Fic: Spiritual Insinuation [chapter two] (PoT, AU fantasy)
Title: Spiritual Insinuation [spectrum]
Category: Prince of Tennis
Rating: PG13
Rough Word Count: 2000
Summary: In an unforgiving world of myths and magic, Ryoma loses his family only to be adopted by another.
Past Chapters: one...
Lovely fanart by kasugai_gummie ♥~ I think I will never stop showing it off.
A perplexed line formed over his brow, wrinkling in sleep as he slowly became aware of the soft warmth he was swaddled in. He wanted to burrow deeper in its embrace, abstractly knowing it would shelter him from the outside, from consciousness, from things he did not yet want to confront. At the same time it set off a clarion bell in his mind, inherently alert to the sheer wrongness of the proffered comfort. It was never warm in the city, always wet and despondent. The warmth of fire was stark and flashing, not smooth and yielding as this. The sunlight never slid and flowed, wrapped and molded. And it never smelled so fresh…
He wrestled with each piece of knowledge in his mind, shrinking further in and then creeping slowly out. Each breath drew in the same clean air until he breathed normally, just a slip quicker than the leisurely pace of sleep. The magic of peaceful slumber was shed like a tiny chip of glass cracking and clinking to the ground. At that illusionary chime he opened his eyes, more naturally than he could ever have remembered doing before.
For a moment it was like waking into a phantom heaven.
It was safe, safe and warm, and there was light and it smelled so good and he must be far, far away from the city because it wasn’t raining and it didn’t reek of cold, of stone, of bitter shadows and blood and there must be mother-
No.
He shut his eyes tightly, hands curling into fists. No, that wasn’t it. When he relaxed, muscle by muscle, he opened his eyes wide and everything - the smell, the warmth, the safe apparition - was gone.
A more familiar sense of wariness settled over his shoulders like the hands of a recognized guide, heightened by the frightening acknowledgement of being moved to an unknown place by unknown hands.
Wherewherewhere-
And who?
Maybe it had been a bad idea. A risky one, certainly. Dangerous and impulsive, fueled by the single-minded desire, the one-tracked need to escape. Why? Because he was alone? Because the city would always linger with the heady scent of rain and blood - her blood - to him? And that… That had been reason enough. And a wistful, childish longing rose up unbidden, a quiet plea for that moment of peace and security to return. He squelched it dispassionately, with a coldness even he did not expect from himself. Not so soon. Not when he should still be hurting.
No, the icy tones sang from another, more surreptitious corner of his mind. One he never had need of before, but now trembled at the weaving of imaginary claws, grasping possessively (protectively?) at his heart. Why hurt, why mourn? It’s only memory, only death. So much pain. Enough. Enough, enough. It’s gone. I escaped. I’m free. The concept seemed to first register at that moment, catching his breath and dilating the pupils in gold-washed eyes. A new sense of liberty set in and air whooshed from its prison in what felt like new-found lungs. There was calmness now, reminiscent of the heated peace, but cool, trickling ever so carefully, cautiously. It would do no good to become careless now. And he wouldn’t.
I’ll become untouchable. Unbreakable. The cold, calculating part of him was pleased. This would be new, different, better. He felt new, less wild, a little cold, and much, much more aware.
So he wasn’t taken by surprise when the tent-flap was drawn open, leaking in bright sunlight and the shadow of a person.
“Oh hey, you’re awake. Good timing. You didn’t move at all after we found you and were thinking you might stay out cold for days!” The figure moved inside, revealing some considerable height and relieved features. “That might’ve been bad, really bad actually. That one guy’s attitude has gotten worse since last night, and, well-”
Noisy, he thought, examining the other with a disinterested eye and impartial air. “Who are you?”
The abrupt question caught him off-guard for just a second and he gave the boy a brief stare that was both affronted and sheepish. “Ah, I guess it would be good to get introductions done first.” Underneath the self-conscious comment was a slight indication that an explanation would be due from both parties.
He started to nod in response, waiting for the other to surrender his name first, when someone else burst rather than walked into the tent. The newcomer flung exuberant arms around the person he had previously assumed to be the annoying one (he was currently rethinking that evaluation) and grinned excitedly.
“My friend has such bad manners here!” The taller of the two began to protest but was effectively cut off by the hyperactive antics of the one now chattering to the wide-eyed boy. “Don’t worry, we’re not all like that. I’m Kikumaru Eiji! Oh, and this guy’s Momo.” A sunny grin punctuated the intro while Momoshiro grumbled over who had bad manners now. “What about you, kiddo?”
“...”
The absence of words stretched into an awkward silence, reaching its breaking point with Kikumaru inching forward. “Something wrong? Hey,” he drawled out the syllable, “Answer me!”
The boy moved just before a curious finger prodded him in the cheek. “Echizen Ryoma,” he finally consented, face turned away in stubbornness.
“All right then!” And before anyone else could move Kikumaru grabbed Ryoma’s wrists, tugging and dragging the nonplussed boy. “Come on, come on, you should meet everyone else, they all want to know what’s going on too!”
Ryoma was finding it very difficult to get out of this, no matter how much he dug his heels in. Kikumaru had all the enthusiasm of a storm. Strange though, how quickly his demeanor shifted from that icy awareness to this awed bewilderment. From cold to hot. He rationed that in this bolder, outside world, there would have to be adaptations. It only made sense. It was such a convenient excuse. Of course he wouldn’t consciously relate this foreign feeling thrumming around him to the languid warmth of his waking. Of course he’d already forgotten it, thrown it away, self-denied.
He knew he was already far too immersed with these people (though it was hardly avoidable.) He knew he would be thrust even deeper into this unfamiliar social circle (he’d never yielded his given name before.) He knew an attempted escape would be too much like a mouse nosing its way through a maze of cats (Kikumaru already had a paw on his tail.) And he knew Momoshiro was behind him, entirely too amused by the situation (maybe a swift kick to the shin would remedy that.)
The cold part of him whispered in warning tones, you’re just going to be trapped again.
He steeled himself, suddenly unbending. A hand clapped his shoulder, not hard, but not too gentle. A flicker of understanding wove through Momo’s even tones, gratifyingly devoid of condescendence.
“Let’s go see the other boys, Echizen. Let’s see the rest of Seigaku.”
This time he blinked, wondering and curious. He pointedly shrugged free of the hand though, missing the half-amused, half-annoyed grin he’d earned.
The morning sun that was just rising over the tops of the hills shone fiercely and Ryoma raised an arm to shield his eyes. Blinking back bright spots in his vision he felt the hand on his shoulder guide him to turn away from the eastern horizon. He suddenly found himself facing a group of other men, pieces of conversation being spread throughout, and his mind caught up with him.
Of course he’d heard of the People - they were hardly myth. He’d seen them in the city sometimes, but in that place everyone became the same. The foreboding streets made exception for no one. They came and went much like any other traveler, impatient to leave behind the crowded town and return to the open road.
Seigaku. He didn’t know any of the clans by name, but they were apparently native to this area. There were only a handful of them here, he realized. Threads of curiosity snared him; the notion of living a totally different life from that within the stone city walls was near intoxicating. The two he’d met were nothing like any of the people within the city. That didn’t make them any less of a bother (they were probably worse in that aspect) but at least the air and atmosphere were lighter, less stifling.
So when he was faced with a man, calmly intimidating in the way a pacing lion was - all strength and easy grace - he did not back down. His street instincts were screaming at him to duck and run, that it was suicide to be so bold, but Ryoma was finding that such thoughts were pathetic and cowardly. Maybe cowardice was safe in the city, and again, he remembered adaptation. This was a different sort of challenge, and he discovered that he didn’t want to lose.
“Echizen,” the leader addressed him. If Ryoma was surprised at the initiative he showed no sign. “How did you come to be here?”
He didn’t mean literally, so Ryoma didn’t give a literal answer. This person had gained that much respect from him already. “I had nothing else.” It wasn’t an admission of weakness, not with the proud lift of the chin, so serious on a childish face.
The man seemed to take the response, examining it before accepting the words. He would have turned them over, searching for faults and cracks like a diligent craftsman. In the end the boy’s answer was deemed truthful. “I see.”
Ryoma tilted his head, undaunted by the height difference between them. “Who are you?” he questioned, honestly curious about this man who inspired something challenging and eager in him.
“Tezuka Kunimitsu,” came the curt reply. There was nothing special in a name by itself, but the attachments, the allusion to greater things - they registered in Ryoma’s mind, stamped there in permanent ink. He wouldn’t falter in those assessing eyes.
“Seigaku,” he began with some hesitance and almost breathless apprehension, “What’s it like?”
There were murmurs of surprise in his odd question, but Tezuka remained unaffected. “It’s not like the city,” was all he said in response. More could be unearthed from that simple sentence; so much could be transferred in those five words. The People are not like the Royalists. There are no walls, no cruel system to abide by. Whatever happened to you before won’t happen again. We can’t promise a paradise, but we can ensure a difference.
That was all the reason Ryoma needed to hear. “Then take me with you.”
“Wait.”
The objection came from another man who stood near the captain, and though he spoke in protest there was obvious concern in his voice. “You’re young, don’t you have a family? Wouldn’t others worry about you?”
Ryoma was both pleased and sickened by the dead weight in his stomach, finally settled from the spasms of grief that used to wreck him at the mention of family, of mother. He shook his head, but that would not be enough to sway the other. “I don’t have anyone.” I never knew my father. My mother was killed just twenty-four hours ago before my eyes. No, no one would miss me now. No one else would even know I exist.
When it looked like he might argue further, Kikumaru placed a startlingly calm hand on his arm. “Oishi, it’s fine.”
The dark-haired man looked long and hard between the boy and his comrade before bowing his head in acceptance. “Then we’ll look after you.”
Those could have been the strangest words Ryoma had ever heard in his life. Why, was on the tip of his tongue, but the plaintive query was lost in the sudden outburst from yet another one of Seigaku’s number.
“We’re not some adoption center for lost pets,” growled the most menacing of the troupe. Fearsome eyes glared accusingly at Ryoma, snapping in irritation. Dozens of voices rose in protest or chastisement, all the while the dangerous-looking man hissed in mounting fury.
Tezuka broke through the escalating dispute, a cool trickle of reason and decisive command. “If he wishes to, he may accompany us.”
There were some smiles, some cheering, and a couple frowns. Ryoma ducked his head, mouth set in a tight line while his eyes glittered.
It wasn’t exactly a victory, but it was close.
Category: Prince of Tennis
Rating: PG13
Rough Word Count: 2000
Summary: In an unforgiving world of myths and magic, Ryoma loses his family only to be adopted by another.
Past Chapters: one...
Lovely fanart by kasugai_gummie ♥~ I think I will never stop showing it off.
A perplexed line formed over his brow, wrinkling in sleep as he slowly became aware of the soft warmth he was swaddled in. He wanted to burrow deeper in its embrace, abstractly knowing it would shelter him from the outside, from consciousness, from things he did not yet want to confront. At the same time it set off a clarion bell in his mind, inherently alert to the sheer wrongness of the proffered comfort. It was never warm in the city, always wet and despondent. The warmth of fire was stark and flashing, not smooth and yielding as this. The sunlight never slid and flowed, wrapped and molded. And it never smelled so fresh…
He wrestled with each piece of knowledge in his mind, shrinking further in and then creeping slowly out. Each breath drew in the same clean air until he breathed normally, just a slip quicker than the leisurely pace of sleep. The magic of peaceful slumber was shed like a tiny chip of glass cracking and clinking to the ground. At that illusionary chime he opened his eyes, more naturally than he could ever have remembered doing before.
For a moment it was like waking into a phantom heaven.
It was safe, safe and warm, and there was light and it smelled so good and he must be far, far away from the city because it wasn’t raining and it didn’t reek of cold, of stone, of bitter shadows and blood and there must be mother-
No.
He shut his eyes tightly, hands curling into fists. No, that wasn’t it. When he relaxed, muscle by muscle, he opened his eyes wide and everything - the smell, the warmth, the safe apparition - was gone.
A more familiar sense of wariness settled over his shoulders like the hands of a recognized guide, heightened by the frightening acknowledgement of being moved to an unknown place by unknown hands.
Wherewherewhere-
And who?
Maybe it had been a bad idea. A risky one, certainly. Dangerous and impulsive, fueled by the single-minded desire, the one-tracked need to escape. Why? Because he was alone? Because the city would always linger with the heady scent of rain and blood - her blood - to him? And that… That had been reason enough. And a wistful, childish longing rose up unbidden, a quiet plea for that moment of peace and security to return. He squelched it dispassionately, with a coldness even he did not expect from himself. Not so soon. Not when he should still be hurting.
No, the icy tones sang from another, more surreptitious corner of his mind. One he never had need of before, but now trembled at the weaving of imaginary claws, grasping possessively (protectively?) at his heart. Why hurt, why mourn? It’s only memory, only death. So much pain. Enough. Enough, enough. It’s gone. I escaped. I’m free. The concept seemed to first register at that moment, catching his breath and dilating the pupils in gold-washed eyes. A new sense of liberty set in and air whooshed from its prison in what felt like new-found lungs. There was calmness now, reminiscent of the heated peace, but cool, trickling ever so carefully, cautiously. It would do no good to become careless now. And he wouldn’t.
I’ll become untouchable. Unbreakable. The cold, calculating part of him was pleased. This would be new, different, better. He felt new, less wild, a little cold, and much, much more aware.
So he wasn’t taken by surprise when the tent-flap was drawn open, leaking in bright sunlight and the shadow of a person.
“Oh hey, you’re awake. Good timing. You didn’t move at all after we found you and were thinking you might stay out cold for days!” The figure moved inside, revealing some considerable height and relieved features. “That might’ve been bad, really bad actually. That one guy’s attitude has gotten worse since last night, and, well-”
Noisy, he thought, examining the other with a disinterested eye and impartial air. “Who are you?”
The abrupt question caught him off-guard for just a second and he gave the boy a brief stare that was both affronted and sheepish. “Ah, I guess it would be good to get introductions done first.” Underneath the self-conscious comment was a slight indication that an explanation would be due from both parties.
He started to nod in response, waiting for the other to surrender his name first, when someone else burst rather than walked into the tent. The newcomer flung exuberant arms around the person he had previously assumed to be the annoying one (he was currently rethinking that evaluation) and grinned excitedly.
“My friend has such bad manners here!” The taller of the two began to protest but was effectively cut off by the hyperactive antics of the one now chattering to the wide-eyed boy. “Don’t worry, we’re not all like that. I’m Kikumaru Eiji! Oh, and this guy’s Momo.” A sunny grin punctuated the intro while Momoshiro grumbled over who had bad manners now. “What about you, kiddo?”
“...”
The absence of words stretched into an awkward silence, reaching its breaking point with Kikumaru inching forward. “Something wrong? Hey,” he drawled out the syllable, “Answer me!”
The boy moved just before a curious finger prodded him in the cheek. “Echizen Ryoma,” he finally consented, face turned away in stubbornness.
“All right then!” And before anyone else could move Kikumaru grabbed Ryoma’s wrists, tugging and dragging the nonplussed boy. “Come on, come on, you should meet everyone else, they all want to know what’s going on too!”
Ryoma was finding it very difficult to get out of this, no matter how much he dug his heels in. Kikumaru had all the enthusiasm of a storm. Strange though, how quickly his demeanor shifted from that icy awareness to this awed bewilderment. From cold to hot. He rationed that in this bolder, outside world, there would have to be adaptations. It only made sense. It was such a convenient excuse. Of course he wouldn’t consciously relate this foreign feeling thrumming around him to the languid warmth of his waking. Of course he’d already forgotten it, thrown it away, self-denied.
He knew he was already far too immersed with these people (though it was hardly avoidable.) He knew he would be thrust even deeper into this unfamiliar social circle (he’d never yielded his given name before.) He knew an attempted escape would be too much like a mouse nosing its way through a maze of cats (Kikumaru already had a paw on his tail.) And he knew Momoshiro was behind him, entirely too amused by the situation (maybe a swift kick to the shin would remedy that.)
The cold part of him whispered in warning tones, you’re just going to be trapped again.
He steeled himself, suddenly unbending. A hand clapped his shoulder, not hard, but not too gentle. A flicker of understanding wove through Momo’s even tones, gratifyingly devoid of condescendence.
“Let’s go see the other boys, Echizen. Let’s see the rest of Seigaku.”
This time he blinked, wondering and curious. He pointedly shrugged free of the hand though, missing the half-amused, half-annoyed grin he’d earned.
The morning sun that was just rising over the tops of the hills shone fiercely and Ryoma raised an arm to shield his eyes. Blinking back bright spots in his vision he felt the hand on his shoulder guide him to turn away from the eastern horizon. He suddenly found himself facing a group of other men, pieces of conversation being spread throughout, and his mind caught up with him.
Of course he’d heard of the People - they were hardly myth. He’d seen them in the city sometimes, but in that place everyone became the same. The foreboding streets made exception for no one. They came and went much like any other traveler, impatient to leave behind the crowded town and return to the open road.
Seigaku. He didn’t know any of the clans by name, but they were apparently native to this area. There were only a handful of them here, he realized. Threads of curiosity snared him; the notion of living a totally different life from that within the stone city walls was near intoxicating. The two he’d met were nothing like any of the people within the city. That didn’t make them any less of a bother (they were probably worse in that aspect) but at least the air and atmosphere were lighter, less stifling.
So when he was faced with a man, calmly intimidating in the way a pacing lion was - all strength and easy grace - he did not back down. His street instincts were screaming at him to duck and run, that it was suicide to be so bold, but Ryoma was finding that such thoughts were pathetic and cowardly. Maybe cowardice was safe in the city, and again, he remembered adaptation. This was a different sort of challenge, and he discovered that he didn’t want to lose.
“Echizen,” the leader addressed him. If Ryoma was surprised at the initiative he showed no sign. “How did you come to be here?”
He didn’t mean literally, so Ryoma didn’t give a literal answer. This person had gained that much respect from him already. “I had nothing else.” It wasn’t an admission of weakness, not with the proud lift of the chin, so serious on a childish face.
The man seemed to take the response, examining it before accepting the words. He would have turned them over, searching for faults and cracks like a diligent craftsman. In the end the boy’s answer was deemed truthful. “I see.”
Ryoma tilted his head, undaunted by the height difference between them. “Who are you?” he questioned, honestly curious about this man who inspired something challenging and eager in him.
“Tezuka Kunimitsu,” came the curt reply. There was nothing special in a name by itself, but the attachments, the allusion to greater things - they registered in Ryoma’s mind, stamped there in permanent ink. He wouldn’t falter in those assessing eyes.
“Seigaku,” he began with some hesitance and almost breathless apprehension, “What’s it like?”
There were murmurs of surprise in his odd question, but Tezuka remained unaffected. “It’s not like the city,” was all he said in response. More could be unearthed from that simple sentence; so much could be transferred in those five words. The People are not like the Royalists. There are no walls, no cruel system to abide by. Whatever happened to you before won’t happen again. We can’t promise a paradise, but we can ensure a difference.
That was all the reason Ryoma needed to hear. “Then take me with you.”
“Wait.”
The objection came from another man who stood near the captain, and though he spoke in protest there was obvious concern in his voice. “You’re young, don’t you have a family? Wouldn’t others worry about you?”
Ryoma was both pleased and sickened by the dead weight in his stomach, finally settled from the spasms of grief that used to wreck him at the mention of family, of mother. He shook his head, but that would not be enough to sway the other. “I don’t have anyone.” I never knew my father. My mother was killed just twenty-four hours ago before my eyes. No, no one would miss me now. No one else would even know I exist.
When it looked like he might argue further, Kikumaru placed a startlingly calm hand on his arm. “Oishi, it’s fine.”
The dark-haired man looked long and hard between the boy and his comrade before bowing his head in acceptance. “Then we’ll look after you.”
Those could have been the strangest words Ryoma had ever heard in his life. Why, was on the tip of his tongue, but the plaintive query was lost in the sudden outburst from yet another one of Seigaku’s number.
“We’re not some adoption center for lost pets,” growled the most menacing of the troupe. Fearsome eyes glared accusingly at Ryoma, snapping in irritation. Dozens of voices rose in protest or chastisement, all the while the dangerous-looking man hissed in mounting fury.
Tezuka broke through the escalating dispute, a cool trickle of reason and decisive command. “If he wishes to, he may accompany us.”
There were some smiles, some cheering, and a couple frowns. Ryoma ducked his head, mouth set in a tight line while his eyes glittered.
It wasn’t exactly a victory, but it was close.