To: sora

[seiza]

I present thee on 'tis lovely day, humble offerings of clueless dark-haired swordsmen and snarky red-haired priests. May you have a lovely birthday this September 2004, and many more to come!


patrocinor
i.
   Sixty-seven.

The crinkling of thick, dried paper shuffled through the empty library; a slow, measured sound originating from the small yellow circle in the recesses of the massive room.

Sitting stiffly on a heavy mahogany chair, Traum thumbed through his thirtieth soldier's log, a mixture of boredom and suffering etched across his face. The single candle beside him was his only source of illumination, burnt almost to completion in a pool of grey wax; the weak flame throwing his delicate profile in flickering shadows and light, drowning anything beyond their little world in darkness.

How long had he been here, blankly perusing these useless documents for an equally useless cause?

The last he remembered seeing, before entering the deep unknown that was the Royal Army's logistics section, was the faintest light of the morning sun re-emerging from the night cover. The air had been heavy with dew drops, sprinkled upon the splendid gardens surrounding the White Castle.

Now, many dusty pages and empty wine bottles later, he mentally placed the sun to be dipping just past the horizon. Signal of the ending day; the beginning of rest and dinner and slumber.

Well, for everyone other than himself, anyway. He doubted he would be allowed any sleep tonight. The magnanimous Church to which he belonged was quite eager to wear his defences down to its barest threads, through the use of subtle tactics such as boring him to death, until he finally gave in and chose someone. They were unwilling to accept his blunt refusal, forcing him on pain of imprisonment in this dreadful tomb of management documents, to find a soldier fitting enough to accompany him on his mission.

The monotonous sound paused, his hand mechanically lifting to tuck a crimson strand behind his ear, before continuing where it left off.

Sixty-eight.

Only two more times of rearranging every hair that strayed from place, before he eventually snapped and stuffed the cursed books into the opening above him. Damnation upon those annoying drafts sneaking in through these old rafters.

Why could they not see that no such being could possibly exist in this reality? Nobody could live up to his highest expectations except himself. It was simply easier to work alone.

Really, this entire exercise was futility itself. Traum was perfectly willing to stay stubborn and put his mission on hold; he had no qualms about slowly growing mad in this dusty room while monsters ravaged the land. The Church, however, couldn't afford letting the current infestation increase unabated. It would only be a matter of time before they gave in and let him go.

Sixty-nine.

That didn't mean he had to enjoy being stuck here, though. Disgustedly throwing the worn book onto the growing stack on the floor, kicking it into perfect place with one foot, the young priest picked up his thirty-first log of the day. Unlike its predecessor, this one was new, gleaming, the thin threads of the binding still intact and the covers still hard and firm. He'd finally reached the list of new recruits.

Traum had to briefly consider throwing it aside unread-- he just had to, for the sheer amusement of it-- before something resembling a conscience compelled him to open it anyway.

Alternately cursing and praising his obsessive perfectionism, he randomly picked a point at the centre, flipping it open before turning to the next page-- and the next-- and the next. The names and statistics of these recent initiates barely registered in his memory, collections of printed letters and words that held neither meaning nor importance in the greater plans of the world and his life.

That was, until he reached the end of the log. And a smirk appeared, as the beginnings of an idea formulated in his mind.

ii.
"Please wait here. Master Phillipe will see you shortly."

Watching the apprentice priestess hurry through the massive double oak doors and disappear into the gleaming corridors of the Chryseus Church, Cellias dusted his travel-worn tunic before quietly taking a seat in one of the many mahogany benches, lined up perfectly one after another.

Naturally lit by sunlight streaming in through brilliant stained glass, depicting religious motifs too abstract for his simple, country-born mind; the continuous echo of worship and song seemed to fill the cavernous hall, pulling at his subconscious into their beguiling world. An eternal presence; there were always song and music and worship, even when the choir was absent and the organ was empty.

Yet while he was normally soothed by such a tender atmosphere, today it only seemed to enhance the Church's desolate emptiness, echoing hollowly against the looming walls, rising and ultimately disappearing within the darkness of a shadowed ceiling. If he squinted really hard, he just could make out the faint silhouette of a hunched-over, dark figure in the foremost bench.

Must be a slow day for worship.

It was at this moment that Cellias wished the temple guards hadn't confiscated his sword upon entering. His vulnerability felt like a gaping wound without his trusted weapon by his side, old and nicked and worn as it was, even if it was incapable of slashing those fleeting voices to silence. Its mere presence on his waist would have been enough to soothe his unexplainable anxiety. It was little childish. He hadn't even been an official swordsman that long ago, and already he was feeling attached to his weapon.

What's taking him so long? Chin resting on his palm, lavender eyes narrowed in annoyance with each minute that ticked by.

A messenger had come to retrieve Cellias under the crimson-haired priest's order, effectively cutting his break short, dragging him to the church with barely any explanation. This being one of his few days off, the young swordsman really wanted to finish this business quickly, in the vain hope that his drink would still be there by the time he returned. He glanced at the clock hung above the altar, checking the time.

There was no anticipation in wondering why he'd been summoned. Traum had done this before, with rather disappointing results. For all his pride and haughtiness, or maybe because of such admirable traits, the noble wasn't above ordering him to complete his menial errands for him. Perhaps he needed someone to fetch his cleanly-pressed robes from the laundry today?

Looking up again at the massive, gold-rimmed clock on the church wall, Cellias sighed when the minute hand reached its forty five-minute mark.

Fine. If Traum thought he would continue waiting around here like some guileless idiot, he was in for a big surprise. As much as the latter seemed to disbelieve, even a low-ranked warrior like himself had things to do, places to go, and errands to run-- especially errands to run. Maybe he could still make that delivery to the bakery if he took a short-cut through the backalle--

"By Odin's sword, you're worse than a love-struck girl stood up by her suitor."

At the familiar voice, laden with sarcasm and dripping with superiority, Cellias whirled around to face the bench behind him. The dark-haired youth was greeted by a sardonic smirk, the Church's infamous priest seated, garbed in his trademark deep-green robes, neatly pressed down to perfection. Jade eyes sparkled with obvious amusement, silently laughing at the world and its general inhabitants.

Right now, Cellias felt like all that laughter was being directed at him.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded, throwing his best indignant glare at his friend.

"What I mean," Traum answered airily, as if explaining the workings of an apple to a toddler. "Is that even a naive lass, smitten by fairy-tale love and dreams of passionate romance, would have given up waiting for her lover by now. Yet you continue to stay even when most rational people would have cursed my existence and left."

Cellias couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You... How long have you just been sitting there?!"

"Long enough to know you have the patience of a saint."

Traum had a knack for turning compliments into the proverbial knife in the gut. Except his knife was usually had a vicious serrated edge plunged through a lung, twisting and shredding with morbid glee.

Cellias was faintly aware of his mouth opening and closing like fish out of water, unable to comprehend the sheer shamelessness that was the priest. Running errands, he could understand, and even come to expect. But to just sit there and watch him wait? Had he been dragged all the way across town just to waste his time? It took everything to lift his jaw from its metaphorical hole in the ground. The swordsman visibly glowered, snapping irately, "Well then, I hope you had a good show."

He'll be going now, thank you.

To add further insult to already piling insults, Traum never seemed to take his threats seriously. The redhead hadn't even bothered to stand up and block his path; merely waving a finger in the younger boy's face from where he sat, one leg folded languidly over the other, the thick robe falling perfectly into place. "Not so fast, my young swordsman."

Walk out. Just walk out.

He almost drawled, unhurried, knowing the other would stop to listen despite his misgivings. "The Church has commissioned your service, in their noble mission to cleanse the world of the dark monsters that prowl it, that you may accompany one of their own on a mission of utmost importance."

Much to his chagrin, Cellias' curiosity piqued at this information. He'd never been asked by the Church to do anything, seeing as how there was about an entire army's worth of experienced soldiers more capable than him. Doubtful, a part of him pondering if he was being played for a fool, he folded his arms and stared directly into twinkling, jade eyes. "That would be...?"

"To banish the foul and wicked from the sacred Halls of R'leigh, that the spirits of our venerated ancestral heroes of lore be tainted not by their menacing presence."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"It's been a long evening."

Lavender eyes darkened in suspicion, closing wearily as Cellias lifted a rough, gloved hand to scrub his face. Hard. One, two, wake up! Peek. Curses, he could still see Traum's crimson hair through the openings between his fingers.

He almost dreaded having to ask the next question, but he knew he had to. The ever-faithful, optimistic portion of his personality held to the faintest hope that he may be wrong, and that this was just some twisted plan concocted by the fickle priest to amuse himself at the expense of Cellias' sanity. "And... who is this priest whom I shall have to accompany on his noble quest?"

And the world wept in sorrow at the beaming smile gracing Traum's face.

iii.
Thankfully, the journey to R'leigh was short in itself.

From numerous stories gathered from other warriors commissioned by the Church, not to mention his own personal experience, Cellias had quickly learnt that Traum wasn't the best of travelling companions. From the richest scent of fresh grass that surrounded them, to the driest leaf that crinkled under their thick, leather boots; the crimson-haired priest had the gift of finding the smallest fault in the most innocent of things.

And Tyr forbid should anything soil his person, lest the world thought it didn't already have enough problems on its hands.

Further thoughts of his friend's idiosyncrasies were put to a halt as the thick, green plains gradually shifted to a more pronounced footpath. The dusty earth walked by wandering travellers soon formed an intricately pebbled pathway, each piece geometrically fitted to perfection to the next, leading to a grand arch concocted from sturdy stone. Through the arch, the pathway split in all directions, leading towards crumbling buildings, formerly protecting the riches of kings past.

All that remained of their legacy were unrecognisable moss-covered blocks, broken and defiled by treasure hunters, rendered worn by the unforgivable hand of nature.

At the very centre, stood the largest remaining monument that had yet to crumble. A constant moan echoed hauntingly through the grave silence, setting hairs on edge with their inhumanity.

"You're aware of the plan, aren't you?" Traum murmured, alert eyes trained upon the main building. Cellias noted that even the normally tactless priest had subconsciously lowered his voice, in reverence for the historic value of the sacred grounds.

Turning to the redhead, he found himself almost reassured by the figure before him. From the firm clench of his smooth jaw, to the vermillion hair that carefully fell over one eye, and the thick robe unruffled by travel or battle. Whatever his unhealthy obsessions were, Traum cut an impressive figure when he actually meant business, and the priest knew it. Every motion, every action was taken with careful forethought behind it.

Tightening his grip on his sword, Cellias nodded determinedly, his excitement building even as he tried to firmly suppress it. "The plan? The one where I watch your back while you prepare the seals, right?"

A stifled laugh. "The one where you stay outside and far away."

He nearly dropped his sword in surprise, sputtering at the taller priest in shock. "What?! But why--"

Traum turned an incredulous stare at the dark-haired swordsman. The latter might as well have asked why fish couldn't walk. "So you don't get in my way, obviously."

Words couldn't describe the indignation he felt. So Cellias just settled on staring at him, demanding something better than that.

Traum's confusion soon gave way to realisation, before he started chuckling to himself, once again enjoying a joke that only he could see. And once again, the lavender-eyed youth felt like he was at the end of a very complicated gag, one that only pompous nobles knew and laughed softly behind richly-embroidered kerchiefs. Gritting his teeth, he demanded to know what was so funny.

"I'm sorry," Traum eventually between chuckles, the laughter gradually carried away on the gentle evening breeze. Sparkling jade eyes gazed down at angry dark purple, unperturbed and light and weightless with amusement. "You really thought you were going to enter this place with me? The beasts in there are beyond your capabilities, kid. It'll be faster for me to finish the job alone."

"Then why did you ask me to come?" He almost spat out the words, face flushed with anger... or maybe embarrassment.

"They wouldn't let me leave the library unless I picked someone."

"...That's it?"

"Hmm." A pause, as he actually seemed to mull over it. "That, and I knew I could count on you to follow my orders to the letter." Traum smirked below half-lidded eyes, lifting a slender hand to caress his cheek. Patronising. "You're always trying to be such a good little soldier, after all."

He shook visibly under the whispery touch, wanting so badly to just swing his sword up and remove that hand from its owner. But the weapon felt too heavy, his arms felt too weak, his shoulders hunched over in sheer resentment. This was too humiliating, even for him to endure. And he had endured many, most at the hands of this flippant priest's contemptuous sense of humour.

"Here I thought--"

"Don't think." A cold voice interrupted, and the brief warmth was removed from his cheek. "Just follow. That is your duty, swordsman."

iv.
As the beast gurgled and coughed, choking on its own unrecognisable liquid, Traum lowered his hand, the wispy remnants of a spell leaving his fingertips. This would be one of the last few monsters on this floor, the highest level of R'leigh and inadmissible to anyone but the King himself.

Well, and now, a certain noble priest from the Church.

Stepping widely around the dark liquid on the floor, careful not to let a drop stain his shoes or robe, the redhead listened intently for further activity. Whilst his seal had destroyed most of the beasts in one shot, several had managed to survive the slaughter, hiding like vermin in the deepest corners of the stone monument, only daring to venture forth when they saw the lone human battling against them.

He would have to hunt them down one by one. A fairly simple task considering such mindless beasts didn't really understand the concept of stealth.

Still. Traum grumbled as he released yet another spell, the massive shard of light spearing right through a monster's skull. It would've been better if I had more time. A longer seal would have cleansed the entire floor instantly.

Even so, he wasn't regretting leaving Cellias alone outside. Young greenhorn would have given him more work anyway, getting into trouble and all. The boy was smart enough; surely he understood the logic behind that? Efficiency was everything in his missions. The three hours he had taken to exorcise the floors would have doubled if the young swordsman had joined him.

There was little point in Cellias getting hurt over a routine mission. There was even less reason for Traum to waste more time than necessary in this haunted mound of stone and rock.

He didn't look too happy about it, though.

Brat. What good would running headlong into trouble do?

All these new swordsmen were the same. Did they all take an oath at the academy to stupidly run into danger at every given moment?

Perhaps I should have explained my intentions sooner. He'd assumed his reluctance at discussing any real strategy on the way here would have been an obvious clue. He really was over-estimating the boy, wasn't he? The swordsman, in his naiveté, had probably chalked it up to his inherent laziness. Now he thinks I've lied to him, when he's the one who went and misunderstood everything on his own.

For some reason, that thought was a bigger thorn in his side than it should've been.

Traum's features twisted into a vicious scowl, the last image seen by the unfortunate monster before it was enveloped in a ball of white light and disappeared with a strangled roar.

He wasn't particularly averse to lying to get his way. It probably just grated him this time because he hadn't had any reason to lie to Cellias since meeting him. The youth was so idiotically compliant, he would probably jump in front of a moving carriage if Traum politely asked him to. He was the sort of person who would apologise for being run over.

Traum lied on his own time, not others'.

That's the problem. He shook his head, crimson hair waving listlessly with the movement, proceeding to remove the smallest lint on his sleeve. Sensing the imminent attack coming from behind, the priest was just about to pull up a counter spell as he turned around. I should probably explain myself later. Hammer it into his skull with his own sword, if I have to.

And there was Cellias, attacking the monster from behind, nearly slicing its body in half with his sword.

...

THAT IDIOT.

Pity? What pity? The boy deserved every bit of thrashing his skinny behind would get!

The beast's hollow screech shook the walls of R'leigh, echoing deeply throughout the stone monument, shaking their very bones. The sword was stuck, unable to make a clean slash, caught in the sticky innards and thick blood gushing out. Even as it curled and twisted in its last throes of death, its massive jaws latched onto Cellias' sword arm, biting hard and deep and spewing forth sickly-green poison.

...Damn it.

Traum muttered one of the many colourful phrases in his arsenal, running towards the two, his own knife swiftly unsheathed and stabbed directly through the beast's eye.

It predictably roared in pain, releasing Cellias in the process. He wrapped an arm around the barely-conscious youth, dragging him away from the agonising monster as it thrashed and struggled to remove the blade. Even as Traum would have enjoyed watching the beast die a slow, painful death, there was the more pressing matter of Cellias being fatally poisoned right before his eyes.

The irony of their reversed roles was pure bile in his throat. This was why he worked alone. Damn his responsibilities as a healer.

With one last glance at the twitching form slowly disintegrating into black mush, Traum carried the dark-haired swordsman towards the exit.

v.
A groan. Good, that was progress.

"... So..."

A finely-threaded glove paused above the wound, dry blood crusted around the edges. The gentle white colour of a recovery spell slowly faded away. Listening.

"...So... hot..."

A snort, and the spell was immediately continued. Here was a kid who'd almost died from severe poisoning, and the first thing he did upon waking up was to complain?

Cellias moaned slightly, eyes pressed tightly closed as one hand lifted to instinctively shield himself from the heat. His deep black hair was matted down by perspiration and the damp cloth on his forehead, cooling the fever that had consumed his entire body. The light... was just too hot. And bright. It made it so hard to sleep.

"Wake up, sleeping beauty..."

What?

A light slap. One lavender eye creaked opened slowly, heavily, like an old door suffering after years of disuse, vision blurring and refocusing alternately. If he squinted hard enough, he could just make out the lithe form of a green robe kneeling over him... and red hair glinting under sunlight. Sunlight? What time was it?

"You've been unconscious for well over the night," the voice explained, as if reading his mind. A hand pressed down on his forehead with uncharacteristic tenderness, and he instinctively pressed back. "You realise that because of that, I missed a whole night of sleep, too. I fully intend to cash in on this enormous favour in the future."

"T-Traum...?" He could barely follow the words, except for the faint realisation that he now owed somebody something.

The figure seemed to shake his head in exasperation, the hand lifting to continue the spell. There was that fire again. Cellias felt his head fall backwards, resting on soft grass. Too bad. It'd felt nice... to feel that warmth. Human warmth. Not the searing heat of the elements. But without the hand to distract him, he could faintly remember what happened before.

Swept away by turbulent emotions, following instinct, running in and... eventually... saving him.

"Heh..." A weak laugh. "What'd I tell you? Not..."

He could feel the small pause above him, in confusion and curiosity.

"... Not... a burden."

Silence. The gentle hum of the spell at work in the background.

Then the heat suddenly stopped, the white flame disappeared. The figure leant down until they were almost nose-to-nose, delicate features he knew so well obscured by shadows. Strands of crimson hair glinted brightly under the sun, falling over jade eyes, tickling him. Liquid rubies and emeralds.

Butterfly traces of lips against his. Just the slightest, faintest warmth. The lightness of amusement.

"...You are so troublesome."

With ♥,
Lynn