43 - [Katekyo Hitman Reborn] Lament
Rating: G.
Characters: Dino, Hibari; mentions of others.
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Summary: There is a price for living longer than the time you are due.
Notes: AU fairy-tale. Made up a whole bunch of stuff, ahahaha. For izkariote, who has been generally awesome: I'm sorry I couldn't write you something better, love. (/)~(\;)
He was a sharp-eyed child and the woodcutter always kept him from getting too lost somewhere deep in the forests. The woodcutter had sun-spun hair and a smile just as bright; his hands were bandaged too many times for the times he almost chopped his fingers off with his axe. But he was a good man, he worked hard, he kept the house warm. And the black-haired child with the sharp eyes kept his silence as he went on cheerfully telling him how the day went: his old friend Romario came to visit; they got bread from the village. He got him a pet, a little bird with bright yellow feathers and a chirping voice. He held it in cupped hands; silent even in his wonder, silent even in his thanks. And the woodcutter smiled and made dinner for the night, not without a few burns and cuts.
Hibari is five when he got his pet, and the yellow bird would love nothing more but to sing on his ledge and sleep on the soft tufts of hair on his head, which he didn't mind. He named it Hibird. The woodcutter laughed when he heard this, and he snarled in return. "I'm not making fun of you," he protested gently. "I think it's a nice name, and it's easy to remember!" But he didn't listen, and he stomped angrily back into the silence of his room. The walls were thick and solid and it drew a division between him and the rest of the house.
The nights were cold at this part of the house, and even at night-time he is forced to go near the fireplace to keep warm. The woodcutter tells him different stories, mostly what he remembers were for children before they go to bed; sometimes they were light, occasionally he told them of stories dark and creeps quietly in the dark and were the stuff of his nightmares later on. "Don't go too far in the forest," the woodcutter says quietly, though he keeps his voice light and his smile in place. "There are things that shouldn't be there."
Amidst the light of the fire and the chirping of the crickets he narrates a fairy tale using shadows on the wall: a story about a bird, a one-eyed witch, a song. How once, there was a boy. And he was cursed by the one-eyed witch who walked and spoke in many different forms, in many different voices; cursed because he was saved from being a few inches dying in the blizzard season. The boy disappeared from the village, later on, nobody knew where he went; but everyone thought he was dead. But a kind King took him in, and they lived even to the end of his days when the King was due to leave for the Sky Kingdoms up high and beyond. The woodcutter draws a map in the air with his hands, draws the boundaries of the forest, where their house is, the nearby village. Hibari watches him with sharp eyes. Hibird chirps softly where he was perched on his shoulder, then hops down to feed on the bread crumbs on his hands. The woodcutter smiles.
"Don't go out tomorrow, Hibari. I've brought you some books, you can read them as much as you want."
But Hibari leaves as he was talking; not listening, not letting him finish. It was too late in the night and he was sleepy. Tomorrow he'll read all the books the woodcutter got him.
*
In the morning he eats his bread and jam while he lies on the floor, reading a book. He likes books about wars. The woodcutter got him nice books, books about warring states and feudal lords. Of generals and madmen executed, policies and mandates set in stone. These are people who held steel in their palm and who marched into war knowing their deaths; and there was no greater honor than dying in battle for them. But he didn't like their armies. He didn't like how they needed so many soldiers to defeat an army. It's a waste, he thinks, and snarls as he closes this book and opens another one.
Sometimes, the woodcutter teaches him other things. One time he taught him how to write. He sat on his lap and held a pen tightly in his fingers while he tried to imitate the letters the woodcutter wrote down in smooth curves; the flowing script of the kingdom. His handwriting was short and jagged and rough on the edges. Too refined for someone with rough, calloused hands. The sharp-eyed child took the pen in his hands and made scratches on paper. "You'll learn," the woodcutter said gently, while he smiles proudly at him when he learned how to write his name. "You just have to be patient."
Another time he taught him the names of the stars, their constellations. The woodcutter never forced him to learn something, only during the times he felt rarely sociable and in need of the sound of a human voice, having spent so much time with his pet and looking through open windows watching the birds sing. On this night the woodcutter sits on a chair near their porch and Hibari leans forward, looking up. "That is the Sickle, up there -- see that red one? Farmers like that star, it's a sign of a good harvest to come. And there's the Willow far up -- that one's for lovers. And there's the Howl, a bird, one that used to belong to a magician -- said to be a bringer of bad luck to Kings."
"-- bad luck?"
The woodcutter nodded. "When it used to be alive, hearing the cry of the bird was to bring death. And it was such a sweet, sad song. An unforgettable tune."
Hibari frowns. "I have no time for magic."
"Well, I suppose ... " the woodcutter chuckled. "All the same, it's nice to know these things. Don't go out tomorrow, Hibari."
"I know that," he replied tersely and shuffled towards his room. The woodcutter stared at the sky, watching over nothing.
*
It occurs to him that he has never gone out of the house, not even once. He can't remember how he got there -- the woodcutter said he was given to him, on a dark day during the blizzard season; there he was, miserable thing, crying and swaddled in white. But he remembers not leaving, and not being able to leave. He remembers the firm hand of the woodcutter's friend -- dressed in black, with a smile like the woodcutter's. He tried to move out and walk into the woods, but he came and grabbed his hand and led him back in. "Don't go outside, kid," he'd said. And he fought, grabbing stray bits of driftwood and stee and whatever else solid he can take, spearing their hands and arms, and he screamed; and that was the first time he ever raised his voice but he was led back in all the same. And the woodcutter, in his infinite calm, in his infinite patience, held his hands and led him back in. "Don't go out today, Hibari."
And then he was silent in his resentment, and the house with its wooden beams suffocated him.
The woodcutter bandaged his arms in the night, nursing his cuts and his wounds where his nails dug deep.
*
In his dreams he always stood outside of their house, and there was a flood. The water rose up to his knees and there floated twigs and pieces of feathers, bright scales from pink fish; dead leaves and letters, so many different letters. Hibari plucked one of them from the water and read it: I'm sorry I'm late. So sorry for so many things. If there's something he learned from his books, it's that apologies always come too late and that negotiations have no room for apologies. The letters were all written in the smooth curves, the flowing script of the High Kingdom; their serifs trembled on paper, marring their appearance. He folds the letter to a paper boat and lets it float away.
In his dreams there was the one-eyed witch with her flowing hair walking on the water, and the shadows beneath her feet, murkily reflected on the water were divided in so many different other selves, a multitude of voices and snarls, empty laughter and quiet anger threading her lilting words. In his dreams she sang a song and held her hand towards him. He never takes the hand, but he walks towards her as she sings. And all around him the water rose and flooded everywhere, and he was still walking towards her song, until they come to the cliffs and his skin melts under the sun into something soft and brittle, gentle and light. And then he wakes up, and he's afraid, and angrily chides himself for being so afraid of so simple a dream.
In the middle of the night he hears the woodcutter hum a faint tune and it's not the song that he needs. But when dawn came, he can't even remember the dream anymore.
*
There was a howling blizzard outside that night; the woodcutter came back wrapped in furs and snow. "It's brutal out there," he gasped as he sat down and warmed himself in front of the fire. Hibari watches him with sharp eyes and says nothing, moves his seat further away from his cold, closer to the warmth. The woodcutter smiled.
"Look outside! It's white, everything is white, you can't even see the sky." He presses his face close to the windowpane and looks out. "It's cold, Hibari, you should wear warmer clothes."
Hibird chirped cheerily on the table, where he ate scraps of food from Hibari's plate. Hibari's mouth was pursed onto a thin line. "How childish," he snaps. His eyes narrowed as he watch the woodcutter press his nose against the glass, his back exposed. In the dim light of the house it looked smaller than it was. You are too old for a body too young, always has been, he thought.
*
In the silence between the woodcutter and him, they heard the lilting song of the witch.
The woodcutter froze. "Don't go out today, Hibari."
"I'm not going to," he replied. His eyes were sharp as he watched him move slowly, languorously, from the window to his chair on the table, as if he were in a dream.
*
After dinner the woodcutter washed the dishes on the sink quietly, Hibari having gone to his room to rest. He washes the plates carefully as he can, but he was somewhat clumsy, and he broke one of them, the shards cutting deeply into his palm. He cursed -- softly, now, Hibari might be around -- and he cleaned his wounds, smiling sheepishly as he bandaged his arm. He's getting worse, he thinks. He hasn't been the same ever since the war. Nobody has been the same ever since the war, come to think of it; things were so complicated then. His hands weren't as steady as they used to be, when he can wield an axe with might and reign a horse to battle. He remembered his friends -- the warring prince of the Outside Kingdoms, Squalo, who held a sword with his leftt hand and whose screams echo loud in the battlefield. And the many different faces and names long gone and dead, rotting underneath greener fields. He was the only one left. Chased out of the castle by an angry mob, fearing the lords and ladies, the royal family who had gone and purchased a boon from somewhere dark to lengthen their lives centuries ago.
It sounded appealing then.
-- but his life was good now, and Hibari had been a blessing. Somewhat troublesome kid, but a good one nevertheless.
Life has been kind to him.
Outside, the blizzard raged against the small wooden house and the woodcutter shivered. He went to the fireplace and added more wood, and then he went back to the sink, finishing the dishes. He never liked being all by himself; the silence always gets him.
In the dark, the witch continues to sing and the woodcutter steels himself and ignores her voice. It's not yet my time, he thought. Not yet.
The water was warm on his hands when he heard the creaking of the floorboards; the sound of feet escaping. And he was afraid. "Hibari? Don't go out today -- "
At the far end of the hall, the bird chirps their farewell loud and clear and Dino grabs his coat and runs.
*
Hibari was dreaming.
In this dream he was outside, and there was a flood, and the water reached up to his knees with different debris floating around: the broken spokes of a rusty umbrella, a wooden toy horse with one leg missing. A music box with a broken tune. And the letters, so many letters unsent, unsealed; some half-open and half-heartedly finished in the clear, cursive script of the High Kingdom.
The witch extends her hand, but he never takes it; she doesn't expect him to. And she sings loud and lovely, her voice lilting in the stale air. Her one good eye bright. She walked slow, swaying gently. Hibari watches the shadows beneath her feet, reflected murkily on the water, snarl and laugh.
would you like to come along? i'm coming like the shadows on your feet. i'm coming like the wind moving through the grass. would you like to come along? i've come here to spread the peace, bring it to you and him as a gift; come to tell him that i give my love from you to him.
In his dreams they reach the cliffs.
*
The door opens, and the cold blast of air tells the woodcutter he's too late.
"Hibari!"
And Hibari walks outside into the howling blizzard barefoot into the snow. The woodcutter strains his ears to hear him: "I'm going home. You're long due, the witch says."
"I still have time."
And the one-eyed witch speaks in quiet, mocking tones over the howling of the snow and wind, dark, cold and snarling voices threading her sweet song: YOU ARE LONG DUE. I HAVE WAITED LONG ENOUGH. THE OTHER KINGS HAVE COME AND GONE. I HAVE COME EVEN FOR THE LAST OF YOU, THE KING OF THE VARIA, WHO FINALLY DIED FIVE HUNDRED YEARS AFTER THE WAR.
YOU ARE LONG DUE.
And the sharp-eyed child melted in the snow, into feathers the color of earth and snow; and in the dark night it flew away.
The woodcutter -- once a king, now nothing more -- looked at his hands and watched them turn into dust. In the darkness of the night, his ashes scattered on the snow.
The witch's song ended on a final note, and the blizzard stopped. The rest of the night was clear, and silent.
Characters: Dino, Hibari; mentions of others.
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Summary: There is a price for living longer than the time you are due.
Notes: AU fairy-tale. Made up a whole bunch of stuff, ahahaha. For izkariote, who has been generally awesome: I'm sorry I couldn't write you something better, love. (/)~(\;)
He was a sharp-eyed child and the woodcutter always kept him from getting too lost somewhere deep in the forests. The woodcutter had sun-spun hair and a smile just as bright; his hands were bandaged too many times for the times he almost chopped his fingers off with his axe. But he was a good man, he worked hard, he kept the house warm. And the black-haired child with the sharp eyes kept his silence as he went on cheerfully telling him how the day went: his old friend Romario came to visit; they got bread from the village. He got him a pet, a little bird with bright yellow feathers and a chirping voice. He held it in cupped hands; silent even in his wonder, silent even in his thanks. And the woodcutter smiled and made dinner for the night, not without a few burns and cuts.
Hibari is five when he got his pet, and the yellow bird would love nothing more but to sing on his ledge and sleep on the soft tufts of hair on his head, which he didn't mind. He named it Hibird. The woodcutter laughed when he heard this, and he snarled in return. "I'm not making fun of you," he protested gently. "I think it's a nice name, and it's easy to remember!" But he didn't listen, and he stomped angrily back into the silence of his room. The walls were thick and solid and it drew a division between him and the rest of the house.
The nights were cold at this part of the house, and even at night-time he is forced to go near the fireplace to keep warm. The woodcutter tells him different stories, mostly what he remembers were for children before they go to bed; sometimes they were light, occasionally he told them of stories dark and creeps quietly in the dark and were the stuff of his nightmares later on. "Don't go too far in the forest," the woodcutter says quietly, though he keeps his voice light and his smile in place. "There are things that shouldn't be there."
Amidst the light of the fire and the chirping of the crickets he narrates a fairy tale using shadows on the wall: a story about a bird, a one-eyed witch, a song. How once, there was a boy. And he was cursed by the one-eyed witch who walked and spoke in many different forms, in many different voices; cursed because he was saved from being a few inches dying in the blizzard season. The boy disappeared from the village, later on, nobody knew where he went; but everyone thought he was dead. But a kind King took him in, and they lived even to the end of his days when the King was due to leave for the Sky Kingdoms up high and beyond. The woodcutter draws a map in the air with his hands, draws the boundaries of the forest, where their house is, the nearby village. Hibari watches him with sharp eyes. Hibird chirps softly where he was perched on his shoulder, then hops down to feed on the bread crumbs on his hands. The woodcutter smiles.
"Don't go out tomorrow, Hibari. I've brought you some books, you can read them as much as you want."
But Hibari leaves as he was talking; not listening, not letting him finish. It was too late in the night and he was sleepy. Tomorrow he'll read all the books the woodcutter got him.
*
In the morning he eats his bread and jam while he lies on the floor, reading a book. He likes books about wars. The woodcutter got him nice books, books about warring states and feudal lords. Of generals and madmen executed, policies and mandates set in stone. These are people who held steel in their palm and who marched into war knowing their deaths; and there was no greater honor than dying in battle for them. But he didn't like their armies. He didn't like how they needed so many soldiers to defeat an army. It's a waste, he thinks, and snarls as he closes this book and opens another one.
Sometimes, the woodcutter teaches him other things. One time he taught him how to write. He sat on his lap and held a pen tightly in his fingers while he tried to imitate the letters the woodcutter wrote down in smooth curves; the flowing script of the kingdom. His handwriting was short and jagged and rough on the edges. Too refined for someone with rough, calloused hands. The sharp-eyed child took the pen in his hands and made scratches on paper. "You'll learn," the woodcutter said gently, while he smiles proudly at him when he learned how to write his name. "You just have to be patient."
Another time he taught him the names of the stars, their constellations. The woodcutter never forced him to learn something, only during the times he felt rarely sociable and in need of the sound of a human voice, having spent so much time with his pet and looking through open windows watching the birds sing. On this night the woodcutter sits on a chair near their porch and Hibari leans forward, looking up. "That is the Sickle, up there -- see that red one? Farmers like that star, it's a sign of a good harvest to come. And there's the Willow far up -- that one's for lovers. And there's the Howl, a bird, one that used to belong to a magician -- said to be a bringer of bad luck to Kings."
"-- bad luck?"
The woodcutter nodded. "When it used to be alive, hearing the cry of the bird was to bring death. And it was such a sweet, sad song. An unforgettable tune."
Hibari frowns. "I have no time for magic."
"Well, I suppose ... " the woodcutter chuckled. "All the same, it's nice to know these things. Don't go out tomorrow, Hibari."
"I know that," he replied tersely and shuffled towards his room. The woodcutter stared at the sky, watching over nothing.
*
It occurs to him that he has never gone out of the house, not even once. He can't remember how he got there -- the woodcutter said he was given to him, on a dark day during the blizzard season; there he was, miserable thing, crying and swaddled in white. But he remembers not leaving, and not being able to leave. He remembers the firm hand of the woodcutter's friend -- dressed in black, with a smile like the woodcutter's. He tried to move out and walk into the woods, but he came and grabbed his hand and led him back in. "Don't go outside, kid," he'd said. And he fought, grabbing stray bits of driftwood and stee and whatever else solid he can take, spearing their hands and arms, and he screamed; and that was the first time he ever raised his voice but he was led back in all the same. And the woodcutter, in his infinite calm, in his infinite patience, held his hands and led him back in. "Don't go out today, Hibari."
And then he was silent in his resentment, and the house with its wooden beams suffocated him.
The woodcutter bandaged his arms in the night, nursing his cuts and his wounds where his nails dug deep.
*
In his dreams he always stood outside of their house, and there was a flood. The water rose up to his knees and there floated twigs and pieces of feathers, bright scales from pink fish; dead leaves and letters, so many different letters. Hibari plucked one of them from the water and read it: I'm sorry I'm late. So sorry for so many things. If there's something he learned from his books, it's that apologies always come too late and that negotiations have no room for apologies. The letters were all written in the smooth curves, the flowing script of the High Kingdom; their serifs trembled on paper, marring their appearance. He folds the letter to a paper boat and lets it float away.
In his dreams there was the one-eyed witch with her flowing hair walking on the water, and the shadows beneath her feet, murkily reflected on the water were divided in so many different other selves, a multitude of voices and snarls, empty laughter and quiet anger threading her lilting words. In his dreams she sang a song and held her hand towards him. He never takes the hand, but he walks towards her as she sings. And all around him the water rose and flooded everywhere, and he was still walking towards her song, until they come to the cliffs and his skin melts under the sun into something soft and brittle, gentle and light. And then he wakes up, and he's afraid, and angrily chides himself for being so afraid of so simple a dream.
In the middle of the night he hears the woodcutter hum a faint tune and it's not the song that he needs. But when dawn came, he can't even remember the dream anymore.
*
There was a howling blizzard outside that night; the woodcutter came back wrapped in furs and snow. "It's brutal out there," he gasped as he sat down and warmed himself in front of the fire. Hibari watches him with sharp eyes and says nothing, moves his seat further away from his cold, closer to the warmth. The woodcutter smiled.
"Look outside! It's white, everything is white, you can't even see the sky." He presses his face close to the windowpane and looks out. "It's cold, Hibari, you should wear warmer clothes."
Hibird chirped cheerily on the table, where he ate scraps of food from Hibari's plate. Hibari's mouth was pursed onto a thin line. "How childish," he snaps. His eyes narrowed as he watch the woodcutter press his nose against the glass, his back exposed. In the dim light of the house it looked smaller than it was. You are too old for a body too young, always has been, he thought.
*
In the silence between the woodcutter and him, they heard the lilting song of the witch.
The woodcutter froze. "Don't go out today, Hibari."
"I'm not going to," he replied. His eyes were sharp as he watched him move slowly, languorously, from the window to his chair on the table, as if he were in a dream.
*
After dinner the woodcutter washed the dishes on the sink quietly, Hibari having gone to his room to rest. He washes the plates carefully as he can, but he was somewhat clumsy, and he broke one of them, the shards cutting deeply into his palm. He cursed -- softly, now, Hibari might be around -- and he cleaned his wounds, smiling sheepishly as he bandaged his arm. He's getting worse, he thinks. He hasn't been the same ever since the war. Nobody has been the same ever since the war, come to think of it; things were so complicated then. His hands weren't as steady as they used to be, when he can wield an axe with might and reign a horse to battle. He remembered his friends -- the warring prince of the Outside Kingdoms, Squalo, who held a sword with his leftt hand and whose screams echo loud in the battlefield. And the many different faces and names long gone and dead, rotting underneath greener fields. He was the only one left. Chased out of the castle by an angry mob, fearing the lords and ladies, the royal family who had gone and purchased a boon from somewhere dark to lengthen their lives centuries ago.
It sounded appealing then.
-- but his life was good now, and Hibari had been a blessing. Somewhat troublesome kid, but a good one nevertheless.
Life has been kind to him.
Outside, the blizzard raged against the small wooden house and the woodcutter shivered. He went to the fireplace and added more wood, and then he went back to the sink, finishing the dishes. He never liked being all by himself; the silence always gets him.
In the dark, the witch continues to sing and the woodcutter steels himself and ignores her voice. It's not yet my time, he thought. Not yet.
The water was warm on his hands when he heard the creaking of the floorboards; the sound of feet escaping. And he was afraid. "Hibari? Don't go out today -- "
At the far end of the hall, the bird chirps their farewell loud and clear and Dino grabs his coat and runs.
*
Hibari was dreaming.
In this dream he was outside, and there was a flood, and the water reached up to his knees with different debris floating around: the broken spokes of a rusty umbrella, a wooden toy horse with one leg missing. A music box with a broken tune. And the letters, so many letters unsent, unsealed; some half-open and half-heartedly finished in the clear, cursive script of the High Kingdom.
The witch extends her hand, but he never takes it; she doesn't expect him to. And she sings loud and lovely, her voice lilting in the stale air. Her one good eye bright. She walked slow, swaying gently. Hibari watches the shadows beneath her feet, reflected murkily on the water, snarl and laugh.
would you like to come along? i'm coming like the shadows on your feet. i'm coming like the wind moving through the grass. would you like to come along? i've come here to spread the peace, bring it to you and him as a gift; come to tell him that i give my love from you to him.
In his dreams they reach the cliffs.
*
The door opens, and the cold blast of air tells the woodcutter he's too late.
"Hibari!"
And Hibari walks outside into the howling blizzard barefoot into the snow. The woodcutter strains his ears to hear him: "I'm going home. You're long due, the witch says."
"I still have time."
And the one-eyed witch speaks in quiet, mocking tones over the howling of the snow and wind, dark, cold and snarling voices threading her sweet song: YOU ARE LONG DUE. I HAVE WAITED LONG ENOUGH. THE OTHER KINGS HAVE COME AND GONE. I HAVE COME EVEN FOR THE LAST OF YOU, THE KING OF THE VARIA, WHO FINALLY DIED FIVE HUNDRED YEARS AFTER THE WAR.
YOU ARE LONG DUE.
And the sharp-eyed child melted in the snow, into feathers the color of earth and snow; and in the dark night it flew away.
The woodcutter -- once a king, now nothing more -- looked at his hands and watched them turn into dust. In the darkness of the night, his ashes scattered on the snow.
The witch's song ended on a final note, and the blizzard stopped. The rest of the night was clear, and silent.