The Blower's Son Part 1
Character: Camus / Isaac
Type: Song Fic
Warning: yaoi content, as usual :P
Blah-blah: please, please, read and comment! I believe this is my best piece of work in a very long time...
And so it is
Just like you said it would be
My father used to tell people in our village that I am born for great things. He is nothing but the local shoe-maker and a drunkard himself, who spends the larger part of his days either in the borthel or in the tavern; and yet he always told everyone he met that something great will come out of his education.
When I was young, barely six I guess, father would take me out of the house into one of his taverns after a beating. "Beating is the way to go!" He would laugh and slurr his words, then pull down my pants so all his drinking friends could see the scars and bruises. Those men with bloated face, red pig eyes and minds dirtier than the walls of the tavern would crowd around me and laugh, while saying lurid things about my nakedness.
Father never minded, for he prized himself on his control over me, because he had control over nothing else. He has little skills in his trade, he was looked down upon by most of the villagers. Heavy drinking has ruined his once handsome face; his once careless, wild charm has soured into crassness and violence, so when he walks into a brothel none of the prostitudes are happy to see him. God, he didn't even have a wife to take his anger out on.
The old woman who lived next door--Tasha, I think her name is--once told me about my mother. "She is a beautiful lady, your mother," she would say, running a hand over my face, "and you would grow up to look just like her." She told me that I inherited my mother's green hair and emerald eyes. I loved Tasha very much. She was old. Her figure resembled a bird, or a bent tree. Her hands were covered in think passages of veins and bumps, yet I found more comfort in those shrunken, claw-like hands than I ever found anywhere else. One of her eyes was covered by a milky veil, but they still sparkled whenever she saw me.
So thanks to her, I could dream about my mother at night. Sometimes I think that she is so close I could feel her eyes lovingly on me and her hands rocking me to sleep. I was certain that this must have been how it was like when I was a baby. I don't really remember my mother, she died when I was three or four. I did, however, believe firmly that she must have loved me very much.
What was she like? Father often forbade me to play with other children--besides, the children in the village did not like me very much, I was an outcast. I spent most of my time creating my mother's life story. Her name is Elena, she has long, beautiful green curls and laughing eyes. When she walks past you could smell the scent of fresh lilies. She is from another village, the daughter of a welathy man, but she eloped with my father for love. Father, back then, was charming, polite, clever...a poet, or a musician. But she died of consumption when I was young, and father turned into what he is now.
This was the story I created, with which I would comfort myself on nights my father is not home, or has returned along with the stink of alcohol and a terrible temper. My little dream carried me on everyday, while I pictured what my life could have been like if my mother was alive.
This dream, however, was shattered when I turned seven. Tasha died that year, and the old women's dressmaker moved from the other side of the village to next door in order to be closer to her shop. I don't remember her name now, but she told me about my mother like Tasha did. The only difference was that she told me the truth, the brutal truth about my mother, instead of little flourid descriptions which fueled my imaginations.
It turned out that my mother was no innocent flower from a wealthy family, and father had never been polite or talented. Matilde, my mother, was a whore. Tasha had not lied when she said that she was beautiful, for the dressmaker said she was often called to the brothel to make dresses for the more successful prostitudes. My mother was one of them. Beautiful, shameless, spoilt and outrageous, she could boil men's blood with one sultry look and make them melt in her bed. She had many lovers, one of them, my father. She only married my father when she was pregnant with me, and she bitterly recented the ending to her career.
I was never loved. I was a mistake.
Timidly, and rather stupidly, I questioned father about Matilde. Upon the sound of her name my father bellowed "Who've you been talkin' to?!" and hit me across the face. I still remember the burn of his fingers on my cheek, and how it became swolllen almost immediately after. Yet father was not satisfied. He grabbed me by my ear and shoved me out onto the streets, where he continued to to hit me in public, yelling, "see how I educate my son? It's the only way!" I thought he had gone mad.
Or perhaps I had, because I started to hear voices in my head, sneering, laughing, screaming, crying...and I cannot shut them up. I could hear the dressmaker's description of my mother, I could hear the laughter of hookers and smell cheap perfume, I could hear my mother's flirty words, my father's heated moans...men, women, all tangled together in a large net of sexual exploitation. My innocence ended that day.
The next thing I heard, however, was real. I heard a gentle, yet firm voice asking my father to stop. Father, in his usual way, cursed loudly and attempted to punch the stranger. I expeted to hear a surprised cry of pain and when I did, it wasn't from the stranger but from my father. Only then did I dare to look up, and I saw my father's fist being caught easily in the stranger's hand. "Let go of him." the stranger repeated, voice as calm and undisturbed as before.
Grudgingly father obligated, not forgetting to give me a voilent push. I landed face down in the snow, and felt a warm liquid oozing down my face. I then lost consciousness.
When I woke up, I was in a strange bed next to the fireplace. The stranger was sitting next to the fire, stirring the liquid in a pot. I tried to sit up, but the wounds made me draw in a sharp breath. The stranger heard, and turned around. I drew another breath, this time in awe.
He was not as old as I thought he would be. The stranger who single-handedly took down my father was not much older than myself. Three, four years at most. He had proclain skin, long, inky green mane and his eyes! So deep, so blue and so sad as they stared into mine. I almost felt my entire being being swallowed up by those orbs.
I don't know how long I stared at him for, and I blushed due to embarrassment. He saw this and didn't comment, only turned his back towards me. Scooping the content of the pot into a bowl, I admired the elegance of his precise movements. I have never seen such elegance in my life, being the child of a whore and a drunkard. I almost felt ashamed of myself, being in the same room as this stranger.
He walked towards me, handing me the bowl. "Soup." He stated simply, and watched me drink it. "What is your name?" he asked, and I answered him. "Alright, Isaac. You are now my student. You will come with me to Siberia. Would you like that?" This was a shock. I stared at him for a few moments, tasting the implications of his words.
I escape this village. I escape my father. I escape...I escape my past! Eagerly--perhaps too eagerly, for a slight smile appeared on his lips when seeing my response--I nodded. This is how I became Camus' student.
Life goes easy on me
Most of the time
Once my wounds healed, we travelled together to Siberia. At first I hated the endlessly white plains, nothing ever happens and it is deathly cold. The wind is like blades, cutting my skin and making me bleed. But I told myself, this is Camus' home. I will therefore learn to love this place.
Training to become a Saint is no easy matter. At first, I did not go straight into physical training but spent two months learning mythology, physics and languages with Camus. I studied hard, trying to please him. I wanted to see the approving look in his eyes everytime I answer a difficult question, or make a great progress. He was like a drug, and the more time I spend with him the more addicted I became. Then the physical training began. I pushed myself, it is as though I was risking my life to win a smile from him.
Even when I got injured, which is quite often, things were not so bad. Camus will always heal me. He would tell me to sit on his bed and a warm golden light, in such sharp contrast to his cosmo, would spread from his fingertips into my wounds, drawing out the pain, leaving only scars. I almost welcomed pain just so I could be heal by Camus, who always seems so inapproachable and distant.
Looking back, Camus must have thought that I made the progress becuase I was eager to become a strong Saint, but the truth is, I only tried so hard for him. For him...just thinking about this used to make me smile, and all the wounds I received meant nothing. Becuase I did it for him.
Gradually I became more talkative, at dinner I would talk about things and ask many questions, while Camus would smile softly and listen. At those moments, it almost felt as though I was the only thing that existed in his world. I try to make these moment last longer, so I talk more and more. I laugh. Most of all, I wanted to make him laugh, and feel my joy.
I guess I fall in love with him the first minute I saw him, only I was too young to understand back then.
And so it is
The shorter story
A year later, when I was eight, another child came. His name is Hyoga, a gentle child with the face of an angel. I loved him too. He was like the little brother I never had, and I took joy watching him progress just like Camus watched me. I found, however, that Camus' smiles gradually shifted from something I said to what Hyoga says, and his looks of approval shifted form me to Hyoga also.
It hurt. It really did hurt. I often catch Camus gazing at Hyoga, such a loving and gentl expression on his face. A soft smile would spread across his lips, then into his eyes. He had never looked at me like that. Never so...never as if I was something more than a student, never as if I was something precious.
I spent two entire years lamenting over this. Then I tried to forget about it, I never searched Camus' face anymore because I know that even if I did I would never be reflected in his pupils as something as loved as Hyoga was. I almost hated Hyoga. But how could I? How could I hate something Camus loves? I...couldn't. He is my brother...
So when Hyoga dived into the ocean in search of his mother, I decided to trade my life for his. Just as long as it makes Camus smile relief. One life for another, when I felt the currents violently taking me, I had no regret.
The ocean was so cold. And so lonely. It embraced me closely, squeezing life out of me. Slowly, all around me things started to go black.
No love, no glory
No hero in her sky
(to be continued...)
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes...
And so it is (he has)
Just like you said it should be
We'll both forget the breeze
Most of the time
And so it is (he has)
The colder water
The blower's daughter
The pupil in denial
I can't take my eyes off (-?) you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off (-?) you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes...
Did I say that I loathe you?
Did I say that I want to(?)
Leave it all behind?
I can't take my mind off (-?) you
I can't take my mind off you
I can't take my mind off (-?) you
I can't take my mind off you
I can't take my mind off you
I can't take my mind...
My mind...my mind...
'Til I find somebody new