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Kamina is only five years old when he stumbles and falls out of the ancient tunnel. He doesn't know how long he wandered in the dark -- alone, because he was too scared to go with his dad -- and won't understand until years later how it would come to define him. How it would be used against him. Right now he only understands that the first light to hit his eyes in hours is soft blue, not blazing crimson, and that he has finally made it back to Jiha.
His father is gone. The adults questioning him nod their heads sympathetically, they think they understand. They don’t understand anything. They don’t believe him about the Surface, the red, red light drenching unimaginable distances, the air whipping against his skin and fluttering Dad’s cape, the ceiling so high up and bright it hurt his eyes. His father has left, but Kamina knows he’s still alive. He doesn't attend the rites of the dead, there’s no point because his dad isn’t dead. The small ceremony ends, and Kamina does not cry.
The Chief comes for him some time later. He leads Kamina away from the herbalist alcove by the hand and up the curving ramp to his new home. Kamina has no one left to claim him, his care now falls to the Chief himself.
The orphan barrack lies directly beneath the Chief’s apartment. For now it’s mostly empty, the village has been lucky in recent years. Kamina finds an unoccupied cot in a corner, curls up under the rough, thin blanket, and misses the warmth of his dad sleeping beside him.
-
He’s questioned about what happened a lot. By different people, for different reasons. He tells them all the same thing, the surest truth in his whole world. There’s something above the rock and soil, something above the ceiling, and his dad is still alive. The questioners shake their heads in disappointment and tell him the Surface isn’t real.
The same few people ask him every day. Where did your father take you? Do you know where his body is? We just want to know the truth, they say. Kamina only has the one answer to give.
Kamina is five years old when he’s shoved to the ground by an older boy and told the village doesnt need liars like him or his father. When he’s told he should have done the smart thing and died in the caves. The other boy kicks him in the ribs when he tries to reply.
The Chief breaks things up soon enough, but sends the other boy on his way and tells Kamina off for starting fights. Telling the truth, that he hadn’t done anything, only gets him punished for lying.
It happens again weeks later, a different boy and a clumsily blocked punch that leaves a bruise on Kamina’s forearms. Again, the other boy is sent away and Kamina is punished for starting fights.
The third time it happens, Kamina doesn’t bother to explain himself to the Chief.
He tries to run, sometimes. When he sees a kid bigger than him and meaner than him heading his way. It never works. Jiha isn’t large, there are only so many hiding places. When he’s found, and he’s always found sooner or later, he’s left with more bruises than usual.
He treats the bruises and scrapes himself, with small clumsy hands and silent, hiccupped sobs. No one is there to wipe away his tears.
Kamina is seven years old when he is put to work. There are chores that need doing, and his are idle hands that need correcting. The few orphan girls who share the barrack spend their days sewing and mending clothes and preparing meals. Kamina envies them when he at last returns to his cot each day, after hours of cleaning pigmole pens and hauling water to the troughs from the central spring. In the morning he’s berated by the Chief for his shoddy work in front of the others, the pens are never clean enough, the troughs not filled fast enough, the feed not distributed evenly enough. It only takes a few days for Kamina to begin expecting the swing of the Chief’s sheathed sword. He’s whacked with the flat of it, on his upper arm or his thigh, and told to do better. He always tries to do better.
He makes the mistake of dodging the blow only once. It’s his first night in the lockup, and the pitch blackness after lights out reminds him too much of the tunnels that brought him back to Jiha and the hours upon hours he spent lost and terrified and so utterly alone. But even back in the village, surrounded by people, he never stopped feeling alone.
The few others in the barrack keep their distance, fearing the Chief’s wrath may fall on them as well, or simply not wanting anything to do with the liar’s son. The adults try to hide it, they lower their voices when he passes by -- two buckets of water slung over his shoulders for the pigmoles -- but he hears it anyway. It’s what they all call him when they think he can’t hear. The Liar’s Son. Kamina remembers that his father used to be respected, or maybe he only made that up to make himself feel better and believed his own lie. It doesn’t matter now, no one respects his father anymore.
At night, curled up alone on his cot, he dreams of his dad. He feels the warm sandy rock beneath his feet, and the rough calloused hand holding his. In the dream, he says yes. He steps forward, not back, and follows beside the ragged cape fluttering like fire as they leave the cave entrance far behind them. When he stumbles and begins to fall, strong hands catch him instantly. His dad’s words are lost to the dream, but the tone is warm and reassuring. Kamina grins up at his dad. In the dream it feels so natural, when he wakes he won’t remember the last time he really smiled.
Kamina is ten years old -- maybe, he stopped bothering with birthdays years ago -- when the Chief at last finds something commendable in his previous day’s work. Kamina is tensed for the smack of the sword, having long since tuned out the specifics of the daily scolding, but a warm hand lands roughly on his shoulder instead.
“You did well yesterday, Kamina.”
His breath shudders and stops, too shocked by the sudden warmth and comfort to string words together. He looks up into the smiling face of the Chief, and leans in to the touch. The hand leaves, and Kamina has to choke back a sob. The skin of his shoulder tingles and aches for more.
The chief sends him off to his chores with a pat on the back. Kamina throws himself into his tasks, striving as always for perfection. He needs that contact again, that. . . ‘ affection ’, some long dormant part of his mind supplies helpfully. That sounds right. Affection, like food or water, a hunger he hadn’t even noticed until now.
The promise of a fleeting brush of warmth is far better motivation than the threat of more bruises.
The next morning, the Chief rewards Kamina again. The hand on his shoulder lingers a moment longer. Kamina wishes it would never pull away.
He still messes up sometimes, and the smacks are well deserved because he should have tried harder and done better and it’s his own damn fault for being worthless, but more often than not he’s greeted in the morning with a smile and a compliment. On those days he feels lighter than he has in years, and he almost doesn't mind getting covered in pigmole filth or the deep ache in his shoulders if it means he’ll get a pat on the back or a kind word the next morning.
Some days the Chief stops by the pigmole enclosures while Kamina is working. He pats Kamina on the back, or ruffles his hair, and tells him there’s an especially juicy pigmole steak waiting for him at dinner. A special reward when Kamina’s gone several days without messing up. On those days he gets to sit next to the Chief in the village mess hall for supper. The Chief will drape an arm over his shoulders and pull him in close and tell him how well he’s been doing. If Kamina shuts his eyes, he can almost pretend it’s his dad’s arm over his shoulders, his dad’s side he’s pressed against. The Chief is nothing like his dad, but he’s all Kamina has.
Kamina is ten years old, probably, when the Chief touches him differently. He’s tucked under the Chief’s arm at dinner, his own plate already licked clean, when a hand skims over his shorts-covered thigh. The arm over his shoulders relaxes and trails down to the small of his back. Kamina wriggles, but doesnt try to move away. It feels weird , but it’s not worth leaving the warmth of the Chief’s side.
The Chief smiles down at him, and asks if he likes it.
Kamina doesn’t, so he shakes his head and avoids the Chief’s eyes.
The Chief frowns, nods, then pushes Kamina down the bench slightly so they’re no longer touching. Kamina can’t help but shiver, despite the radiant heat of the cookfires.
It’s a while before Kamina earns that privilege again.
When he does, and the Chief pulls him close again and rests a hand on his thigh, Kamina lets it happen.
It’s better than being alone.
Kamina is somewhere around eleven years old when the Chief leads him back to his apartment after dinner, rather than to the orphan barrack. The Chief touches him more, on his face and bottom and tummy, and runs his fingers through Kamina’s ponytail. His hands are always gentle, but Kamina still doesn't like it. He stays put, tries not to wriggle too much, and tells himself this is worth it. A little discomfort is a small price for juicy steaks for dinner and a pat on the shoulder each morning. It makes the Chief happy, so it must be okay.
The visits become part of his routine. He sits next to the chief every evening for dinner, it’s been so long since he last messed up and had the privilege taken away, and after dinner the Chief takes him back to his apartment. Sometimes Kamina lays on the bed while the Chief touches him, sometimes he sits in the Chief’s lap with the Chief’s big arms around his chest. It’s a small price to pay, he tells himself over and over, even though it doesn't seem so small anymore.
-
Kamina hates how the Chief touches him. He hates how he’s made to touch the Chief. He curls up in his cot at night feeling sick to his stomach and dirtier than he’s even been. The Chief says what they’re doing is normal, it’s how adults show love, and Kamina has never felt less like an adult.
The Chief rarely touches him outside their secret alone time. His skin still tingles and aches for the warmth of another human against him, and still he’s at the Chief’s mercy for when that need is filled. Kamina wishes, desperately, with his tear stained face buried in the flat pillow on his cot, that what he wants and needs so badly didn't go hand in hand with things that turn his stomach.
-
The Chief is nice to him, usually. He no longer gets hit every morning, usually. Sometimes Kamina still makes the Chief angry, and he’s greeted with a sharp whack the next day and given scraps for dinner. It’s Kamina’s own fault, he thinks, that he can’t be what the Chief wants.
When Kamina pretends to enjoy the Chief’s hands on him, when he forces down his disgust and fear and focuses on the good feelings, the Chief praises him. It’s only when his mask fails, when he can’t keep the revulsion off his face or tries to push the Chief away, that the Chief gets angry.
It gets easier. Hiding his emotions becomes second nature, and the Chief doesn't need to punish him anymore.
The Chief rewards good behavior. After years of scraping waste from pigmole pens, Kamina is reassigned. Apprenticed to Jiha’s butcher, Kamina takes to his new job easily. He’s still too small for much of the work, but he quickly learns to handle knives and watches with rapt attention as pigmoles are expertly and efficiently prepared each day. He still has other chores, hauling water and feed for the pigmoles, but he finally feels he’s doing something useful.
In the late afternoon, Kamina has time to himself. He spends his precious free hours in the orphan barrack, lightly napping mostly, and relishes having time to waste. He could stare at the ceiling for two hours if he wanted, and no one could yell at him for it.
Kamina is twelve years old when an earthquake wracks Jiha, and he meets nine year old Simon the digger. Except Simon isn't a digger just yet, he’s only a newly made orphan curled up on a cot in the barracks. He doesn’t cry, but Kamina can guess he’s simply run out of tears.
Simon is allowed only a handful of days to grieve, before he is given a hand drill and sent off to work. The next morning Kamina flinches at the sound of wood hitting flesh, not remotely grateful it’s not his own. He slacks his chores intentionally that day, and hopes it’s enough to take the heat off Simon. He has to suppress a grim smile when the Chief whacks him twice and doesn’t spare Simon a second glance.
After years of striving for unreachable perfection, having the standard for his work changed constantly beneath his feet, it’s liberating to fail on purpose. Watching the Chief’s face grow red and blotchy with anger is almost worth it, but seeing Simon without any fresh bruises day after day is unquestionably worth it.
Simon spends his days digging tunnels, and sits alone at dinner each night. On days the Chief is angry with him, Kamina takes his plate and joins Simon. Eventually, the kid isn't startled by his approach anymore. They eat in silence, awkward at first but more often companionable. Sometimes he catches Simon smile at him. It’s a small tentative thing, fragile and precious. Kamina doesn't comment on it, afraid of it breaking under his touch.
Late one night, long after lights out, soft scraping interrupts the silence of the barrack. Kamina raises his head to see Simon dragging his cot across the stone floor towards him. He stops several feet away, fidgeting nervously, then asks -- eyes averted, so quietly Kamina almost can’t hear -- if he can sleep with Kamina tonight. Kamina’s heart flutters in his chest, and he’s making room for Simon on his cot without even thinking.
Simon slides under the blanket with him and Kamina feels euphoric at the soft press of warm skin against his own. He draws his arms around Simon’s middle and pulls them together, Simon snuggles even closer and rests his head on Kamina’s shoulder. No disgust wells up inside him, no shame heats his face. Nothing has ever felt more right to him. Curled up with Simon, Kamina sleeps deeper than he has in years.
-
Simon doesn’t know why Kamina spends some evenings in the Chief’s apartments. Kamina will never let him find out. He feels phantom hands and the ghost of a mouth on his skin, and the thought of those same hands on Simon sends frigid terror down his spine. It’s some small relief that Simon spends most of his day deep in the earth and far out of reach.
Kamina spends his downtime in the afternoon with Simon, when he can. Simon shows him the treasure he dug up that day, or they join the circle around Jiha’s storyteller and listen to heroic tales of ages past. Kamina knows them all by heart, could likely perform them better than the storyteller, but Simon enjoys them every time.
It’s only when the Chief calls for him that Kamina allows Simon out of his sight. When Kamina is alone with the Chief he at least knows Simon is safe. He grits his teeth and dons his mask and acts the part the Chief wants him to play. He hopes it’s enough to keep the Chief’s attention on himself, and nowhere else.
It’s never enough.
Terror and fury grip his heart when he sees it the first time. Simon’s cloak discarded on the ground, and the Chief’s hand resting on Simon’s bare shoulder. The Chief’s smile is oily, his gaze flicking occasionally down Simon’s body. No one else but Kamina seems to notice.
Kamina spends the night in the lock-up, for kicking in a failing support strut and sending a gathered pile of excavated dirt tumbling down on the Chief. But the Chief had taken his hand off Simon and turned his attention fully back to Kamina. Night in the lock-up is nothing if it means keeping Simon safe.
He spends many more nights in the lock-up for causing trouble. He sabotages mining equipment, lets pigmoles loose through the village, and shorts out the power to the Chief’s apartment. Anything to keep the Chief too distracted to focus on Simon.
The Chief is furious with him. He expected better from his favorite boy. Kamina’s skin crawls at the false concern dripping from those words. When he’s released from lock-up in the mornings, he’s dragged to the Chief’s apartment. The Chief doesn't bother with the pretense of rewards anymore.
Kamina is fourteen years old, gangly and uncoordinated mid growth spurt, when he thinks to call for help.
The Chief has him by the wrist, tugging him away from his work for some time alone. The Chief doesn't wait for Kamina to earn the privilege of eating next to him at dinner anymore, and Kamina doesn’t bother trying to earn that ‘privilege.’ Seeking him out in the middle of the day takes Kamina by surprise, anxiety churns in his stomach as he’s lead to the Chief’s apartment. The closed door comes into view, and Kamina screams.
He wrenches his hand from the Chief’s grip and shouts as loudly as he can.
“ Don’t touch me!”
The Chief lunges for him, and Kamina is too unbalanced to dodge completely. A much tighter hold on his upper arm pins him in place even as he struggles and shouts and digs his heels into the ground. He’s causing a scene, and a few people have already turned their heads. An older man that Kamina vaguely recognizes as one of the drilling coordinators walks over and calls out to the Chief, no hurry in his step or much worry in his voice. Kamina throws himself away from the Chief, but his arm remains in the bruising grip.
He’s almost in hysterics, eyes locked with the man who could save him, but as he tries to explain the Chief merely talks over him. Kamina’s voice shakes as he accuses the Chief of trying to have sex with him, but the Chief’s voice is calm and oily and his response more believable. The third man shakes his head and looks at Kamina.
“If you stopped telling lies you wouldn't get in trouble as often.”
Kamina watches the man leave, and the others nearby murmur to themselves and return to their business. No one spares him a second glance as the Chief drags him inside.
He lays where he is thrown on the bed, and doesn't move until the Chief is finished with him. When the Chief is gone, Kamina puts his pants on mechanically and returns to his job. He doesn't bother explaining where he went.
He doesn't call for help again.
Kamina is fifteen years old, sure on his feet and confident in his strength, when he starts picking fights with older boys. Most nights he limps back to the barracks just before curfew, beat to shit and bloodied, and gives Simon a big grin and a thumbs up. Simon worries, but he can’t stop Kamina when he’s got his mind set on something. Kamina washes the blood from his face and they curl up together on their combined cots. Cradled in Kamina’s strong arms, Simon sleeps without fear of cave ins or earthquakes.
Kamina knows he’s not particularly smart, but he learns quick and it’s not long before he starts winning fights. He struts into the barracks each night with bruised knuckles and a wild grin and doesn't grimace when Simon presses to his side. His shoulders have filled out with broad muscle, once-wiry arms now something to contend with. He’s not a scrappy little kid anymore, he’s strong enough to protect Simon. Maybe even strong enough to protect himself.
The herbalist apprentice looks at Kamina like he’s crazy, but he agrees anyway. The deep blue pigment spreads across his skin over the days and weeks, forming bands and swirls and sharp points. It hurts more than anything he’s ever done, but he grits his teeth and doesn't make a sound. When the tattoos are at last finished, Kamina stops wearing his rough brown cloak. In one more act of defiance, just to piss the Chief off, he swipes a boning knife and saws through the base of his ponytail. If anyone still had questions about his sanity, now they know for sure. Kamina’s grin is all teeth as he saunters through the village.
He’s going to get out of this dump. He’ll take Simon and dig to the surface himself if he has to. One way or another, he’ll leave Jiha behind and bury every shitty thing that happened there so deep he’ll never have to think about it again.
One day he will see the sky again.
Kamina is sixteen and determined to reach the surface when he gets himself trapped in a cave in.
Only the sight of Simon digging away, the ragged cloak over his shoulders tinged crimson by Kamina’s visor, keeps him from giving up. When Simon’s drill breaches an existing tunnel moments later, saving them all from certain death, the others call it lucky. But Kamina puts no faith in luck, all he needs is Simon.
Kamina is seventeen when a massive mechanical face crashes through the ceiling. Even amidst the chaos and destruction, all he can feel is elation.
The surface is real. And now he has proof.
The Chief lays sprawled on his back, too terrified to move, and some small vindictive part of Kamina is glad the bastard knows how it feels. The sheathed sword is his for the taking, and he wastes no time to take. Distantly he hears Simon yelling for him to run, but Kamina hasn’t run from anything since he was twelve and he’s not about to start now. The sword feels perfect in his hand, a seamless extension of his arm, like it was always meant to be his.
Kamina grins, boasting to the metal behemoth with a confidence he finally feels. The Chief may not bother to protect the village -- Kamina can hear him scrambling away in terror, duty be damned apparently -- but Kamina’s duty is to protect Simon, he will not fail.
And then something else falls from the surface. Brilliant red hair and a rifle as tall as she is, the barely clothed young woman skids to a halt in front of him. She’s the most gorgeous girl Kamina’s ever seen. And she’s from the surface. She doesn’t know him as the liar’s son, or as the Chief’s fallen favorite, she doesn’t know a damn thing about him at all. So he makes one hell of a first impression. And if the beginnings of arousal sour to disgust and shame and fear in his stomach, he doesn’t let it show on his face.
The girl says she’s from a pit, Kamina voices his derision without a second thought. He’s chafed under the rules and restrictions of an uncaring village his whole life, what makes this ‘Littner’ any different? Why would anyone choose to stay under the suffocation of laws and authority when the absolute freedom of the Surface is open to them? This pit chick must be crazy.
Simon saves his ass again, like he’s always doing, and the three of them crammed into Lagann’s cockpit drill towards the heavens. Kamina feels the moment they break through, the resistance around them vanishes and Lagann shoots high, high into the sky. The canopy retracts, and Kamina gazes out upon the most beautiful sight. He feels the sun on his face for the first time in over a decade. There’s no ceiling above him, no walls closing in, just impossibly vast stretches of nothingness under the split sky.
Lagann spins lazily, and Kamina breathes.
He made it. The Chief can’t touch him or Simon ever again.
He’s free.