The Witching Hour, Part 7

[the_inkslinger]

The weirdest thing just happened to me. I went to type King, and Ikeda came out instead. Like... it felt as if my fingers were in the right place, but I was halfway through Ikeda before I glanced up. Now if that isn't subliminal messaging attempting to tell me I'm spending my time writing the wrong story, then I don't know what is.

But alas, too bad. I've spent the entire week angsting over RotD (I am much more content now. And Nekobandit? I think status quo shall remain for at least a while longer. Or until I have another indecisive fit. But thank you for putting up with me. I ♥ you forever).

And... I am a horrible person. This is so extremely overdue. I intended to gift it to chibisangeln for her birthday. It was on July 10th. *dies* I fail at life in a big way, I know. But... here it is at last, and it's for you, Chibi my dear. I adore you always, and I hope you like it, and that it's not too awful, as you deserve better. ♥ ♥ ♥

The Witching Hour

“King- Uh-huhn,” Rusty’s question ended in a garbled noise of surprise as she spotted Wesa in the cockpit’s sole other chair. King was in the pilot seat, guiding Lucy with the help of Fisher’s map, which was spread out beside him, its swirled codes and embedded runes glowing with the help of an enchanted compass pinned haphazardly in the bottom right corner.

Glancing up from his scrutiny of the terrain vanishing before them, visible through the glass shield stretched across Lucy’s front, King’s hands stilled against the controls and he sent a wry grin at Rusty, not bothering to mask his bemusement.

“Rusty, this is Wesa,” King introduced, still grinning. Gesturing between them, his eyes settling on his twin, both playful and challenging, he finished, “Wesa, meet my sister, Rusty.”

Wesa stood, all smooth grace and easy balance despite the ship’s constant rocking- Lucy was usually a steady flier, but King had pushed her to such a speed that most of the ship’s less important functions, like the stabilizers, had been sacrificed in an attempt to feed the engines more power.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Hi,” Rusty nodded, rubbing as much of the smeared engine grease off her palm as she could before returning his handshake.

“Wesa’s a Shaman from Tsula,” King added, knowing full well that Newt wasn’t the only one with mistaken conceptions about himself and the Indurian. “He’s our new physician.”

“Oh. I thought-” Catching herself, as Rusty was far too sharp to slip and thus embarrass herself, she then surveyed Wesa from blond head to embroidered shoes before deciding, “Welcome aboard. If you need anything, feel free to ask me. I pretty much run things around here; King’s always got his head stuck up-”

“Hey-”

Rusty smirked at him, very deserving revenge clear in the glint to a dark stare which mirrored his own. But when she spoke again it wasn’t to tease. “Are we close to Zabuza yet?”

“Actually, we just entered her territory a moment ago,” King obliged, glancing back to his map.

But then, it wasn’t so much Zabuza’s territory as it was a no-man’s land. Uninhabitable desert sprawled on both sides, cracked, burnt earth all that was visible until it melted into a far-off horizon stained jaundice-yellow from dust and heat.

The Fallow Lands was its common name, and there were several very obvious reasons why Zabuza called the wasteland home. Foremost of which was that… it was the only place she was welcome. More useful to her, though, was the fact that any approaching vessel, whether enemy or neutral, would be spotted well before it came into contact with her. Just as she would have no trouble whatsoever sighting Lucy miles before they ever caught a hint of her or her lair.

Not to mention, she was a witch, so who knew what assortment of dreadful traps and hidden hexes she had sprinkled across the bare desert and rock beneath, ready to snare unsuspecting (or even suspecting) prey as it breezed by overtop. Not unlike King and his ship were doing now.

King didn’t relish the thought of encountering Zabuza without Newt… but if he couldn’t find Newt on the way to her, then he would simply have face the witch herself and ask what the hell she’d done with his partner. Or if not that, than perhaps she wouldn’t mind telling him where the stray Zilant had last been seen. Because he really, really needed to find Newt, and not even the cursed witch Zabuza was going to hinder his search.

“King…” Wesa’s voice broke into his determined monologue, hesitant and low. “Can Newt or Zabuza breath fire?”

King was officially paying attention. “What?”

Wesa didn’t answer; it wasn’t necessary. Following the Indurian’s stare past the front of the ship, King viewed sand twisted and melted into what looked like tar, the gummy blackness below cloaking a small stretch of ground beneath them before it vanished beyond a steep precipice.

“Tell me he didn’t go over the cliff,” Rusty spoke lowly behind him.

“He can fly,” King was distantly aware of hearing himself reply, his eyes still trained on the blackened sand below them.

King wasn’t entirely certain if Ramza could breathe fire. He wouldn’t put it past Newt, though, to fiddle with that sort of magic until he’d conquered it. But was it even possible to burn sand?

He hadn’t thought so, but then… Zabuza and Newt were creatures of black magic, and there was no saying the dark mar beneath the ship’s belly was burnt at all. It might be something else entirely, like-

Following that thought, King slowed the ship to a near crawl, the abrupt cutting of speed jarring Lucy and nearly pitching Rusty forward into the ship’s colorfully lit consol. Gripping the back of King’s seat for balance, Rusty didn’t comment on the less-than-considerate piloting, as she was more concerned with studying the ground beneath them, her stare having followed that of her brother.

The sand below glimmered faintly, sticky and wet, heat from the naked sun having transformed it into a thick, congealed substance that resemble spilled, greasy oil more than anything else.

“Ramza bleeds black,” Rusty murmured next to his ear, much to King’s chagrin. He would rather have not been reminded of that fact, even if it had been parading through his mind the moment he’d dismissed the black stretch as burnt sand.

Wesa’s eyes were searching past the cliff’s edge, oblivious to their exchange. “There’s something beyond the ledge.”

King guided Lucy over the steep overhang with pain-staking caution, all the while carefully searching the landscape visible past the ship’s glass exterior. The earth gave out below them, dropping as sharply as if a God’s great cleaver had sheared it in half, leaving one side to collapse and crumble into treacherous rocky terrain.

But hidden amid the mounds and small mountains of rock, tucked below the jagged, dusty scarps which rose dark and formidable further into distance, their high peaks casting long, concealing shadows, was a familiar black shape.

“Shit,” Rusty muttered.

To which Wesa offered, “It doesn’t look like he’s fallen…”

The Zilant was directly below them, his massive form curled and unmoving. Harsh sunlight glowered down upon him, illuminating the dulled, stationary markings which normally danced across dark scales.

Lucy lowered at King’s bidding, rumbling softly in protest to the restrictive movement, but soon she was perched on a wide, flat outcropping of rock a short distance from the Zilant. Jumping from his chair, King made to charge through the door when Rusty caught his arm, halting him.

Though it was Wesa who spoke, “King, wait.”

Curbing his half-nervous, half-hopeful exuberance, King relaxed as well he could and looked first to his sister and then the Indurian, questioning and impatient.

“You should- King, you should be prepared for…” Wesa cast an anxious glance over his shoulder, to where the vast form of King’s Zilant partner was easily visible. “King, he’s not moving.”

Rusty released his arm and King stepped away, drawing closer to the window so he could peer at Newt with more ease. It was true: the Zilant was utterly motionless. But from this distance one could hardly expect to see him draw breath.

“He’s probably sleeping.”

It was inconceivable, that Newt could be… it was just, it wasn’t imaginable. Not in this world. Newt was practically indestructible. King had seen him survive wounds and situations and evils far worse than anything Zabuza would throw at him. Whatever else he might be, Newt was one tough bastard.

“Fine, okay,” Rusty sighed reluctantly, “Even if he is sleeping, you can’t just walk up to him and- and well, I don’t even know what you have planned. But if he’s hurt, and sleeping, then that’s… probably not Newt over there, and you know it. ”

His eyes still trained on the slumbering giant, King exhaled in response to Rusty’s words, “Ramza.”

“Exactly. King, he’ll pulverize you.”

“I don’t know,” King teased, grinning so fearless and carelessly that Rusty wanted to smack him for being such a pirate. “I think he kind of likes me.”

King was in an excellent, wonderful, absolutely fantastic mood. He had found Newt. His partner was scarcely thirty feet away, in fact. So why -in the name of nine hells- was he still aboard Lucy, listening to Rusty of all people?

He ought to be apologizing to Newt this very instant. Because as soon as his cursed partner forgave him he could drag him back onto Lucy, thereby forcibly returning him home, and patch him up. Then everything would be fine. Newt would be fine, he would be fine, and everything would be normal again. Everything would be… would be fine. Fine and normal and- King’s head was spinning with the mixed dread and anticipation of speaking with Newt. Rubbing at his temples, he stepped past Rusty. What was he still doing on the bloody ship?

Rusty stopped him again. “Maybe you should wait-”

“Wait? Wait?” King shook his head vehemently, indignant and bewildered. “I’m not going to wait. I can’t wait. It’s taken me two weeks to get here! That’s my partner! I’m not afraid of him.” Rusty should have understood better than anyone. But at the moment it was Wesa, standing quietly to the side, his eyes soft with empathy, who was showing more tact.

“That is not your partner-”

“Yes it is! Newt or Ramza, it makes no difference,” King countered. “Now I’m going out to meet him, and I’m not waiting another second.” Doing just that, King marched through the door, pointedly ignoring Rusty’s disgruntled following glare.

Sighing as the door clicked shut behind King and realizing it was pointless to chase after the determined pirate, Wesa nodded at Rusty before requesting, curiosity getting the better of him, “I hate to pester, but… what is Ramza, exactly? An ulterior persona of some kind?”

Still disgruntled and more than a little anxious over King, though there was little she could do, Rusty struggled to find an appropriate answer. “Not quite. It’s- well, I’m not really sure precisely, but I believe it’s sort of like… a mutually beneficial possession.” Rusty frowned at the wording, however, but couldn’t summon an explanation more fitting.

Wesa mulled that over for a long moment. “So Ramza is… possessing Newt?”

“I have no freaking idea,” Rusty admitted wryly, still frowning. Possession wasn’t a very accurate definition for it, as far as she could tell. Ramza was inside of Newt, but how that partnership worked - or if indeed it even was one - Rusty couldn’t hazard a guess. “All I know is that he makes Newt look like a cuddly lost puppy in comparison.”

“I see,” Wesa replied, glancing to the front of the cockpit, where King was now visible, his green-garbed form quickly approaching the Zilant in question. “I hope King knows what he’s doing.”

Now that he was scarcely ten paces from his wayward partner, King had to conclude that Rusty had been right. It was Ramza. There was nothing of Newt in the cool, blank stare that greeted him as he neared. But he forged on anyway, and was soon almost within arm’s-reach of familiar black scales.

King considered the enormous Zilant, feeling very awkward and very small. Then stepping closer, he did what likely no person had ever done before him. Crouching before the lounging giant, King looked him square in the… face… and requested calmly, “I need to speak with Newt.”

Ramza considered him with an eye the size of a man’s forearm.

“Please.”

Ramza watched him for a moment longer, then sighed, the disgusted exhalation rumbling around King like the drowning purr of Lucy’s engines. But the Zilant shifted its considerable weight, his six feathered wings rustling slightly as they were readjusted, and the towering black form before King blurred.

As if surrounded by a smokescreen, nothing of Ramza was visible save for what King could only describe as a rapidly shrinking black… smudge. It wasn’t really that the Zilant dissolved into Newt, as happened with Zabuza, more like King’s eyes seemed to blur-almost like they were watering- when the transformations took place. King had given up trying to understand it some time ago. It was much easier on one’s peace of mind to accept that magic was strange business and leave it at that.

King studied his boots. They need polishing. Badly. How had they gotten so scuffed? And that was probably rather irrelevant at the time, but it felt wrong to watch Newt morph.

When King lifted his head to glance at the Zilant once more, Newt was quite suddenly in front of him. His back was slumped against the outcropping Ramza had been slumbering next to, and one hand was resting, fingers dangling listlessly, across a bent knee.

Newt’s bottom lip was split open and his left cheek was bruised as dark as his hair. His overcoat was torn at the collar, and elsewhere, revealing a nasty line of purplish, swollen indentations along his neck that had to be a result of a beaked bite.

Newt looked tired.

But he was conscious, so that at least was encouraging.

They eyed each other, Newt with wariness while the pirate Captain’s zealous inspection was both hopeful and beseeching. The silence stretched between them, strained and thick. King didn’t know what to say. He’d had a whole speech worked out, rehearsed and perfected, but now did it not only seem ill-befitting, he couldn’t remember it.

“Hey,” King greeted softly.

Newt didn’t say anything, but then, King hadn’t really expected him to.

They continued staring, both of them motionless, the only noise the low murmur of Lucy’s engines a short distance away and the grit of sand as it crunched beneath King’s heels.

Then, shifting awkwardly against the feather-speckled mound of sand behind him, Newt raised a stiff arm and, unbuckling his bandolier, set it on the ground next to him.

It was empty.

King’s gaze fell to the bandolier and he studied it, inspecting the many pockets, their ties torn open and shredded, the once numerous buttons and snaps nowhere to be seen. The shoulder strap was almost unrecognizable, too, as it was nothing more than a twisted, mangled strip of leather.

It must have been one hell of a fight, for Newt to empty his entire collection of evils. No wonder Zabuza hadn’t harassed them; she was probably still licking her wounds. King smirked briefly at the thought.

But the smirk faded quickly and King’s attention returned to Newt. Newt’s stare, unblinking and indecipherable, was still fixed on his face, and the bruised sorcerer had yet to speak. Somehow, King got the feeling that Newt wasn’t about to say anything to him in the near future.

Returning to his scrutiny of the bandolier, King frowned softly, wondering why Newt had taken it off in the first place. Why had he… was it supposed to- oh. Leaning forward, King grasped the bandolier and swung it over his shoulder, the ruined, hardened leather squeaking in protest as he did so, but it fit well enough. King then looked to Newt.

Newt’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, an indication of just how tired he was, before they opened again and his hand, still dangling across a raised knee, turned palm-up, offering.

Newt’s fingers were cold, all bony knuckles and sharp rings as King grasped them within his own and pulled the sorcerer to his feet.

Too fatigued for balance, Newt lurched forward, dangerously close to slamming foreheads with King. Luckily he’d anticipated this and was already bracing Newt, one hand gripping the harsh curve of a leather-swathed hip before him, his warm hold a stark contrast to the coolness of the body beneath.

Realizing, rather belatedly, that this was a very compromising position and that Newt was close enough to kiss, (and why oh why had that even crossed his mind?) King cleared his throat to feed the silence between them. And now things were even more awkward because Newt was much, much too near - they were practically embracing - but if King released him he would without doubt collapse.

“Newt,” King stated lamely, because he didn’t know what else to say and the silence was murder on his already frazzled nerves.

Then it occurred to King that he was approaching the entire situation far too rigidly. Too cautiously. Too stupidly, really. Because this was Newt, and this was himself, and they were partners. It shouldn’t be so hard.  “Are you angry with me?”

“No.”

Though Newt didn’t really say it. His lips parted and King read the word in their movement, but no sound escaped. King remembered the last time Newt had lost the ability to speak. Vividly. He’d been scared out of his mind.

“Goddammit Newt,” King huffed, “I was- I was- you know how worried I get. I could kill you. Do you know how hard it was to find you? I went to goddamn Fisher.”

Newt’s split lip twitched in a wry smirk and King was so ridiculously relieved his knees felt weak.

“Fine. Okay. Good. Well,” King fumbled, finally deciding, “Let’s go home, then.”

Slinging an arm around Newt’s shoulders, who made no protest and followed his lead with surprising docility, King supported his weary partner as they limped the short walk back towards Lucy’s hatch.

It was probably time he clarified some things, too. Especially before Newt boarded the ship and discovered his most favourite person was now an official member of their crew. Clearing this throat again, King hesitated before saying, “Ah, I think you should know that, er, I’m not in love with Wesa. I don’t even like him.” But he was still clumsy with relief and so rambled on, “Well, I like him, but I don’t like him like him.” Pausing to chew it over for a moment, King settled with, “He’s not my type at all.”

Newt’s step faltered for a moment, disbelieving, and King knew that had his partner possessed any energy at all, he would have informed him quite pointedly that everyone and anyone seemed to be his type. With one exception, apparently.

King grinned and let the unspoken jibe slide. It was simply not the time for bantering, no matter how affectionate or light. But King couldn’t stifle the grin. It felt so good to have Newt back. So right.

Having become almost instantaneously aware of this rightness, and how very necessary it was, King slowed their steps as he spoke, “I’m sorry we fought. I’m sorry I insulted you. I didn’t mean for you to leave. It’s your ship too, you know. You should have told me where to go. I was so worried; I knew you’d go after Zabuza. And I’m so sorry… I hate it when we fight. We’re partners, I would never- I will always… you’re most important, you know that. Or you should. What’s Lucy without you? I didn’t mean to-”

“King,” Newt interrupted him, the word a harsh, soundless whisper. “Shut up.”

King grinned again, wide and roguish. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

And in his own terms, Newt was okay, more or less. In fact, had his throat not been so dry it felt chafed and so swollen he could scarcely breathe, he would have gladly shared that information with King. Because the pirate had a habit of fussing and pestering and patronizing that made Newt want to strangle him until he squeaked from lack of air. However, in his current state he could barely keep upright, let alone throttle someone as vigorous as King.

Though… he was slightly less okay than he appreciated being. His back flared with sickly tendrils of heat and pain, and he was so tired.

But King was here, beside him, supporting him, and if his legs happened to give out mid-step, he knew the incorrigible pirate would be there then, too, to catch him. It would be embarrassing, yes, but not nearly as humiliating as face-planting into the hard rock beneath. King was… he was always there. Steadfast, trustworthy, loyal King.

Newt didn’t understand him.

King had been so angry, and rightfully so. Newt didn’t blame him for his fury- how could he? Newt had tampered in his affairs with dark and dangerous powers and worse intentions. To curse someone, even in the harmless manner in which Wesa had been hexed, was deeply unforgivable. Because you could never be entirely certain when a curse intended only to chastise would warp into something else, would twist into something much more grave…

Black magic.

It was volatile, unwieldy, defiant at the best of times. You could no more control black magic than you could the route of rivers seeking the sea. It was a force made of immense wildness and untamed desires.  Like weeds in a carefully tended garden, sneaking tendrils of blackness and malice sprouted in a moment of distraction, only to spread, blossom, and ultimately choke all else.

He had not meant to curse Wesa. But as he had left King’s study, that blonde hair gripped in one tight fist, fury and a deep, weary aching had loosened his steeled restraint and he had thought, bitterly, angrily, that King was his partner and he had no intention of sharing. It was in his nature to be possessive and proud and he had willed Wesa to stay away from King.

He hadn’t been surprised when King had burst in, red-faced with indignant fury and accused him of cursing the Indurian; it hadn’t even surprised him when he’d been told to get the hell off of King’s ship. He was, however, a bit surprised to see King now.

Newt gave King a sidelong glance. The pirate didn’t miss it, either. Letting his arm slide free from where it had been curled around Newt’s back, King took a step up the ramp which led within Lucy. Then he stopped, as if a sudden and most important thought had occurred to him, and turning to face Newt, considered the Zilant for several calculating seconds before speaking.

“Wesa’s inside. He’s our physician.”

The look Newt gave him was so perfectly blank that for a moment King doubted the sorcerer had even heard him. Fidgeting now, King tried again, “So, um, you see, I wasn’t romancing him. I just wanted him on the ship so that we’d have a physician when-”

“No.”

Dammit King hated that Newt was so perceptive. He hadn’t even finished his sentence.

“I knew you’d never agree- that’s what all the sneaking around was about… and we’re seriously only friends,” at Newt’s venomous glower, King hurriedly amended, “-hardly friends, and so I don’t see what the problem is. Except that I should have told you in advance, I’ll concede that point. Even though I knew how you’d react. Like how you’re reacting now, but with more violence and strangulation-by-innards. But Newt, I’ve got to tell you, the glaring is really not effective when you look as if you’re about to flop over.”

Newt’s left eyebrow actually twitched, King saw it plain as the nose on his face.

Sighing, he clomped the two steps down the ramp, and now once again level with his partner, King met the cold-fury of Newt’s pale gaze without pause.

“Please do this for me.” It’s been hell trying to find you. “Please. The sneaking around and the chasing you off of our ship… I know I was in the wrong. But so were you.”

Newt straightened a bit at that, though whether it was due to offense or begrudging agreement, King wasn’t sure. “Please.”

Newt glowered at him, unblinking and utterly unreadable, for so long that King might as well have been paralyzed. He dared not move; even breathing was risky. Newt’s unforgiving stare was as arresting as a Basilisk’s petrifying gaze.

King could only wait, motionless and silent. Dust kicked up when he’d dismounted the ramp settled around his tarnished boots like microscopic flakes of grainy brown snow; the bandolier’s hardened strap creaked softly in protest as King drew breath, in and out and in again, and he was still waiting, Lucy’s engines purring like a sated cat behind him, a muted background rumbling that neither of them noticed.

Then Newt blinked, breaking the impasse, and for a split second his pale eyes dropped to rest, inexplicably, on King’s mouth. But then he had pushed past the baffled pirate and was striding up the ramp, into the ship, which was as much of an assent as King supposed he would get. But he would take it. Oh Lord, he would take it.

And that Newt hadn’t black-magicked him on the spot- regardless of how tired he was-well, that meant something… what, though, King didn’t know.

And because Awe has informed me (rather caustically, I might add) that the definition of a drabble is a smattering of words numbering in the hundreds, not thousands category, I shall no longer be referring to WH as a drabble. Because at 28,000+ I guess it really isn't. (Even though I think that it qualifies as a drabble in terms of comparison... at least as an "Inky Drabble" perhaps).  But anyway, it has now earned the status of "Story." Even though it seems very unstory-like to me. And also, apparently, I am not allowed to call it a crackfic anymore. Even though it seems very crackfic to me. Awe (aka Saaski) is a Princess Propper Pants. Please bother her.  ♥

Perhaps I shall call it a bunnyfic! from now on. To both indicate its pure plot-bunny origins, and also the presence of smut (eventually). Except then no one would know what the hell I'm talking about.