Chapter Text
The overhead curve of the axe exposed a set of broad shoulders and a weathered, scarred back. This back, like many other things about its owner, had been memorized.
Scar, hypertrophic: curves from right external oblique to spine. Result of infected wound, consequence of attempting to catch a wild boar unarmed.
Scar, atrophic: crosses left shoulder across trapezius to spine. Received when ambushed by renegades while taking a bath in an unexplored area.
Scar, contracture: widely spread across lumbar area, descending to buttocks. Result of extreme burn due to egregious and unforgivable mage error.
There were many more which could be described by rote. A few others were unidentifiable, though not due to a lapse in memory. They were new.
Or, rather, new enough.
The man swinging the axe was splitting wood with speed and precision that belied the task. Next to him was a broad tower of completed work nearly the height of his own small cottage. With no idea he was being observed, he was singing to himself with an uncharacteristic lack of tune or rhythm. Several feet away, a dripping but empty flagon had been tossed unceremoniously to the ground, perhaps kicked by his bare feet.
Conclusion?
Despite being halfway drunk, this man had chopped enough wood to heat… ah… what was it…? well, whatever this quaint little bird’s nest of a village was called, throughout the winter.
Catseye, that was its name. How could it have slipped his mind? This town of all places…
His single tch of irritation at his own absentmindedness was enough to gather the oblivious man’s attention and he turned with a fluid, graceful instability that no one would expect.
Except perhaps the person who was watching him.
The axe dangled in the large man’s fingers as his mind assembled the pieces of the current situation. This gave the observer ample time to assess his condition. His face was rugged, weathered, a few days unshaven with dozens of wrinkles from sun exposure, but nowhere did it sag. His hairline had retreated somewhat, but his hair where it existed was still full, untamed nearly vertical grey strands. The only evidence of going to seed that would be clear to someone who hadn’t been familiar with his previous physique was that instead of a wall of abdominal muscle, there was a potbelly beneath his powerful chest.
The man’s mouth dropped into an enormous O as he made sense of what he was seeing. He whispered something indecipherable. The axe fell from his fingers.
With a look at resembled a snarl, the observer bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, summoning a gust of wind that blew the axe away from its trajectory towards its owner’s bare foot and buried it into a nearby fence. The same wind caught the hood of the mage’s cloak and blew it back, revealing his face.
There was a rather heavy pause as both of them gasped for breath.
“Lord Bokuto,” blood dripped down the mage’s chin, untended, “you should not be using an axe while intoxicated. At your age, temperance is recommended.”
Reaching down and grasping his flagon with a grunt, the man then strode to a barrel under the foundation of his home and filled his vessel to the brim.
“Akaashi,” he took a long drink then smacked his lips, “go to hell.”
“Hey. Hey! HEY! You! Magic guy! Thanks for back there!”
The man who had caught up with him was young, with powerful shoulders beneath his shoddy leather armor. The pale skin of his heavily muscled arms had burned browny-red under the bright sun. His black hair stood up straight in a rather robust crested hairstyle, wild, golden eyes underneath giving him a somewhat otherworldly appearance.
But not of the flattering sort.
“My men and I, we’re as strong as they come,” the man went on, not waiting for an acknowledgement of any sort, “but we’re not so great when it comes to magic. Well, one of us is a bit good at everything but, you know, only a bit. When it comes to whatever that… thing was, we’re in some trouble.”
“Hence the assistance.”
The response seemed to confuse the man, rendering him more than a bit nervous. “We’re happy to pay you for that, if you want, even though you didn’t ask so I figured…”
“That’s unnecessary. I did it to help those in need. I have prior experience with such a creature.”
“Yeah! What a glorious struggle! That’s why I was hoping that maybe you wanted to join up with us!”
A startled pause. “That will be impossible. I have other plans.”
“And what are those?” the young man leaned his head forward, getting into space that did not belong to him.
“I’m making my way to the City to expand on my training. I can no longer improve without a magister’s instruction.”
“You’re self-taught?? How can you be so good? Well anyway, we’re heading that way too! Why don’t you just travel with us? Don’t gotta join up or anything, just walk along. You’ve gotta be out of magic for a while after all those fireballs anyway. Couple of us are great cooks, and I can sing a song or two, if I have a mind. We can watch you spar! Tell you where you can improve, maybe...”
The statement, especially its knowing tone, was incredibly arrogant coming from a non-magic user. It was also manipulative in the feeblest of ways.
But it was an offer he’d be unwise to refuse.
“That would be valuable. I shall join until the City, and I will do my best to fight at your side until then.”
The man’s pupils grew tiny, then blew out enormously.
“Really? Let me tell you, guy you will not regret it! Oh, I’m Bokuto by the way. Koutarou Bokuto!”
“Akaashi,” they shook hands. He’d never seen a happier person in his life, “Keiji Akaashi.”
“I don’t know what in seven hells you want me to say, you scrawny bastard,” the blacksmith leered, swinging his hammer just for the sake of hitting the anvil. “How much have you eaten in the past forty years? A loaf of bread, looks like.”
Ignoring the unnecessary and inaccurate jab at his slender appearance, Akaashi made a second attempt, much more annoyed than the first. “I apologize, Master Kuroo, but Lord Bokuto has been given no other option. He will not allow me a moment to explain, so I must ask for your aid. Also,” his face lightened considerably, “I was hoping I might speak to the Vidis.”
There was no immediate answer. In the silence, a deeper glance at the blacksmith revealed sunken eyes, ragged clothes, and hair much more frazzled than normal. The sparse condition of both the forge and the house, previously observed but not at all considered, thrust a leaden weight on Akaashi’s chest.
He’d missed the signs due to his own urgency and exhaustion.
“He’s gone,” Kuroo’s voice was hoarse as he sat down on a pile of firewood. “Past winter. You know, he was ancient for what he was, usually their minds get eaten up after forty seasons. We had a lot of good years. I’m… I’m grateful,” the crack in his voice was painful almost beyond what Akaashi believed he could stand.
But he said nothing as the blacksmith reigned in his own grief.
“Left something for you, he did,” Kuroo slapped his knees and stood after some minutes. “It’s in the house, in his garden room. Can’t miss the spot or what he left. One of the few things still around. The spring dried up day after he passed. All his flowers withered.”
Akaashi nodded then bowed his head deeply, “I am sorry. He was dear to me…” He nearly added in the small way I was allotted but this was not the City. Such courtesy, brutally honest though it might also be, would not be received well coming from someone who had communicated only through letters.
He turned to go, only to be stopped at the doorway by some parting words.
“I know why you did it, Akaashi,” Kuroo called to his back. “He and I both did. There’s only one reason makes sense. But I won’t forgive you till Bo does and that well might be never.”
It was impossible to argue with such rhetoric.
“Well who’s this lovely lady you’ve brought me, Bo?”
The man was tall, with bizarre hair drooping over one eye. He smelled like smoke and metal, making his occupation rather obvious. Akaashi had no idea why people consistently misinterpreted his gender, but at least this man was jovial rather than predatory.
A strong arm wrapped around his shoulder and yanked him unwillingly back into an unforgiving leather surface.
“Akaashi’s not a girl. He just has nice hair! It’s long and luxurious and I like it. And he’s our new mage, so you’d better be nice.”
He was not a mage.
“Please don’t make a fuss, Kuro,” a soft voice said immediately preceding a pale, almost luminous person sliding around the blacksmith’s side. His dark-rooted golden hair was covered in trailing vines. Blossoms of sweet pea snarled the otherwise straight strands into twists, green pods peeking out from behind the gold. His eyes were like lamps, and in them Akaashi could see swirling images of his father. Or was that himself? Whoever it was looked so old…
“Vidis,” he dropped to one knee, painfully aware that he had no idea of the proper form of address to an individual gifted with such rare abilities. “It is an honor to meet you.”
The slight man lifted his head and gave him a look full of incredulous embarrassment.
“Don’t do that. Call me Kenma”
The house when he entered was soaked in an echo of warm contentment so recent it might nearly be grasped. But it could not be touched. In its place was misery, not to mention neglect, made all the more painful in the wake of such happiness. Kuroo had been a tidy man in his youth. This could not be his preferred style of living.
Unable to immediately address whatever it was that his friend had left for him, Akaashi set to help in what small ways he could. He dusted the house, then washed the plates and cups scattered on the table, summoning water with an uninspired cut to his forearm, beginner’s magic. The week-long trip shortened to four days through a complicated casting on both himself and his horse had wearied him to the point of needing covenants for incredibly minor spellwork.
Perhaps that’s the point, he thought bitterly.
He’d considered washing Kuroo’s clothing, or filling the house with eternally blooming versions of the flowers that had been drawn to Kenma wherever he went. In the end, he stopped himself. Grief was inconstant, an unpredictable companion. He could not risk breaking a man’s heart even further through a poorly executed act of sympathy.
At least the plants in the house were still alive. Certainly through Kuroo’s efforts, now that Kenma’s mere existence was not enough to keep them thriving. They filled a room that was bathed in light. The sun shone through expensive glass panes that made up an entire wall. There Akaashi was certain Kenma had spent hours upon hours playing silly games to fight off the indecipherable visions which plagued him in his mounting years. He had seen the passing of many vidis, and what was done to cope as the time neared. It was a quiet, sleepy death. And a painless one, if the visions could be avoided.
But as he sat in Kenma’s chair and shuddered out his own stingy tears, it seemed less painless than he had once thought.
He allowed himself exactly three minutes of grief, which was generous. He let go of the rest, forcing the cathartic moment out of himself and into the world. The denial of grief, the refusal of the possibility of comfort and above all, the pain left in its stead, would make a powerful covenant. It would rejuvenate his deprived stores of magic for the journey ahead. But Akaashi released the opportunity. The pain shifted into magic of its own wont and, unclaimed, scattered through the room, burrowing deep in the plants and other delicate things.
It also caught in his hair.
He stood up, leaning on the bone-bleached wood of his staff more than he’d needed the day before. He no longer had a firm concept of what was travel exhaustion and what was age. Before this journey, he had been astoundingly fit for someone a year short of sixty seasons, easily besting his students in competition, running two leagues a day to maintain physical endurance and increase his capacity to hold and create his own magic. His hair had only turned truly silver at his temples, light salting the dark elsewhere in a combination many ambitious courtesans claimed to find distinguished and attractive. Its texture even hid the fact that it had been thinning on top for at least twenty years.
There was no point in entertaining such vanity, considering the task he’d been charged to complete.
He scanned the room and it took no time at all to find the smallish box, carved with rough but charming flowers. The lid opened smoothly, revealing the fresh scent of sawdust. The carving was rough enough to lack professionalism, but fine enough to show the skill of a practiced hobby. He had no idea who had picked up this pastime. Kenma? Kuroo?
Bokuto?
Though everything about the world and his experience insisted otherwise, he told himself it was one of the villagers, probably a busty woman with large muscles and a beautiful laugh. With this lie firmly clasped in his soul, he focused on the contents of the box:
A large sphere of lapis lazuli.
A dried peapod, the buttery color of leather indicating its age.
A small bit of folded parchment crumbling at the corners.
These contents had been assembled decades ago.
He gently unfolded the parchment, making no sense of its contents. Despite lacking the haughty mysticism and drama of peers such as the City’s histrionic Gardener, Kenma’s visions were just as nonsensical. They only became useful when the foretold event was imminent.
Putting the thoughts of seers aside, he held the heavy lapis in his hands, the color of the stone bringing out the blue of the veins under his paper-thin skin. The gem was good quality, he could feel the conduits and focal points of power humming underneath his fingertips. Removing the peerless boulder opal he had received from his son on his fiftieth birthday, he pushed the gem into the perfect circle at the top of the staff where it fit with no magical adjustment necessary.
Protection. Truthfulness. Moving forward from past ills.
As if he deserved such a thing.
Not to mention more control over water, which had always been his weak point.
He left the opal in the magic-soaked garden room. Perhaps the power of creation it generated would find Kuroo, giving him inspiration to immerse himself in his work, granting him distraction until the grief of loss had eased.
Such things worked, for a time.
“I need a better axe, Kuroo.” Bokuto’s mouth was full as he spoke. He ate with the sloppy inefficiency of someone who had never been hungry enough to cherish every crumb.
The blacksmith tried to flick his hair back, and failed dreadfully, instead spraying the entire table with the foam from his beer.
“I made the axe you have. Why ask for another?”
“You made this axe and a dozen others in the same day! I want a good one! We’re on a qu–”
A large hand covered his face. “We’re in a tavern,” Washio grunted before letting go.
“He wants something nonstandard,” Komi twirled a knife on the tip of his finger. “For–”
Konoha’s hand slapped over his companion's mouth and the spinning knife stuck in the scarred wood of the table.
"Mister, Bokuto wants to cut down some enormous trees.”
“And not catch on fire in the process,” Sarukui added.
Scanning the room, the blacksmith leaned in angrily, “I’m not gonna make something that’s just gonna get you killed. It’s bad enough if you get caught by the Garrison.”
Akaashi’s look of concern was apparently more visible than he wanted because Kuroo stared straight at him.
“Did you tell your new friend about your history, Bo? How you and me ran off?”
“We didn’t run off! That’s what cowards do! We jus weren’t about to kill some kids in that village, is all.”
“Desertion is still desertion in the eyes of the law,” Akaashi said, checking again to make certain his rough staff was still at the end of the table. Bokuto gaped at him as though his pragmatic acknowledgement of the City’s laws were somehow the deepest betrayal.
“Kuro,” a small voice spoke, resonating through the rowdy tavern and somehow reducing the level of noise. Kuroo turned, and behind him was the small Vidis, the day’s growth of plants twining down his ears and around his neck like precious jewels.
“Yes, pussycat?” the rough man asked in the sweetest voice Akaashi had ever heard one man direct to another. A blush bloomed on the Vidis’ cheeks at the term of endearment. Something that no one else seemed to notice, or at least acknowledge.
“Not now,” Kenma sighed with irritation. Then his voice, his posture, his everything changed altogether. The sweet peas in his hair visibly grew, their pods heavy with seeds. His tawny hazel eyes glowed gold. He stood up straight.
“Make Bokuto an axe, Tetsurou,” he murmured matter-of-factly, very much unlike Akaashi expected a seer to sound. “It will be the second most magnificent thing you will ever make.”
His posture fell, his flowers calmed, and his eyes retreated to a more natural color. The sound of the tavern swelled once more.
“Keiji,” he said after a long pause, “I was hoping we might spend some time together.”
The eavesdropping had not been intentional at first.
But his life in the City had taught strict attentiveness to overheard conversations. Akaashi, who felt he still had some sense of rural propriety, made no effort to hide himself. He simply stood where he had been standing outside the forge. It was not his fault he could overhear a loud private conversation. And it had to be extremely loud because according to people who should have better things to talk about, his hearing wasn’t as good as it had once been.
“Look, Bo,” Kuroo sighed on the edge of rage. “If you don’t go the Guardian’s gonna kill you. He’s gonna kill both of you. This isn’t a summons you can run from.”
“Nah,” Bokuto slurred, much drunker than he was before, “Kaashi, ee’s ‘portant. Too ‘portant ta come back here, ‘nless he wants somefin. Ee s’not gonna get killt. Yer a fool ta listn…”
There was the sound of a scuffle.
“Do you think this is what I’d have for myself?” Kuroo growled. “Losing Ken, then losing my best friend to some quest he’s got a snowflake's chance to come back from? Damnit, you ass, I wouldn’t tell you to go unless there weren’t a single other choice!”
“mm jus’ run ‘way.”
“Akaashi could find you anywhere in the known world. The two of you are lin–”
“He wouldn’t,” Bokuto’s anger brought him closer to coherency. “Not if I said no. He’s a lot o’ fings, but he ain’t that.”
There was a sound of something falling, probably Bokuto as he tried unsuccessfully to sit down. Or maybe it was something tight and miserable in Akaashi’s soul smashing itself to pieces.
“Probably not,” Kuroo sighed, “but they’d torture him to death trying to find out. He’s not as scrawny as he looks, he’d last a good long time.”
It was unfortunate that the blacksmith was not exaggerating.
“Wha?” Bokuto’s voice was much rougher than Akaashi remembered, but the tinge of vulnerability could have been from his twenty-year-old self.
“Do you need me to carve it into the wall? This damn quest will probably kill you, but if you don’t go, the City’ll definitely kill you. If you run, they’ll kill him, but not till he’s not a person anymore. He has people too. Sure, they won’t touch nobility, but they don’t care about commonfolk. He has two little sisters, no? They probably have grandbabies now.”
Akaashi felt sick.
“Damn,” Bokuto spat.
“You know how I feel about the City, Bo, but Kenma always said no, leave em be, so I never did much of anything. Just had some chats, here and there. Sowed unrest where I could.”
“You spect me to do sumfin about it?”
“Only if you win.” Akaashi could hear the smirk in Kuroo’s voice through the wall.
“Fine,” Bokuto said after a long sigh. “If I gotta die, might ‘s well not be wiv his death on my conscience. But I need you ta fix my axe. I uh… broke it.”
“I dunno if notching it all to hell when you chopped up a statue of her Ladyship counts, but I won’t fix it.”
“Then how the fuck am I s’posed to fight?”
There was a long pause, and Akaashi was certain that Kuroo was doing something smug and ridiculous.
“Give me two weeks, and I’ll make you somethin’ that might just keep you alive.”
The next two weeks looked to be the most awkward of Akaashi’s fifty-nine years.
That night he returned to the small spot on the edge of the village where he had left his horse to set up the tent he’d been provided. He did it manually, to keep his joints limber and his magic on reserve. Or so he assured himself. Really it was more than that. Exhausted as he was, he’d have to walk through town stark naked, break a toe, or worse to forge a covenant strong enough to put everything together. He decided walking on a whole foot with his pride intact was more important than his weary limbs. His joints protested decision strongly when he finally found his bedroll.
Bokuto came to him the next morning. Early. He had always been an early riser.
He was hungover. His eyes were red and the fine wrinkles under them had puffed into heavy bags. Akaashi crawled out of his tent when he heard him obnoxiously clearing his throat. The movement gave the impression of his being much more lithe and limber than his joints generally allowed.
The fog of late summer twined around their feet and the surrounding hillside. No one else in the world seemed to be alive.
“Why do you wanna do this?” Bokuto grunted, looking everywhere but at Akaashi, exposed as he was in nothing but the long linen shirt he had slept in.
As though his saggy knees were scandalous.
“Because,” Akaashi’s back was straight, but behind it his fingers worried against each other, “I do not wish to see you killed.”
“Me?” Bokuto’s eyebrows had a lot more forehead to cross as they ascended to his hairline. “Ya don’t talk to me for forty years and it’s me yer worried about?”
Akaashi did not respond.
“Damn you and your secrets!” Bokuto snarled. “It don’t matter, d’rather risk the chance of dyin’ than getting’ killed outright.”
“Then we have an agreement.”
“The beginnings of one, but I need new gear. Kuroo can’t get a piece finished for two weeks. Says he’s invented some fancy river steel that won’t break. Need new leathers too and,” his voice dropped into an embarrassed grunt, “I gotta get used ta not havin’ beer. Wanna work some other stuff out before then too. Rules.”
“I’m comfortable with any boundaries you require. And I can send a bird to the City. Though I believe there is no immediate urgency surrounding our likely deaths.”
“Glad ta hear ya admit that’s what this is about.”
“I’ve never denied it, Lord Bokuto.”
“Yeah?” he looked up for the first time, just to make eye contact before falling into an exaggerated bow, “Well, Lord Magister Akaashi, Consort of Her Ladyship, I s’pose since you outrank most everybody in the realm, includin' me, you’re the one who'd know best.”
Having delivered Akaashi’s title flawlessly, he stood up and spat, close enough to be insulting, but far enough to be hygienic.
Akaashi swallowed down the bile in his throat. It burned.
“You’re self-taught,” Kenma said, rather than asked. He moved his red piece across the board, taking nearly all of Akaashi’s blacks. Which was not that impressive since he had absolutely no idea how to play the game.
They were sitting in a pleasant room, a small window of actual glass providing light to the small collection of plants that had been brought indoors. Akaashi had never seen glass before. It was amazing.
“I was gifted with magic, and my family saw fit to send me to the City to train.”
Kenma shook out his flowers and then lifted his eyes, “Your clothes are poor. Your staff was cut in the summer. The stone inside it is nearly worthless. But you took down a monster anyway. Gifted is an understatement, but your family could not send you anywhere.”
His insinuation of poverty was not subtle.
“My parents insisted I go, despite my protests. My family struggles during the harvest. They needed my help. I did not leave willingly.”
Kenma hummed, “Neither did I, when the flowers came.”
Vidis were beyond rare, and considered a blessing to a family. What’s more, their powers manifested very young. To cast away a young child destined for renown was nearly inconceivable and spoke of idiotic cruelty. Luckily Akaashi was well-practiced in keeping his expressions under control, or his horror would have been obvious.
“I am sorry,” he bowed.
“No need. That is how I found Kuro and here we are. Just as you have found people of your own.”
There was a quiet pause as Akaashi moved his pieces. “Are you and he…?”
Kenma looked up from the curtains of his hair, surprised. “Many don’t seem to realize. Call us stubborn bachelors. Even Bokuto does, though he visits often and sees only one bed. You are smart.”
“To say I am smarter than him is not to say much,” Akaashi quipped.
He expected Kenma to laugh, but instead he yawned.
“Conversation is tiresome. But I’m curious about you. So I will trade you: runes for gossip and a promise that one day you will come back to this town.”
“Return? When? And how did you know I can’t read?”
“It’s obvious. As to when? I have no idea. Just come back.”
Akaashi spent the remaining days preparing his body and mind for the laughably impossible task that awaited them. Around him the village was abuzz with activity, its inhabitants working together to gather the materials to make Kuroo’s “river steel,” an alloy that Akaashi had neither seen nor heard of.
The villagers were kind to their unexpected guest; kinder indeed than his past acquaintances. None more so than a small, dark-haired, young man who worked as the baker’s apprentice. Not quite so young, perhaps, but young enough. In the later afternoons, Akaashi would catch him surreptitiously watching as he meditated or read. After days of this, he asked if he would like to join him.
The young man was nothing like his son, though they were about the same age. He had neither astounding talent nor an unquenchable thirst for improvement. But he also lacked arrogance and the naïve fragility that came with a privileged upbringing in the High Estates. Altogether, Shibayama, was kind and eager, his magic a quiet delight. He was more than happy to pick up whatever scraps of lore Akaashi had the time to share.
And Akaashi found that Shibayama gave back, in his own way.
They were sitting on the grass, the runes for various concepts drawn into the dirt, and Shibayama chattered as he copied them over and over so as to commit them to memory. He shared the village talk, generally about people of whom Akaashi had no knowledge.
Generally.
“Lord Bokuto… nah, but doesn’t like to be called that. Lord of what? he says I never lorded anything! He’s never been quite… right, ya know? I wasn’t even born yet, he showed up ten years afore me. But I heard he was so wild at first that only Master Kuroo and the Vidis could handle him. Drank so much Master Kai wouldn’t let him near his brew for a whole year. And the women.”
“There were many?” Akaashi found himself asking, as though he didn’t already know the answer.
“Always! I remember, even when I was a kid, and still now every once and again. Mostly travelers, and ya never saw em again. Cept one, but they seemed more like drinkin buddies than aught else.”
“I see.”
“But, Lord Magister…”
The title felt like shackles around his feet. “Please. Akaashi is fine.”
The young man made an uncomfortable face. “But, sir, you know when you see a person, who’s kinda… ya just know he’s happy? That’s who he is at heart? A sunshiny sorta fella?”
“Yes, Shibayama, I do.”
“Well Lord Bokuto’s like that, I know he is. And I’ve seen ‘im smile plenty when he’s drunk or when he’s goin ta be with a woman. But sir, he ain’t never smiled with his whole face.”
Dark eyes turned to Akaashi with a desperate urgency.
“I dunno what this quest is about, sir, but please don’t let him die jus’ yet.”
Taking “the second-best thing he’d ever make” to mean the maximum reach of his current skill level, Kuroo toiled at the forge under the watchful eye of his master, a constantly-laughing man named Nekomata.
In between his reading lessons (for indeed, he could barely read at all), Akaashi and his teacher played more checkers. The Vidis had tried to teach him chess, but Akaashi spent too much time agonizing over strategy for their games to get far.
Checkers was fine, although they were both terribly sore losers.
Or at least Akaashi was. Kenma had yet to lose, though it was fairly obvious he would not enjoy the experience.
“Tell me how you met Bokuto,” the unassuming man softy demanded.
Akaashi had to hold back his chuckle at the memory. “His band had been set upon by a creature. Bokuto was running around in circles chasing something that wasn’t there, while his men drooled nearby. It would have been funny if the thing hadn’t been about to kill them.”
“What was it?”
“I… well, I don’t really know the names of magical nightmares. Just names that I made up. There were several of this type that lurked in the fields back home. They came out at night. I called them clappers, because of the noise they made with these strange flaps on their necks.”
“And you knew how to stop them?” Kenma’s voice was faint, almost quieter than the greeny sound of the stems and blossoms as they gently grew through his hair.
“One took my sister once. That was when we discovered my magic. I was ten, and sent out a blast of purple fire that destroyed everything in a thirty-foot radius. Including her foot, which had to be cut off. Now she walks lame with a special shoe.”
“But alive,” Kenma cut off his self-loathing.
“Keep Bokuto alive as well," he added, a command. "Kuro cares for him, even though he is too loud.”
Kuroo worked without stopping. His lanky apprentice was always with him, and by the sounds of things, nearly always underfoot. The baker, a small, angry, red-haired man, brought them food: loaves from his oven and preserved meats from the butcher. Based on the amount of noisy bickering that came with his arrival, Kuroo was generally uninterested in eating, though he seemed to accept refreshment the serene brewmaster brought without protest.
Metalworking magic was not even remotely Akaashi’s specialty. His fire was no the right fire, and any attempt to cast it would drain him to a degree that would make travel difficult. But he offered his assistance anyway. It was immediately rejected, and he found himself pushed out of the forge by the overeager apprentice. The silver-haired young man babbled on about magical impurities in the process, which sounded contrived at best.
During all this, Bokuto was nowhere to be found.
With his rather unexpected free time, Akaashi wrote letters to his son, his wife, and other important people in the City. He sent them by bird, all to the same man, the only one whose letter was to be read immediately. The response came quicker than anticipated. The speed smacked of worry and desperation.
Keiji,
I have said before and I will say again that this is an insane venture. One I understand you cannot avoid but I protest regardless. Obviously I am protesting to the wrong man, but I have always been somewhat of a coward and I do not wish to die by protesting to the right one.
Your family both close and extended is well, for good and for ill. The Guardian’s mind grows softer by the day, and he is pleased to simply wander the fields around the estates, tending to animals as though he were a simple farmer. The Master of the House does his best to care for him. Luckily he is a clever, but even the most exasperating of men are not immune to the ravages of age and Tendou is growing very slow on his feet.
Your brother-in-law does not seem aware of our friendship, so my head and position seem secure. Not that many vie for the Master Librarian’s job. Lore is a thankless profession. But I am happy as one unfit for battle to serve those who carry sword.
Or in your case, an axe. How is that? Don’t pretend I don’t know how cruel this all is for both parties. Please do not sacrifice yourself needlessly for his sake. I do not think he would want that, because I am certain you would not.
I have your letters to your family both in the City and in Goldenfields. They will be distributed if the stone you left alerts me of your passing. Rest assured that I will smash it to pieces if it does so.
Telling you to be careful is a pointless venture. You have been sent on a death mission and being careful is how you will fulfill it. Be fast, Keiji. Be brave and be smart. Push yourself to the absolute limit. The two of you are unstoppable together. I should know, I chronicled your adventures myself.
Also, after eating my wife’s mutton pasties last month you owe me midday meal. I expect recompense upon your return.
-
Ennoshita, Master Librarian of the CityChikara
The night before their assumed departure, it rained so heavily Akaashi's tent caved in. Unwilling to waste magic, his strength, or his store of secrets, he sought refuge in the hot forge, where Kuroo was still working. He was immediately expelled by the blacksmith himself.
"It'll be finished tomorrow. Won't have you ruining it trying to make it better," Kuroo's eyes were pits in the flickering light of the fires and he swayed on the verge of collapse. "Sleep in the house like I told you from the beginning. Dry yourself or you’ll catch a chill. And take whatever bed you like, it's all the same to me."
Akaashi did not sleep. He did not do anything but sit, shivering, next to a stack of towels placed on the edge of a second bed. A bed he was certain existed for one person and one person alone. He did not expect that person to arrive, dripping, in the doorway as if he didn’t have his own home.
They were both drenched beyond what was healthy, but Boktuo did something about it first.
"We have ta have some rules," he growled, beginning to strip off his soaked clothing.
"Of course, Lord Bokuto," Akaashi folded his hands.
This was a twisted mockery of a scene that should have taken place a long time ago. Stripping. A bed. Deep unfulfilled desires.
"The first rule:" Bokuto threw his leather overshirt against the wall where it hit with the same smack a human body might make, "don't use your mind games ta get what you want from me."
"Not even to save your life?"
"I can save my own life!" he lifted his thick wool undershirt over his head and hung it on the bed's footboard. "I’m not a boy anymore. I know you’re clever, more than me, more than anybody. Tell me what to do, and I'll listen, but if you ever trick me again I’ll leave us both to die."
I have never tricked you, hung on Akaashi’s lips, but he pulled back the words.
"I understand, Lord Bokuto."
"The second," he stripped off his trousers, and was now in nothing but soaked breeches, "stop calling me ‘Lord.’ I want a title from them ‘bout as much as I want the clap again. Just Bokuto. Or... whatever you want, it doesn't matter, just not that."
"Fair enough... Bokuto.” Seeing there really was no need to hold back, Akaashi stripped off his own jacket and vest, leaving him in a soaked linen undershirt sticking uncomfortably to his skin. It was even colder than before. It would be best to strip completely and get under blankets.
"Don't wanna see you naked," Bokuto muttered.
The hypocrisy of such a thing coming from a man in his nothing but his drenched, clinging near-transparent breeches was infuriating.
"I will do my best to preserve your modesty."
"And I don't wanna talk about–”
"Neither do I."
There was a heavy pause steeped in the smell of wet clothing.
"I want you to kill me if somethin’ goes south and your precious Guardian comes after us." Bokuto seemed to have given up his enumeration of his requirements. This was the fifth.
"I will cast a spell on our departure that will do so in a manner that doesn't suggest suicide. Otherwise they might come after our loved ones–"
"I don't wanna hear about your beautiful wife," Bokuto snapped, brittle and dry.
"I have no interest in talking to you about her," Akaashi couldn't catch himself before he snapped back.
The silence was humid.
"And if you sacrifice yourself for me, I'll off myself outta spite. Don’t want your charity."
Akaashi stood up ramrod straight, voice cold as he thrust a towel into Bokuto’s hands. "I expect you'll allow me the same courtesy."
Bokuto reached for the towel and started to chuckle as he dried under his arms.
“Not that it matters. We’re both good as dead anyway.”
“Don’t hurt him.”
Akaashi recognized the voice, but he did not recognize the reason. Kuroo sat down next to him on the grassy hill at the edge of town where he’d been trying to read the book on magical covenants that Kenma had given him.
“There’s a lot Bo doesn’t understand about himself just yet. Doesn’t even realize what me n Kenma are. Though you did. Wonder what that says about you.”
“There is nothing wrong with my proclivities, nor yours.”
“Now, now, no need to get offended. I’m just saying that Bokuto gets fixated on things sometimes. He’s never gotten fixated on a person before, though. So, you know, you’re kind of spec–”
“Bokuto has entertained four different women during the week we’ve been here. Two of them at the same time. One of them he is currently bedding. He is not fixated on me.”
Kuroo put his hand on his shoulder and squeezed, “You’re probably right, Akaashi. But have you noticed every single one of those pretty ladies had dark blue eyes and curly black hair? Kinda similar... don’t think it was possible to get it perfectly right, though. Only one in this town with eyes like yours is my old master, and I don’t think old fellers is Bokuto’s type.”
Akaashi stiffened.
“Course,” Kuroo pressed into Akaashi's shoulder to push himself up, “I don’t think Bo’s noticed yet himself. Be gentle with his sensitive heart, you pretty little genius. But maybe once he sees my axe he won’t be thinkin’ of you no more…”
Akaashi had no idea what he’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been a battleaxe made of water. The name river steel made perfect sense now. The metal looked liquid, running in undulations across the flat surface of the head until it was sliced and sharpened into a wicked curve of a blade, glittering keen edge bowing from hook to hook on both side of the double ax head. It was topped with a spearhead, in case, for some reason, the blades were not enough. The haft was black wood, unstained, and darkened by fire. The bottom section was wrapped in golden leather and pure white thread.
“See something you like?” the blacksmith leered, though he didn’t take his eyes off of Bokuto who was staring at it almost like he was staring at a lover.
“This is a masterpiece,” Akaashi breathed. “I doubt anyone could improve on it.”
Kuroo’s looked at him with a deep, deep sadness. His bluster was gone and his voice creaked when he finally responded.
“Best thing I’ve ever made in my life, just like he said. Might as well give up and let Lev take over.”
Reaching out for the haft and sinking his fingers into the grip, Bokuto swung the weapon over his shoulders.
“Doesn’t matter what it looks like if it don’t cut,” he growled.
He led them out of town, not just Kuroo, Akaashi, and the blacksmith’s apprentice, but the entire population of Catseye who gazed at the weapon as though it were a long-awaited newborn.
They stopped in front of a tall tree of quite modest thickness. But there had to be something about it because all around it axe hafts and shafts, some completely broken in half, littered the ground. The marks from their blows scarred the bark, but went no further into the wood.
“Axebreaker,” Lev said, his accented voice filled with unasked for reverence.
Bokuto was running his fingers across the ripples of steel. The axe had no adornment, unlike his previous weapon which Kuroo had decorated with an assortment of claws.
This one had no need of enhancement.
Pulling back the blade, Bokuto kicked up his leg and held his foot against the bole of the tree, as though he were testing it. Then he dropped his hip and swung with an easy powerful grace that Akaashi’s found still took his breath away.
He expected it would take approximately three wedges to bring down the tree.
It took a single swing.
The crowd scattered frantically as the tree fell towards them, most getting out of the way in time, but a mother with young child in arms was still scrambling, likely to be caught in the branches with scrapes or worse.
“Bokuto, you looked magnificent,” Akaashi confessed, feeling an immediate swell of magic, more than he could hold for long. Within the same instant he summoned a wind strong enough to push the tree towards an unoccupied area.
The villagers gasped and cheered, small children mobbing him and tugging at his long grey cloak.
But he only had eyes for Bokuto, who was looking back at him with a confounding assortment of emotions. His face was flushed with delight, his eyes open in shock, and his mouth turned down in rage.
“Don’t need you to tell me when I look good. Specially not just to get a bit of power.”
“So wait, hurtin’ yourself and all that shit isn’t some kind of blood magic?”
Akaashi shook his head, trying to point out the drawings in the precious book Kenma had given him. To take with them when they left in the morning. To have forever. Admittedly, the illustrations made only vague sense to him, let alone someone who had no real understanding of magic. But they were all he had.
“Covenants are made through pain and sacrifice. Most mages simply hurt themselves, because it is the most obvious. The stronger the injury, the more power. But the downside of this is once the injury is made, it cannot be healed magically – only over time. To do so would cause ten times the agony to fall back on the caster.”
Bokuto looked horrified, and about to protest, but Akaashi cut him off.
“But there are other ways to give things up. Telling secrets or confessing private information. Holding back tears of mourning or not allowing friends to share long-anticipated joy. Abstaining from sex, spirits, rich foods, or many other pleasures all work for a time, though their returns diminish with each passing day. Leaving reciprocated love unrequited seems to be one of the most powerful.”
“So just doing things you don’t wanna do?” Bokuto scratched his head.
“It is more complicated than that,” Akaashi mused, turning the page. “There has to be longing, or humiliation, or some other deep emotion tied to the act. Beyond simply not wanting to make the covenant, it must ache deeply to make the choice to do so. It seems to most work for those who experience profound emotion.”
“Isn’t that gonna be tough for you then?”
“What?
“You’re just so calm, yaknow? Didn’t think you got wild feelings or anything.”
Akaashi closed the book firmly. “Perhaps. But there is much you don’t know about me.”