Ianto, who always followed like a faithful dog. Occasionally Jack would ask what a certain curious new plant was, and Ianto would riffle through the pages until arriving at the appropriate plant, when Jack would hold the flashlight for him so that Ianto could read to him about the plant in which he was interested.

They had taken to lively chatting as they trekked through the intense greenery, and found a pleasant little clearing in which to stop and have a breather. Disentangling oneself from creeping vines can have more of a tiring effect than one might think.

Jack laid down his jacket amongst the lower leaves of the plants that protruded out into the almost-beaten path (but not really, since no paths ran through this rainforest) so that he and Ianto could sit down without becoming too sodden. For several minutes there was no sound but that of their breathing as it slowed to a more normal pace. But then a rustle and a snap! sounded in the trees behind them, causing the two men to spin their heads around so fast that they threatened to fly clean off of the necks on which they perched. For several minutes they remained perfectly still, scarcely daring to breathe, but Jack broke the silence first.

“Do you suppose it was a tiger?” he mused, grinning playfully. “A great, big, hungry one, just looking for a little Welsh butler to gobble up for a midnight snack?”

“That’s not funny, sir,” Ianto said reproachfully, turning away from Jack.

Apparently Jack thought it was because he continued with his act, tackling Ianto into the bushes and making gnawing sounds while furiously tickling his sides. Ianto fell, shrieking with laughter, partly amused and partly feeling very vulnerable now that Jack had found one of his greatest weaknesses.

After the laughter had subsided, the two men rested panting on the rainforest floor – Ianto, on his back under a tree adorned with large yellow flowers – one seemed to have fallen on him during their romp – and Jack kneeling over him, one hand and one leg on either side of the Welshman.

“Ianto – what’s that flower on your head?”

Ianto reached up to retrieve the bloom that had dropped lopsidedly over his right eye. “Give me the field guide,” he instructed Jack, who complied, handing him the small paperback. Ianto opened the book as Jack held the flashlight on the page for him, flipping through the pages until he found an image of the flower he had plucked from his face, lifting the yellow-green blossom to his nose so he could take in its scent again. It was a rather pleasant fragrance, he thought.

Looking back to the field guide, he scanned the glossy page, picking up the most important bits of information. “It’s called the… ylang-ylang, and –“

“I’m sorry,” interrupted Jack. “Did you say it’s called the ‘ylang-ylang’?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Sounds dirty.”

Ianto rolled his eyes and continued. “It has curly petals and is typically yellowish-green in colour, although on rare occasions it may be pink.” His eyes perused the dark block of text that described the ylang-ylang. “Flower of the canaga tree, glossy leaves, often used for a highly fragrant essential oil, thought to be effective as an aph–”

Ianto did not get to finish the word “aphrodisiac” before Jack’s lips clamped down on his own. However, this proved that the field guide was at least accurate, if not particularly useful now that it was jammed at a rather uncomfortable angle between the two men.

When the need for air came, Jack pulled back for a moment, his breathing laboured.

“–rodisiac,” Ianto finished, just as breathless as the older man.

“So I see,” Jack noted before diving back into Ianto’s lips.

This heated snog continued until Jack came up with a rather unexpected query.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any condoms in that rucksack of yours?”

Ianto looked more than a little taken aback. “Well… yes, I do, but –”

“You really have got everything,” Jack assented, fishing through one of the front pockets.

Morning brought a fresh blanket of mist over the rainforest as well as the endless song of the birds – upon whom, needless to say, neither of them had yet laid eyes.

“I did mean everything I said last night, you know,” Jack assured Ianto. “About how I love you. It’s true; I do. It wasn’t just the flower.”

“I know,” Ianto replied. There was a moment of silence. “Well, I suppose we should start getting back…” Neither of them wanted to, and it showed in Ianto’s voice.

“Or we could stay here forever, just you and me and the tigers and the ylang-ylang.”

“Until one of us dies, you mean.”

“No,” said Jack. “We’ll be immortal. You, me, and the ylang-ylang.”

“You left out the tigers that time.”

“Yeah.” Beat. “It really is a very pretty flower,” Jack observed, reaching out to take the curious tropical bloom from Ianto’s grasp.

“Don’t touch my ylang-ylang,” Ianto commands, drawing the aforementioned flower out of Jack’s reach and in close to his chest, looking falsely reproachful. This last sent them both into a fit of giggles, which, once subsided, evoked a thought from Ianto:

“I really wish those birds would show themselves. Their disembodied song is starting to creep me out.”

Jack just laughed and pulled Ianto’s face towards his own, delivering a kiss to the smaller man’s nose.

Mad Ruminations of Remus J. Lupin

Posted by Jacky on Feb 22, 2008

Remus hates June. He’s got allergies to that damned pollen, he’s got to cram for exams, and it’s Sirius’s birthday.

Not that he dislikes Sirius’s birthday, but it’s the fact that he’s got to get him a present. And frankly, Remus sucks at buying presents. If he could just package up a pair of socks or a book or something every time someone gains a year, he’d be ok with it.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way. Even more unfortunately, Sirius’ birthday is tomorrow and Remus hasn’t the foggiest idea what to get him.

Bugger.

He goes to bed that night no better off. In fact, he’s miserable. He can’t sleep, can’t live with the thought that he didn’t get his best friend a birthday present.

Remus feels like he deserves to curl up and die on the spot. He figures having his favorite jumper torn to shreds before his very eyes, or being forced to watch the burning of his most worshiped piece of literature would be a fair punishment, but then he decides that the neither the jumper nor the book deserve it, and therefore it gets crossed off the list off the list of his more brilliant ideas.

Finally, the trauma and exhaustion catch up to him and he drifts off to sleep.

The next morning, Remus decides it’s time to take drastic measures. He’s never really been much of an impromptu thinker; in fact, he always makes a fool of himself when forced to devise something in a tight place. He works better when given time to strategize, but time is most certainly not something Remus Lupin has right now.

Actually, he has zero time, he realizes as sounds of stirring come from Sirius’ four-poster bed.

And in that moment, Remus is seized with a stroke of absolute genius, complete with a side of lunacy and a dash of what-the-bloody-hell-am-I-thinking.

Only, he thinks about that afterwards.

Sirius Black is not a morning person. When he wakes up, he doesn’t expect to see his best friend hovering over his face. It takes him a moment to register the image of the werewolf swimming before his still sleepy eyes, but when he finally realizes there’s someone on top of him, he screams. It’s just a short scream, though, silenced by Remus Lupin’s warm, supple lips on his own.

As their noses bang together in the really-more-awkward-than-Remus-would-have-hoped-for kiss, the sandy-haired boy manages a “Happy Birthday, Sirius,” before the animagus fully realizes what’s going on and grips Remus’s shoulders, taking the other boy’s lips in his own, and kissing back passionately.

Sirius can’t remember a better birthday present. Remus figures he did okay, after all.

Happy Birthday, Harry

Posted by Jacky on Feb 22, 2008

It’s a Potter thing, apparently. Falling for girls with red hair. Though James had had to deal with certain complications, they’re not quite as morally based as Harry’s.

True, Lily had been difficult to get. Ginny hadn’t. They liked each other and were open about it. But she was Ron’s sister, which complicated things. It would have been like James marrying Bellatrix, or Narcissa, or Andromeda, and we all know what that would have meant – disaster, mainly. And Harry wouldn’t be here to begin with.

The war’s over now, he’s out of school, and for the time being he makes the Burrow his home. This is Harry’s life right now. They’re all a little wiser, and a little more world-weary too, for that matter. But gathering like this at the Burrow is the best thing for them, and more than any of them could want.

Harry sits alone now, in a rickety wooden chair in the kitchen. It’s not particularly comfortable, but he doesn’t mind – he never has. It’s late, too; most of the house has already headed to bed. While staring into his glass of water, Harry feels hands on his shoulders. These hands snake down only to be replaced by arms, and a warm breath by his ear.

“Hello, Harry,” it says. A feminine voice. Harry smiles. Must be Ginny. A few strands of tangerine spill over his shoulder. Of course. He knows that voice.

“Hullo, Ginny,” he says lazily. A beep from his watch says that the hour has changed; a glance to it says the day has, too, with the coming of midnight. He’s learned not to look at the Weasleys’ kitchen clock anymore; it won’t tell him the time.

His head rolls back to look up at her, and he sees that she looks peaceful, a serene, loving smile on her face. Her eyelids fall closed as she places a gentle kiss on his nose before finding his lips.

“Mm. Happy birthday,” she says as they break apart. Her grin is wider on one side.

Oh, yes. Definitely a Potter thing.

Long Overdue

Posted by Jacky on Feb 22, 2008

Crimson rays extend across the field, over the emerald blades swaying softly in the warm breeze. Somewhere, a bird sings, its sweet song somehow contradicting the gravity that should be associated with the place. The tombstones cast elongated shadows, slender fingers fanned out.

The elongated shadow of his cap conceals his face, a hole above the perfectly neat blue uniform. Right now, he has no identity, only visiting the grave of his fallen comrade in memoriam, in a gesture of utmost respect.

She stands several feet behind him, head held high, eyes constantly on the figure that stands before her. She doesn’t stir, never moves, just stands there, watching.

As he stares at the headstone before him, at the name carved into it. He bends down and traces the ridges with the tip of his index finger. The smoothed granite contrasts with the sharp edges where the name is chiseled out. Maes Hughes. The contact sends a single phrase through the colonel’s head – you find yourself a wife. He smiled to himself, halfheartedly, with mixed emotions, thinking of all the times his friend had said those words to him over the phone. They always invoked such frustration in him, such petty emotions that mean nothing now.

But, he thinks, maybe Maes had a point.

Mustang rises, never diverting his gaze from the stone. He thinks of the only woman he would ever dream of marrying, the one who was always at his side, always supporting him.

“Riza,” he calls, never turning or glancing over his shoulder.

She moves to take a step forward, and pauses, shocked. Did he just say ‘Riza’? He never called her that. Hawkeye, yes. Shoui, all the time. But not Riza.

He realizes this, as well. They’ve always been close, but it seemed always to remain on a professional level. Never ‘Riza’, always ‘Shoui’, ‘Hawkeye’. But they really have been close.

He even kissed her once.

Late afternoon sun streamed in through the windows, glinting off of the shimmering tiles. The clock on the wall ticked away slowly, softly, its hands making subtle clicking sounds as they rotated around the circle, an eternal wheel. Gold accents caught the sun and reflected its brilliance.

“Hai, Taisa.” She saluted and turned sharply on her heel, towards the door. A hand came to rest on her shoulder, a light squeeze and gentle tug with a slight spin sent her wheeling around to face her superior officer, and she fell against his arms with the suddenness of it.

But he caught her, by the lips. And it wouldn’t have mattered with how much force he turned her back to him – she would have collapsed anyways; it was just a matter of whether the pull itself or the weakness of her knees was the cause.

Eyes wide, she stared at him, at his closed eyelids, the crease of his brow as his eyebrows knit together in passion. She didn’t think she could stand to look at him like that any longer, so she simply mimicked his facial pattern.

And it was over, just like that.

“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head, a look of panic and worry creeping across his face. “Please go.” She walked around to the far side of his desk, and hesitated. Urgency appeared on his features. He slammed his hands down on the oaken desk before him and leaned forward. “Get out!” he shouted.

Shocked, eyes the size of saucers, she backed away, slowly at first, then turned and fled from the room, fumbling with the brass door handle on the way out.

Watching her go, he collapsed into the wooden chair, elbows resting on the varnished wooden surface, face buried in gloved fingers.

Because he always catches her. Always.

Pressing a gentle fingertip to her lips at the memory of it, she advances forward slowly, coming to stand directly behind him. “Hai, Taisa?”

In one swift motion, he’s got her cap off, pulls something out of his pocket, grasps her fingertips and lifts them, limp, towards his mouth. He kisses her knuckles gently, nothing more than a ghost of a touch. Something cold envelops the base of her ring finger and she gasps sharply at the sudden contact. He pulls back and straightens up, obsidian orbs staring intently into chocolate ones, but never lets go of her fingers. The hand remains between them, as a bridge, a bond.

“Riza Hawkeye,” he says. “Will you marry me?”

For a minute she only stares at him. It should be an awkward silence, and it is half that – a silence, but not awkward, because there is an understanding between them, an understanding that has always existed, whether or not they’re aware of it.

“Yes,” she breathes, collapsing into him. He rests his chin atop her golden head, arms holding her close to him, and smiles, because in this moment, all is good in the world.

My Heart Sings for You

Posted by Jacky on Feb 22, 2008

Ishida sits alone at his table, staring absently into his glass. The music coming from the stage barely reaches his ears; once it gets there, he blocks it out. The singer isn’t very good, either. Silly hotels, always hiring people who are never any good. Ishida’s about to get up when the music ceases, but when it resumes, it’s someone else, not the stuffy old man in the tuxedo with the carnation in his pocket, but a young woman. He can tell by the timbre of her voice without even looking up.

A very pretty young woman, he notices, attention having been redirected to the lit platform by the melodic lilt.

Ishida sits, rapt, unable to take his eyes away from her. His eyes drink in her slender form, long black hair tied back in a neat braid, and classy tea-length dress, sans sleeves. Maybe she’s not the conventional form of ‘gorgeous’, but Ishida’s got something to do on this blasted trip.

He’s gonna get to know this girl. Some would call it seducing, only Ishida Uryuu does not ’seduce’. Absolutely not.

During the whole performance, he never once takes his eyes off her. He kind of thinks she may have smiled at him, once. Just maybe. But he’s probably imagining things.

After the show, he goes in pursuit of the woman. He finds her backstage, sitting at a vanity in her dressing room, removing the plait from her hair. She smiles as she observes his entrance in the mirror, never turning around to look at him. Ishida’s heart stops for a moment, then resumes its fervent beating.

“Hello,” she says. Her voice is silky and low, akin to a cat’s purr.

“Hi,” Ishida manages, breathless. She probably didn’t even hear him. He clears his throat. “You were, uh, beautiful tonight. Your singing, that is. Well, singing and appearance, actually.” This had better not sound as awkward as he’s afraid it does.

The woman rises and turns, facing him now. She advances toward him, walk graceful like a cat. This can not be helping the furious blush creeping across Ishida’s cheeks. No, it isn’t; he can feel them burning now. Any moment now, his head is going to burst into flame, he’s sure of it.

“I’ll bet you carry a pretty tune yourself,” she says. Woah. Ishida is not expecting this.

He holds his hands out, palms facing towards her. “Actually, no. I can’t sing at all.”

“Nonsense. Don’t be silly,” she says playfully, circling him so that he can no longer see her unless he looks into the mirror, throwing a navy chiffon scarf about his shoulders and roping him in like a cowboy retrieving a wayward bovine. “How about you sing with me tomorrow night?”

Ishida opens his mouth to protest. “I really don’t think–”

“Pretty boy,” she adds. Oh. Well. If that’s how it is, then Ishida can hardly refuse. Though maybe the lavender scent of her hair has some sort of influential authority over his senses, muddling his thoughts. Yes, that must be it. Because Ishida would have to be insane to accept an invitation to sing on stage, in public, at a classy hotel with a lovely lady. “Lovely,” she concludes, interpreting his silence. “Don’t forget my name. Kurotsuchi Nemu.”

“Ishida Uryuu,” he replies, distantly, the last few minutes just registering for real in his brain. They seem to sort themselves out and settle down, so Ishida decides it’s his turn to propose an invitation. “How about we go get some dinner?”

Nemu eyes him curiously. Of course people go out to eat at 11:30 PM, especially when they’ve both already eaten, and they know it. Or at least that’s what she decides, since her skepticism turns quickly to a pleased grin. “Well, all right,” she says, flicking the scarf back from Ishida’s shoulders and wrapping it around her own. She doesn’t bother to alter her appearance in any way, just steps out the door. Ishida follows her, grinning as if his birthday has arrived six months early.

They wind up at a small sushi place, and while the night away talking of petty things. Neither of them has ever had a more enjoyable night in their life. But then again, everyone enjoys a night marked by raw fish and a little voracious kissing.

+++

Ishida feels entirely overdone in a full suit. He doesn’t wear suits. This is ridiculous. He feels like his father.

Well, at least he looks nice. Or so he intends. The sentiment is present.

He fidgets with his tie, adjusting it again and again, unnecessarily. Is she always late? He bounces on the balls of his feet, staring anxiously out the window towards the twilit sky, when Nemu enters.

“Someone’s a little disquieted,” she says, suppressing a laugh at his antics. Ishida freezes, turning ever-so-slowly around to face her.

“Hello,” he says in a small voice. She looks even nicer than the night before, in a short scarlet cheongsam, her hair pulled back and secured with a pair of ornamental hairpins.

“Calm yourself,” she says, walking over to him and depositing her purse on the table as she passes. She squeezes his shoulders with long fingers – my goodness, they’re long – in an attempt to get him to relax. “No need to be so uptight. I expect it’s just nerves, yes?” He nods ardently.

“Well, come on,” she urges, patting his back. “I’m sorry I’m late, but we’ve got to be on in a minute.” Suddenly, Ishida doesn’t feel too well. In fact, he rather thinks he’ll be violently ill, only there’s no time for that.

The next minutes are all blurry for Ishida. The next thing he knows, he’s on the stage of the hotel, being fairly blinded by the lights. He mutters something about a conspiracy, and man-eating penguins, and hints at the aforementioned birds’ affinity for gelatinous explosives, all accompanied by a prayer to a deity that clearly no one has ever mentioned before and is probably a product of Ishida’s brain on overhaul. Nemu just smiles at him, encouragingly. Chances are she didn’t hear a word of it.

A horrible thought occurs to Ishida just then. “What are we singing?” he mouths urgently to Nemu, but she just gives a tiny shake of her head, indicating that she can’t understand him. He resorts to clamant gesticulations, which are equally unintelligible, but she just shoots him a pointed look that clearly says, “kindly stop acting like a complete lunatic in front of all these people,” which Ishida understands word-for-word, especially the “all these people” part. He has just noticed how many people there actually are in the audience, and he feels the previous night’s sushi (and probably a little saliva which may or may not belong to him) threatening to resurface and give him another taste.

At this point, Nemu grabs the microphone and begins to sing, leaning in towards Ishida, while the brass band behind them strikes up a lively accompaniment. “L is for the way you look at me,” she sings, a bit louder and bolder than the previous night.

Ishida suddenly feels a lot better. He knows this song. Lost in the sea of relief that floods his head, he sings with a bit less reserve than he normally would have, “O is for the only one I see.”

Encouraged by his recovery from shock, Nemu belts out, “V is very, very –” Ishida joins her for “extraordinary”, before continuing with “E is even more than anyone you can adore.”

They continue on in this fashion, alternating lines, and the song becomes more like a musical discourse between the two new-found lovers. The applause at the end is nearly deafening. Ishida grins as though he’s just had three pints of whisky.

After the show, a rotund, middle-aged man in a three-piece suit approaches them. “That was quite an eloquent performance, you two. Well done,” he congratulates them, patting Ishida on the back with hands like two great Christmas hams. Ishida can feel the wind being knocked from his lungs.

“Thank you,” he manages to gasp as his breath returns. Nemu giggles at him, but the large man takes no notice. Ishida can’t help but grin, too.

+++

“And you said you couldn’t sing,” Nemu teases him. It’s late (or early, depending upon how you think of it), well past 7 am, as they lay amongst the cottony white pillows of her bed, snowy duvet pillowing about them and tangled up in their various appendages, while the early morning sunlight streams in through the high bay windows.

“I can’t,” Ishida confirms, twirly a strand of her hair around his finger. Sighing, he lets it slide off and back into the sea of white, burying his face in the pillow. After a moment, he tilts his head to the side and peers up at her before rolling over onto his back with a “poof” of the duvet. “My father discouraged me from it, always saying that I was ruining the song. I’d only ever sing in the shower, where the water drowned out my voice, so he couldn’t yell at me.” He smiles weakly.

“My father doesn’t like me to sing, either,” Nemu confesses. “He doesn’t know that I perform in public. Poor man’d probably have a heart attack if he did. He’d be worried I’d run off and get a career so he wouldn’t have a slave to carry out his every wish.”

Ishida snorts. “Your father’s an ass.”

Nemu looks a bit put-out. “You can’t say that, seeing as you’ve never met him.”

“He shouldn’t use you as a servant. That’s immoral.” Nemu just shrugs at this comment. “I can think of better ways to torment you than keeping you from having a real career and getting famous,” he adds with a wicked grin, diving down beneath the covers to tickle her sides. Nemu shrieks with laughter, being very ticklish indeed, and thrashes about, beating on the top of Ishida’s head to make him stop. Their extremities are now hopelessly tangled about the bedsheets, as well as each other, and even beginning to tease the mattress pad up the sides of the mattress. Their hair is a different matter entirely; each looks as though he has just emerged from a wind tunnel.

An irritated voice sounds from the hallway outside. “Nemu! What the hell is going on in there?” Heavy footsteps sound in the corridor, increasing in volume, as the door to Nemu’s room is flung open. Ishida shrinks down into the mattress, doing his best to become invisible.

“The sheets just tickled me, Mayuri-sama,” she says, all innocence and submissiveness. Ishida tries not burst out in raucous laughter. Sure, blame it on the sheets, he thinks.

Kurotsuchi Mayuri doesn’t seem to buy it, but it’s too early for him to argue. He turns to leave when something catches his eye. “What’s that lump next to you, then?”

Ishida can feel Nemu tense next to him, but then she relaxes, shy as before. “Just a pillow,” she answers, patting some unknown part of Ishida, who is a bit offended by this statement. His posterior is decidedly unpillowy.

“I didn’t know you had a black pillow,” Mayuri says. He’s not giving this up so easily.

“Birthday present,” Nemu explains, a bit too quickly to be convincing.

“Your birthday’s not for another eight months.”

“They’re going on holiday and won’t be around for my birthday.”

“An eight-month holiday?”

Nemu catches her slip and hurries to cover it up. “Business trip is more like it, I guess.”

Mayuri nods, accepting her egregiously false answer. “Well, mind you have my breakfast ready at 10 sharp.”

“Yes, Mayuri-sama,” she says, bowing her head. He exits.

Nemu collapses amongst the pillows, face level with Ishida’s, and breaks out in a fit of giggles.

“Shit, Nemu,” Ishida breathes, indignant at her apparent amusement with the situation. “It is not funny. Your father is scary; he could have torn me to bits, and all the while I’d just be begging for mercy. And he is an ass.”

“Oh, but it is funny,” she protests, giggles having given way to a wide grin. “Come on, you know it is.”

Ishida obliged her with a bout of chuckling. “All right, fine. It’s funny.” There’s a pause before he continues. “But how are we going to get me out of here without him noticing? That man doesn’t miss a thing.”

“Oh, I think I’ll just keep you here forever,” Nemu decides, leaning in to kiss Ishida’s lips. To him, that option seems perfectly all right.