Date: 4/30/2003 11:27 AM Eastern Daylight Time
From: Sarah The Stick
Stick laid back on her wooden pallet, basking in the emptiness of the remarkably unchanged room. She watched starlight glitter through the lone attic window, mind drifting.
They had walked for the first two days, but the memories made her legs ache again, so she slipped ahead to the passing ox-cart and its wonderfully soft piles of hay. The driver hadn't appeared too keen on picking up hitchhikers, especially those odd types who dressed in ankle-length red with wide-brimmed hats in full spring daylight and looked the type to break every moral law he abided by, but he was still a he, and they were aboard soon enough. She didn't remember much of that part, either, thanks to equal parts physical exhaustion and more physical exhaustion, with a smattering of lacked sleep thrown in for good measure.
She had her music box, though, and she remembered that.
Outlived a wasted life
Too soon to say goodbye
One plot to call your own
Now it's our turn to cry
Angel sat beside her in the hay, ladylike. Angel also stood before her, hand outstretched, in a jungle of brick and mortar, gently brushing a young girl's tears, seen from first-person memories.
A flash vision of tombstones, and she closed her eyes.
I've been through this before
These things are hard to take
Was it too much to live for
One choice you felt you had to make
Stick's eyes opened again to the only pure smiles in her desolate ghetto town, before they sparkled with the touch of black diamond dust, first step of a tight downward spiral.
And I've pissed my time away
Through countless lifelong wasted days
Why are all the simple things so lost in sorrow
And my perspective so unclear?
The headphones found a new home, around her neck. She thumbed the volume down, raising an instantly fading rainbow across the black box.
"Hey, Angel?"
"Yes, dear?"
"Have you ever felt... like you were wasting time? You know, wasting your life?"
Silence. Once it extended, she looked up into a pale, oddly-tilted face.
Stick sighed, replacing the headphones and cranking the music above the ox-cart's rattle. What a stupid question to ask a vampire.
Going Home
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Date: 4/30/2003 11:30 AM Eastern Daylight Time
From: Sarah The Stick
They reached the city finally, incredibly, considering Angel's request for the ox-cart to leave them in the middle of a desolate field. Stick remembered some sort of magic being used when they had left three years ago, but wasn't there a forest here?
"Stick, look, in the distance."
She did, turning around. "I don't see anything."
"Oh! My mistake." Stick didn't like hearing that tone of voice from Angel. She sounded too happy. Like she had played a nice little trick, and unless Stick was completely lacking her senses after five days on the road, there were no other potential victims hanging around to leave red-faced.
She turned back.
Maple as far as the eye could see.
"I &@#$^@# hate you sometimes, Angel."
"Yes, yes. Come now, dear, we have a bit more walking to do."
Gaimet, the City Of Lights.
There it stood, no different, parapets and mage towers, mansions and worship houses, all rising above the enormous city wall. Beyond, she could hear the market's bustle, vendors under tents and awnings hawking their potions, wands, and staves; she wondered if the Greatest Rods Ever were still being sold, and if anyone besides the maniacal old git whose preferred words in life were "Buyer beware!" had ever managed to get one to do more than fill a bucket with water.
Dusk began swallowing sunlight, giving a healthy glimpse of what made this the most feared city for a thousand miles. To claim magic was rampant here would be understatement of the highest degree. Stefan had always said it best: Take the power one average wizard had to muster to light one man's lantern, then multiply it by the one hundred thousand people living in the city, and make sure it never turns off.
This is where Gaimet earned its famed nickname; the glow stretched to cover all sections of the city, except one.
Home.
As they slipped within the city gates moments before curfew closing, Stick wondered for the first time in years what it must be like to never need a night light.
From: Sarah The Stick
They reached the city finally, incredibly, considering Angel's request for the ox-cart to leave them in the middle of a desolate field. Stick remembered some sort of magic being used when they had left three years ago, but wasn't there a forest here?
"Stick, look, in the distance."
She did, turning around. "I don't see anything."
"Oh! My mistake." Stick didn't like hearing that tone of voice from Angel. She sounded too happy. Like she had played a nice little trick, and unless Stick was completely lacking her senses after five days on the road, there were no other potential victims hanging around to leave red-faced.
She turned back.
Maple as far as the eye could see.
"I &@#$^@# hate you sometimes, Angel."
"Yes, yes. Come now, dear, we have a bit more walking to do."
Gaimet, the City Of Lights.
There it stood, no different, parapets and mage towers, mansions and worship houses, all rising above the enormous city wall. Beyond, she could hear the market's bustle, vendors under tents and awnings hawking their potions, wands, and staves; she wondered if the Greatest Rods Ever were still being sold, and if anyone besides the maniacal old git whose preferred words in life were "Buyer beware!" had ever managed to get one to do more than fill a bucket with water.
Dusk began swallowing sunlight, giving a healthy glimpse of what made this the most feared city for a thousand miles. To claim magic was rampant here would be understatement of the highest degree. Stefan had always said it best: Take the power one average wizard had to muster to light one man's lantern, then multiply it by the one hundred thousand people living in the city, and make sure it never turns off.
This is where Gaimet earned its famed nickname; the glow stretched to cover all sections of the city, except one.
Home.
As they slipped within the city gates moments before curfew closing, Stick wondered for the first time in years what it must be like to never need a night light.
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Date: 5/3/2003 8:14 PM Eastern Daylight Time
From: Sarah The Stick
The market was nearly deserted when they arrived. Vendors' awnings, bright and flashy in the sun's eye, cast desperately long shadows beneath lights set along the road, magical glimmers protected by enchanted casings held fifteen feet from ground level by intricately wrought iron beams. Stick was glad certain sellers had gone home, especially the nagging women with spices, onions, and perfumes. Okay, the spices weren't so bad (even if the old hags selling them were uniformly gnarled and crotchety). She never understood how anyone made a living selling just onions- probably some important ingredient for any number of bizarre alchemist concoctions- but you could smell them from so far away, it wasn't difficult to avoid those stands.
The perfume ones, though. God, they were the worst.
The scents themselves were nothing special. The women were bad, dressed in their finest robes every day, hair done up in the latest fashion, sniffing at passersby who they assumed didn't have sufficient money for the wares being offered. They did a surprisingly fine job of making those people shuffle away with heads hung low, too. Stick always assumed they had some charms at work, since they were not only old, but stupid. Most of the sniffees didn't appear too wealthy, but when Stick came by, no pretty colors, no jewelry, no finery of any kind, she got the sales pitch without fail.
Therein lay the problem.
She was never sure how these old women were able to sneak up on her without setting off every internal alarm she possessed. They would appear from seemingly nowhere, flashes of blue, gold, or red (they never seemed to have much imagination), and then a cloud of some gag-worthy musk enveloped her a heartbeat later. She grumbled quietly to herself, wondering why she couldn't remember smashing any of them into the light posts as she'd always intended, when she realized she never had. The only memory she could recall was Stefan's hand on her elbow, pulling insistently, making certain they were far from the culprits by the time her vision had cleared. It made her frown, forcing a slouch into her walk.
She wondered if Stefan was okay. She wondered if he was still alive.
The pair of travelers pressed on through the darkening city, one exponentially happier after discovering a calumet shop which hadn't decided it was quite time to close. Stick held one confection in each hand, digging eager teeth into a lump of round, soft bread with its glazed white paste, then taking a chunk from the other. She only found the booth by scent, ignoring the large sign out front; Angel had mentioned, bemusedly, that it must have been a long time since she left home if she could only think of the goodies as cinnamon rolls. Stick, between bites, reminded Angel that she hadn't exactly missed the place.
They wound a path around the city center, home of key figures in the magocracy of Gaimet, and therefore home of significantly increased security patrols compared to anywhere else. That didn't mean there were none elsewhere, and their luck- Stick's luck- found them turning one final corner towards the lower-middle class section of town when the last chainmail-clad guard was happening by on his Hover. Stick peered at the vehicle; she'd never had a basis for comparison before. Now it looked to her like a prehistoric version of Speedy's bike, only with wings bearing wind-magic crystals on their ends to keep it afloat. There was also a noticeable lack of wheels, and Stick was pretty sure that riding on the back of one at top speed wouldn't make her eyes sink halfway back into her head, but otherwise, the two were fairly similar.
"Ladies."
Angel took the lead while Stick shuffled her feet, head lowered. "Good evening, sir."
"May I ask where you're headed?"
"Just down the street. We're visiting family." Stick looked up in time to see Angel's best lash-fluttering smile, knowing there was no way it would work; they were out after curfew, and even a relatively trusting guard would offer to escort them. Decline, watch that relative trust evaporate, and then the trouble starts. She would have almost been better off telling the truth.
"Uh.. very well. Have a good night."
Stick stared at the Hover's back end while it floated off silently into street light shadows, stunned into motionlessness until a light pull on her jacket sleeve brought her vision around to a pale-faced woman who was obviously working hard to suffocate vast quantities of laughter.
"Shall we continue? I believe we're almost there."
What continued for several seconds was the staring, now at Angel, until a shake of the head snapped her out of it and forced heavy black boots along the gravel path.
"I wish I could do that."
"I can oblige you, if you'd like."
Stick kept walking, able to see the fangs bared behind her without turning. "^@#$ you, Angel."
"I can oblige you that, too."
"^@#$ you, Angel!"
Angel followed her stormy friend with the lightest of laughter. Maybe she was starting to get better already.
From: Sarah The Stick
The market was nearly deserted when they arrived. Vendors' awnings, bright and flashy in the sun's eye, cast desperately long shadows beneath lights set along the road, magical glimmers protected by enchanted casings held fifteen feet from ground level by intricately wrought iron beams. Stick was glad certain sellers had gone home, especially the nagging women with spices, onions, and perfumes. Okay, the spices weren't so bad (even if the old hags selling them were uniformly gnarled and crotchety). She never understood how anyone made a living selling just onions- probably some important ingredient for any number of bizarre alchemist concoctions- but you could smell them from so far away, it wasn't difficult to avoid those stands.
The perfume ones, though. God, they were the worst.
The scents themselves were nothing special. The women were bad, dressed in their finest robes every day, hair done up in the latest fashion, sniffing at passersby who they assumed didn't have sufficient money for the wares being offered. They did a surprisingly fine job of making those people shuffle away with heads hung low, too. Stick always assumed they had some charms at work, since they were not only old, but stupid. Most of the sniffees didn't appear too wealthy, but when Stick came by, no pretty colors, no jewelry, no finery of any kind, she got the sales pitch without fail.
Therein lay the problem.
She was never sure how these old women were able to sneak up on her without setting off every internal alarm she possessed. They would appear from seemingly nowhere, flashes of blue, gold, or red (they never seemed to have much imagination), and then a cloud of some gag-worthy musk enveloped her a heartbeat later. She grumbled quietly to herself, wondering why she couldn't remember smashing any of them into the light posts as she'd always intended, when she realized she never had. The only memory she could recall was Stefan's hand on her elbow, pulling insistently, making certain they were far from the culprits by the time her vision had cleared. It made her frown, forcing a slouch into her walk.
She wondered if Stefan was okay. She wondered if he was still alive.
The pair of travelers pressed on through the darkening city, one exponentially happier after discovering a calumet shop which hadn't decided it was quite time to close. Stick held one confection in each hand, digging eager teeth into a lump of round, soft bread with its glazed white paste, then taking a chunk from the other. She only found the booth by scent, ignoring the large sign out front; Angel had mentioned, bemusedly, that it must have been a long time since she left home if she could only think of the goodies as cinnamon rolls. Stick, between bites, reminded Angel that she hadn't exactly missed the place.
They wound a path around the city center, home of key figures in the magocracy of Gaimet, and therefore home of significantly increased security patrols compared to anywhere else. That didn't mean there were none elsewhere, and their luck- Stick's luck- found them turning one final corner towards the lower-middle class section of town when the last chainmail-clad guard was happening by on his Hover. Stick peered at the vehicle; she'd never had a basis for comparison before. Now it looked to her like a prehistoric version of Speedy's bike, only with wings bearing wind-magic crystals on their ends to keep it afloat. There was also a noticeable lack of wheels, and Stick was pretty sure that riding on the back of one at top speed wouldn't make her eyes sink halfway back into her head, but otherwise, the two were fairly similar.
"Ladies."
Angel took the lead while Stick shuffled her feet, head lowered. "Good evening, sir."
"May I ask where you're headed?"
"Just down the street. We're visiting family." Stick looked up in time to see Angel's best lash-fluttering smile, knowing there was no way it would work; they were out after curfew, and even a relatively trusting guard would offer to escort them. Decline, watch that relative trust evaporate, and then the trouble starts. She would have almost been better off telling the truth.
"Uh.. very well. Have a good night."
Stick stared at the Hover's back end while it floated off silently into street light shadows, stunned into motionlessness until a light pull on her jacket sleeve brought her vision around to a pale-faced woman who was obviously working hard to suffocate vast quantities of laughter.
"Shall we continue? I believe we're almost there."
What continued for several seconds was the staring, now at Angel, until a shake of the head snapped her out of it and forced heavy black boots along the gravel path.
"I wish I could do that."
"I can oblige you, if you'd like."
Stick kept walking, able to see the fangs bared behind her without turning. "^@#$ you, Angel."
"I can oblige you that, too."
"^@#$ you, Angel!"
Angel followed her stormy friend with the lightest of laughter. Maybe she was starting to get better already.
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The Old Dojo
Date: 5/16/2003 8:37 PM Eastern Daylight Time
From: Sarah The Stick
"Hello?"
Stick's head slanted downward, taking in the sight before her. This was not a town where people were inclined towards opening their doors enough to allow more than the barest sliver of light through, especially slightly built teenage girls with flushed, pale skin and soft brown hair. That went double for ones dressed in their nightclothes.
"Miss? Are you looking for Master Zennosuke?"
This was not the home of most people, but this was a girl who knew where she lived.. Speak up now or watch the entrance close, and prepare for a night on the street..
"Yeah."
"Oh." The door opened fully. "Okay. Come in, it's cold outside."
It was remarkably unchanged inside the dojo, even for a consistent soul like Stick's (and, presumably, the young girl's) sensei. Even Angel, a visitor on only a handful of occasions, recognized the old, knee-height wicker table and three-legged stools surrounding it. A half-used candle's flame flickered helplessly at its center. Both of the travelers instinctively looked across the room for the master's meditation table. It was there, of course, with five candles of varying size and shape busily having their wax melted, incense sticks to the side. Stick had never quite figured out what rhyme or reason went into the stand's setup, although she knew, somehow, that it wasn't done at random. Zennosuke's logic, however, usually remained Zennosuke's alone, as did his secret for fully illuminating a room with six candles.
The same mats rested on the floor, covering the same half of the floor they always did, with the same practice dummies and kick-bags (at least, that's all they had ever been used for here; everyone in the Outback seemed to prefer punching them) standing guard. Resting decoratively along the walls were simple, handmade banners, provoking the imagination into admiring a tiger's speed, a snake's deceptiveness, and the sharp-eyed precision of a hawk. Stick sank deeply into her reminiscence, following painted marvels several feet away with eyes that suddenly came to rest on a very mundane-looking human several inches away.
"Ahhh!" Stick's duffel bag reacted for her, dropping instantly off her shoulder and to the floor with a loud thump. She was surrounded by womanly laughter behind her, a girlish giggle to the side, and the most serene smile under the sun. A gnarled hand reached up to pat her cheek.
"It is good to see you again too, Sarah. Come, have some tea. Anastasia will take your bags upstairs."
Unpadded three-legged stools are uncomfortable bastards, a fact Stick relearned with frustrating haste as Zennosuke's herbal mix was served. She called it just that; the drink was so superior to RhyDin swill (Angel's term) that it seemed insulting to use the same name for both.
"You could call Master's tea 'tea', and their tea 'crap'," offered Anastasia, grin gleaming in the candle's light.
The two eldest looked between the two youngest, laughing riotously. Stick simply gawked.
"She is quite like you, Sarah!" The sensei's smile lit up the room.
Stick felt a hundred miles away, staring into her cup.
"I hope not."
Silence took hold instantly. The attention of three went to the youngest at a slurping sound; she was finishing her tea quickly, standing, excusing herself for bed. Once she had left their sight, Angel looked to Stick, but Zennosuke spoke.
"You've hurt her feelings."
"Why? Because I said I hope she doesn't turn into a miserable bitch?"
"No. Because you said you hope she doesn't become my best student."
"You told her I'm your best student? Did you tell her it's because I'm the only person who lasted more than a month under your rules, or did you leave that part out?"
"She knows why. She has also been here six months. I would say she's done a better job being like you than anyone else so far."
"That's not a good thing, sensei. It'll only get her in trouble to be like me."
"Really? Why is that?"
The tale of three years began to unfold. Stick regaled the old teacher with stories of RhyDin, how it was even worse than home at the start, struggling for direction, a niche, a place to be. Angel always seemed to be there when the worst of the worst happened, but had basically left her to fend for herself. It wasn't until she put her only two real skills together- self-defense and numbers- and collected enough coinage to be able to swindle travelers as a moneychanger that she felt life might be improving. That led her out of an elven hostel at the edge of town and to the Red Dragon Inn, the Arena snobs, and the Outback.
She remembered the hot-footing of sleepy Court as a first-nighter's hello, eliciting her first smile in days. Fight after fight after fight she had, yelling, screaming, doing her best to be a general nuisance; the good old days. Oh, she loved to bait Anubis, the only person against whom everyone would stick up for her. Tony and Dustin walked around with veritable "Kick Me" signs on their backs. Tareth was a jerk, still is. Most of them couldn't handle a single nasty word, which put them all directly in her verbal (and often physical) crosshairs When she found out other girls went rounds with the boys, she thought she might find some friends, but most of them weren't any easier to get along with. And that Jinn, what a piece of work.
Then came Harris.
A right bastard, he was. All he did was tease and poke fun at her, and he did it well enough to become a bothersome pest. It was all made worse by the fact he could really fight, which made it so hard to beat him into silence. Eventually, she realized that even winning against him wouldn't cut down on his talking at all, but did she ever love to try. That is, until he showed her just how well he could fight.
Stick missed Zennosuke's odd glances to Angel for confirmation on the more bizarre parts of her tale, namely the way getting knocked unconscious led to having Harris as a boyfriend and certain dealings with a "possessed little pink soccer ball". The story was of a life improving, a girl settling into a reality with hope, finding her way to the happy ending. That, of course, meant it had to be a story derailed.
That meant Firestar. And Firestar meant abrupt silence.
Angel touched her friend's deathly still hand, grasping it lightly. Zennosuke watched with quiet patience, remembering his pupil's often tenuous mindset well. When she needed to speak, she would. And she did.
"I'm sorry, sensei."
"I do not know why you should be apologizing."
"Because.. I went against everything you taught me. I used magic."
"The people of this place cannot use magic."
"I.. I could. With the Opal, I could."
"A magical gem? Even trained wizards take many years to use them properly. How is it you could do so instantly?"
Stick went deep into the history of Firestar, recalling facts memorized from a small book on the subject during her long days in bed after its loss. She recalled everything she had learned about the nature of the Opals, their power, their workings, the influence held over their wielders. Through this, Zennosuke sat impassively.
She spoke of the Black, greater details offered on the creature Jigglypuff, the problems with Ticallion and Kaja.
She explained what she saw while holding the Red, view of life from inside the Opal's grasp, feeling at one with this power, the sense of invincibility which bubbled deep within, burning focus and the strength it lent to her physical form.
He asked her if she remembered his teachings when she wore the gem. She said yes.
He asked if she had considered, in some part of her spirit, discarding Firestar and finding her roots once again. She said yes.
"But you did not. You were drawn in by this false strength so powerfully, you could not bear to be rid of it."
"Not exactly, sensei."
His wrinkled face tilted slightly.
"I thought... the way I was feeling... being so focused, so at one with everything.. I mean, it was just with Firestar, but it felt like everything.. I.."
"Yes?"
"I thought that's what it must be like to be you."
Several minutes later, Stick was laying on her old pallet upstairs, staring up at the starlight. Anastasia snored lightly on a nearby mat. Zennosuke and Angel remained in place, cross-legged on their stools, watching tea cool.
From: Sarah The Stick
"Hello?"
Stick's head slanted downward, taking in the sight before her. This was not a town where people were inclined towards opening their doors enough to allow more than the barest sliver of light through, especially slightly built teenage girls with flushed, pale skin and soft brown hair. That went double for ones dressed in their nightclothes.
"Miss? Are you looking for Master Zennosuke?"
This was not the home of most people, but this was a girl who knew where she lived.. Speak up now or watch the entrance close, and prepare for a night on the street..
"Yeah."
"Oh." The door opened fully. "Okay. Come in, it's cold outside."
It was remarkably unchanged inside the dojo, even for a consistent soul like Stick's (and, presumably, the young girl's) sensei. Even Angel, a visitor on only a handful of occasions, recognized the old, knee-height wicker table and three-legged stools surrounding it. A half-used candle's flame flickered helplessly at its center. Both of the travelers instinctively looked across the room for the master's meditation table. It was there, of course, with five candles of varying size and shape busily having their wax melted, incense sticks to the side. Stick had never quite figured out what rhyme or reason went into the stand's setup, although she knew, somehow, that it wasn't done at random. Zennosuke's logic, however, usually remained Zennosuke's alone, as did his secret for fully illuminating a room with six candles.
The same mats rested on the floor, covering the same half of the floor they always did, with the same practice dummies and kick-bags (at least, that's all they had ever been used for here; everyone in the Outback seemed to prefer punching them) standing guard. Resting decoratively along the walls were simple, handmade banners, provoking the imagination into admiring a tiger's speed, a snake's deceptiveness, and the sharp-eyed precision of a hawk. Stick sank deeply into her reminiscence, following painted marvels several feet away with eyes that suddenly came to rest on a very mundane-looking human several inches away.
"Ahhh!" Stick's duffel bag reacted for her, dropping instantly off her shoulder and to the floor with a loud thump. She was surrounded by womanly laughter behind her, a girlish giggle to the side, and the most serene smile under the sun. A gnarled hand reached up to pat her cheek.
"It is good to see you again too, Sarah. Come, have some tea. Anastasia will take your bags upstairs."
Unpadded three-legged stools are uncomfortable bastards, a fact Stick relearned with frustrating haste as Zennosuke's herbal mix was served. She called it just that; the drink was so superior to RhyDin swill (Angel's term) that it seemed insulting to use the same name for both.
"You could call Master's tea 'tea', and their tea 'crap'," offered Anastasia, grin gleaming in the candle's light.
The two eldest looked between the two youngest, laughing riotously. Stick simply gawked.
"She is quite like you, Sarah!" The sensei's smile lit up the room.
Stick felt a hundred miles away, staring into her cup.
"I hope not."
Silence took hold instantly. The attention of three went to the youngest at a slurping sound; she was finishing her tea quickly, standing, excusing herself for bed. Once she had left their sight, Angel looked to Stick, but Zennosuke spoke.
"You've hurt her feelings."
"Why? Because I said I hope she doesn't turn into a miserable bitch?"
"No. Because you said you hope she doesn't become my best student."
"You told her I'm your best student? Did you tell her it's because I'm the only person who lasted more than a month under your rules, or did you leave that part out?"
"She knows why. She has also been here six months. I would say she's done a better job being like you than anyone else so far."
"That's not a good thing, sensei. It'll only get her in trouble to be like me."
"Really? Why is that?"
The tale of three years began to unfold. Stick regaled the old teacher with stories of RhyDin, how it was even worse than home at the start, struggling for direction, a niche, a place to be. Angel always seemed to be there when the worst of the worst happened, but had basically left her to fend for herself. It wasn't until she put her only two real skills together- self-defense and numbers- and collected enough coinage to be able to swindle travelers as a moneychanger that she felt life might be improving. That led her out of an elven hostel at the edge of town and to the Red Dragon Inn, the Arena snobs, and the Outback.
She remembered the hot-footing of sleepy Court as a first-nighter's hello, eliciting her first smile in days. Fight after fight after fight she had, yelling, screaming, doing her best to be a general nuisance; the good old days. Oh, she loved to bait Anubis, the only person against whom everyone would stick up for her. Tony and Dustin walked around with veritable "Kick Me" signs on their backs. Tareth was a jerk, still is. Most of them couldn't handle a single nasty word, which put them all directly in her verbal (and often physical) crosshairs When she found out other girls went rounds with the boys, she thought she might find some friends, but most of them weren't any easier to get along with. And that Jinn, what a piece of work.
Then came Harris.
A right bastard, he was. All he did was tease and poke fun at her, and he did it well enough to become a bothersome pest. It was all made worse by the fact he could really fight, which made it so hard to beat him into silence. Eventually, she realized that even winning against him wouldn't cut down on his talking at all, but did she ever love to try. That is, until he showed her just how well he could fight.
Stick missed Zennosuke's odd glances to Angel for confirmation on the more bizarre parts of her tale, namely the way getting knocked unconscious led to having Harris as a boyfriend and certain dealings with a "possessed little pink soccer ball". The story was of a life improving, a girl settling into a reality with hope, finding her way to the happy ending. That, of course, meant it had to be a story derailed.
That meant Firestar. And Firestar meant abrupt silence.
Angel touched her friend's deathly still hand, grasping it lightly. Zennosuke watched with quiet patience, remembering his pupil's often tenuous mindset well. When she needed to speak, she would. And she did.
"I'm sorry, sensei."
"I do not know why you should be apologizing."
"Because.. I went against everything you taught me. I used magic."
"The people of this place cannot use magic."
"I.. I could. With the Opal, I could."
"A magical gem? Even trained wizards take many years to use them properly. How is it you could do so instantly?"
Stick went deep into the history of Firestar, recalling facts memorized from a small book on the subject during her long days in bed after its loss. She recalled everything she had learned about the nature of the Opals, their power, their workings, the influence held over their wielders. Through this, Zennosuke sat impassively.
She spoke of the Black, greater details offered on the creature Jigglypuff, the problems with Ticallion and Kaja.
She explained what she saw while holding the Red, view of life from inside the Opal's grasp, feeling at one with this power, the sense of invincibility which bubbled deep within, burning focus and the strength it lent to her physical form.
He asked her if she remembered his teachings when she wore the gem. She said yes.
He asked if she had considered, in some part of her spirit, discarding Firestar and finding her roots once again. She said yes.
"But you did not. You were drawn in by this false strength so powerfully, you could not bear to be rid of it."
"Not exactly, sensei."
His wrinkled face tilted slightly.
"I thought... the way I was feeling... being so focused, so at one with everything.. I mean, it was just with Firestar, but it felt like everything.. I.."
"Yes?"
"I thought that's what it must be like to be you."
Several minutes later, Stick was laying on her old pallet upstairs, staring up at the starlight. Anastasia snored lightly on a nearby mat. Zennosuke and Angel remained in place, cross-legged on their stools, watching tea cool.
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Date: 5/26/2003 5:32 AM Eastern Daylight Time
From: AngeIinaDarkIing
Though many years could have passed before either of the old ones said much of anything at all, it was the eldest that spoke first. It wasn't that the silence hovering between them was uncomfortable, for a few times she and the old man opposite her had spent entire nights in simple silent meditation. And she thought the tea was very good, she would nurse it as long as she was able, which was a true rarity to someone of her lineage. No, it was more a matter of concern.
"Her father had trouble letting go of power as well, even when he knew the dangers that came with it." Angel's careful, trained gaze sought out the old man's downcast one, hoping but not expecting.
"So you have said." Zennosuke's answer was simple, polite, barren.
Angel's lips pursed briefly, but only for a moment. She knew better than to rush the old man, he had very likely not finished his thinking yet. Like so many others she cared for, she would wait until he was ready.
She was just about ready to fill her small cup a second time when Zennosuke's rocky voice disturbed the serene hissing of the small candle flame dancing seductively in the center of the table.
"They balance great weight upon slender branches in this Outback. And you allowed this, Mogui?" Zennosuke reached out for her, tilting the pot even as he looked up at her for the first time since Sarah had left the table.
Angel was briefly amused that he still chose to use his old nickname for her. "I have held the black stone you heard of, ShadoWeaver. Thank you," she interjected as she withdrew her cup, now full. "They have great power, true. Still, I thought Sarah stronger than this."
"Mmmh," was all Zennosuke answered, again withdrawing to his side of the table and his own thoughts as he attempted to fill his cup from the seemingly endless teapot. Angel tentatively reached over, touching his gnarled hand with her cold, smooth one, halting him. He grinned at this observation of tradition and allowed her to fill his cup while he stared into the candle once more.
When the flame finally guttered out, the wax all run off and melted, plunging the small table into darkness, Angel gave up on waiting. She rose from her seat with a small noise of scraping stool legs, wrapping the cloak about her and flipping the hood over her fiery mane. As she ran her hands along the inside of the cowl, straightening her hair, she finally spoke her mind. "You can't blame yourself for this Guoshi. Sarah is Sarah, and always will be. She comes of a strong family, an iron history, and a stronger will, which is only her own. She will live with her choices, as must we all."
"Our choices impact lives outside our own, Mogui. We must all take responsibility for our hand in this." Even in the dark, the old man was able to pick out her dark gaze and match it.
"We can put her feet on the path Zennosuke, but we can't make her walk it, you know that. We are simply fortunate enough that she lets us walk with her." Finished with her primping, and her speech, she curtseyed. "Thank you for the tea."
Despite himself, the old man smiled. "Good night old one, anquan xiaolu zou."
(())
Chinese translations
Mogui - demon
Guoshi - old-fashioned one
"anquan xiaolu zou." - "may you walk on safe paths."
From: AngeIinaDarkIing
Though many years could have passed before either of the old ones said much of anything at all, it was the eldest that spoke first. It wasn't that the silence hovering between them was uncomfortable, for a few times she and the old man opposite her had spent entire nights in simple silent meditation. And she thought the tea was very good, she would nurse it as long as she was able, which was a true rarity to someone of her lineage. No, it was more a matter of concern.
"Her father had trouble letting go of power as well, even when he knew the dangers that came with it." Angel's careful, trained gaze sought out the old man's downcast one, hoping but not expecting.
"So you have said." Zennosuke's answer was simple, polite, barren.
Angel's lips pursed briefly, but only for a moment. She knew better than to rush the old man, he had very likely not finished his thinking yet. Like so many others she cared for, she would wait until he was ready.
She was just about ready to fill her small cup a second time when Zennosuke's rocky voice disturbed the serene hissing of the small candle flame dancing seductively in the center of the table.
"They balance great weight upon slender branches in this Outback. And you allowed this, Mogui?" Zennosuke reached out for her, tilting the pot even as he looked up at her for the first time since Sarah had left the table.
Angel was briefly amused that he still chose to use his old nickname for her. "I have held the black stone you heard of, ShadoWeaver. Thank you," she interjected as she withdrew her cup, now full. "They have great power, true. Still, I thought Sarah stronger than this."
"Mmmh," was all Zennosuke answered, again withdrawing to his side of the table and his own thoughts as he attempted to fill his cup from the seemingly endless teapot. Angel tentatively reached over, touching his gnarled hand with her cold, smooth one, halting him. He grinned at this observation of tradition and allowed her to fill his cup while he stared into the candle once more.
When the flame finally guttered out, the wax all run off and melted, plunging the small table into darkness, Angel gave up on waiting. She rose from her seat with a small noise of scraping stool legs, wrapping the cloak about her and flipping the hood over her fiery mane. As she ran her hands along the inside of the cowl, straightening her hair, she finally spoke her mind. "You can't blame yourself for this Guoshi. Sarah is Sarah, and always will be. She comes of a strong family, an iron history, and a stronger will, which is only her own. She will live with her choices, as must we all."
"Our choices impact lives outside our own, Mogui. We must all take responsibility for our hand in this." Even in the dark, the old man was able to pick out her dark gaze and match it.
"We can put her feet on the path Zennosuke, but we can't make her walk it, you know that. We are simply fortunate enough that she lets us walk with her." Finished with her primping, and her speech, she curtseyed. "Thank you for the tea."
Despite himself, the old man smiled. "Good night old one, anquan xiaolu zou."
(())
Chinese translations
Mogui - demon
Guoshi - old-fashioned one
"anquan xiaolu zou." - "may you walk on safe paths."
-
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Date: 6/5/2003 3:52 AM Eastern Daylight Time
From: Sarah The Stick
Muffled voices kept her imagination active. Stopping eventually, the silence which followed enveloped the young woman on her undersized pallet; she turned towards the wall, curled up, and fell asleep.
Almost.
"Miss Sarah? Are you awake?"
Damnit. "No one calls me that."
"Master does."
"He's a special case." Unnecessarily sharp; increasing fatigue kept her from regretting it too much.
It didn't hurt that the younger girl's voice echoed through blackness unfazed. "So does your friend."
"They're both.. look, almost everyone calls me Stick. That's good enough, alright?"
"Okay." A pause. "Why do they call you Stick?"
Sleep-deprived dreams of a full-contact morning spar gave way to images of truth, played out on the angled ceiling. Young boys standing in a yard, yelling towards a house, laughing. Their mouths form different words, but it's all white noise except for one word, one name. Dark-haired girl with sullen eyes stares out from the window. Short and thin, plain white dress, no inclination of what will be, save small, curled fists. Mother in the background tells her to ignore them. It never worked before. It doesn't work now.
"I named myself that."
A pause of surprise. "How come?"
"You saw my staff."
"But it's metal, it's not-"
Stick rolled over, words hissed in a quick burst of anger. "Do you think people get weapons like that made if they don't know how to use them already? My first staff was a flimsy pole I found in the garbage. The next one was a crooked tree branch. I had seven staves- and broke six- before I got the one I have now. You live here. You know how it is. No one gets anywhere unless they're feared. How many of the bastards out there do you think will fear 'Sarah'?
"I don't care how many people think Stick sounds funny. Better to be named after what you're going to use to hit the people who ^@#$ with you instead of something that's going to make you a target for every friend of every &@#$&@# you have to beat the &@#$ out of because he's too drunk to keep his hands off of you. Now go to sleep!"
"Okay." Anastasia rolled away from the pallet placidly.
Black hairs whipped across Stick's face as she spun towards the wall in a huff, pulling bedsheets to her neck. She heard the younger girl's soft, sleep-noise breathing drift up, peaceful, unaffected, and realized that was how Zennosuke had always wanted her to be, not a bristling ball of angry tension that trembled at decade-old memories. At least seven years Stick's junior, Anastasia idolized the stories their sensei told of the mighty Sarah Allian, but was already superior to the real thing in every important way.
Stick sank into the straw mattress, exhausted, finally understanding the depths of her failure, and cried until the night disappeared.
They sat in silence, teacher and pupil, tea cooling in the afternoon shade. Anastasia unhappily busied herself with chores; the day provided precious few hours when it was safe to remain outside while being able to avoid the harsh gaze of a sun seemingly created for no other purpose than to liquify the residents in this part of town, and she didn't appreciate having to spend them indoors.
At the moment, however, it was better than being within ten feet of Stick. Their morning workout had been a disaster. The younger student's crispness was enviable, her concentration as perfect as could be expected of one her age and then some. Stick's only advantage, pure physical prowess, was nullified by a complete lack of focus, borne of frustration with the reminders from each strike of how much better she was at them six months prior. It was nearly impossible for her to remember what she was capable of before Firestar came along; somehow, she didn't think knowing would be much consolation.
Stick watched her tea. Zennosuke watched Stick. She sighed, sinking forward, face resting in her hands, eyes rubbed automatically.
"I don't know what I'm doing anymore, sensei."
"Hmm."
She glanced over, smirking more in her mind than in reality. "That's where you tell me that I'm wrong, and I do know what I'm doing."
"I have never lied to a student, Sarah, and I don't intend to begin now."
The young woman's expression drooped, despondent eyes cast upon the ground. "I really was that bad?"
Silence.
"I knew I should have waited to visit. I was starting to get back in shape, I would've-"
"Your physical condition is irrelevant. You are capable of reaching the level you were at within the month." Zennosuke's impassiveness forced an inward sigh. Stick knew she was going to hear something she didn't want to hear. She also knew that a forced change in the conversation's path would only make it worse. The only way to avoid it was to stop talking.
She couldn't. She knew that, too.
"I still don't have my strength back."
"Anastasia matched your power punch for punch, kick for kick, in every possible way. Are you trying to suggest she is your physical equal? No. Your mind is weak. Your heart is misplaced. Muscle is for show. Where did your strength come from?"
Get up. Leave. You're not ready for this. Sweep the floor, let the other girl get a little fresh air.
"....I needed it. To survive. You know how it is."
"Others survive without strength. They may be stepped on, beaten up, and abused, but they survive."
"But I-"
"Are you lying only to me, or to yourself as well?"
"Sensei.."
The next thing Stick saw was Zennosuke standing above her, shockingly tall, arm angled in recoil from a backhanded strike. A moment later, she noticed herself laying up against the dojo's outside wall, sprawled along the ground. Her eye throbbed; once the puzzle was solved, Stick found herself face to face with the sensei, not as a conscious decision, but a reaction.
"What the ^@#$ was that for!"
"You will give me the truth, Sarah! What made you strong?"
"Being pissed off made me strong! Anger, rage, that made me strong! You know that, damnit!"
"You are here because you feel weak, and you wish to be strong again?"
"Yes!"
"Do you miss your rage?"
Their eyes locked, wisdom working its magic. The question's force buckled Stick's knees, forcing her down to the transplanted indoor stool. Lips parted, tongue pressed to upper teeth, breath was taken, eyes scanned the tea set for help, but no words came. By the time her attention returned to the teacher, he was sitting again, picturesque calm, observing.
"I miss being strong."
"Do you miss your rage?"
"...No."
A strong finger caught the young woman's chin before it could drop too far. Zennosuke lifted her gaze to his, patting a cheek with a hand whose warm comfort was matched only by his wrinkled smile.
"It's about time."
She frowned.
"When you left, I had wondered if you would learn about being human again."
Blink.
His smile grew, motioning to the small table before them. "We will speak later. Drink your tea."
Late night, creeping into early morning hours. Stick sits with Angel in candlelight, relaying the conversation in full.
"I see. So you learned something?" Stick is glad her friend is here; the vampire's lilt has always been a comfort in times of confusion.
"I don't know. I kind of knew all that already. I'm tired of being angry all the time, but I don't want to feel so weak, either. I guess the only difference is that now you guys know, not just me.. I still don't have any idea what to do about it."
"That is sometimes better, especially when 'you guys' includes a man like Zennosuke."
"Yeah." She considers for a moment before continuing. "Can I ask you something, Angel?"
"Of course, dear."
"How the ^@#$ does he do that?"
Light, womanly laughter fills the room, forcing a smile out of the girl. "Sarah, all I can tell you is that your sensei is a very wise man, and, given eight hundred more years, I still may not understand all he is capable of."
` "Okay. I'm going to bed."
"Good night."
Stick ascends the dojo stairs, cautiously avoiding her floor-bound roommate, and slips between the sheets of her simple bed. When she wakes in the morning, she will be unable to remember the last time she slept so well; the fact she is incapable of carrying more than vague memories of the months prior to winning Firestar (such as it can be considered a victory now) is not a coincidence.
From: Sarah The Stick
Muffled voices kept her imagination active. Stopping eventually, the silence which followed enveloped the young woman on her undersized pallet; she turned towards the wall, curled up, and fell asleep.
Almost.
"Miss Sarah? Are you awake?"
Damnit. "No one calls me that."
"Master does."
"He's a special case." Unnecessarily sharp; increasing fatigue kept her from regretting it too much.
It didn't hurt that the younger girl's voice echoed through blackness unfazed. "So does your friend."
"They're both.. look, almost everyone calls me Stick. That's good enough, alright?"
"Okay." A pause. "Why do they call you Stick?"
Sleep-deprived dreams of a full-contact morning spar gave way to images of truth, played out on the angled ceiling. Young boys standing in a yard, yelling towards a house, laughing. Their mouths form different words, but it's all white noise except for one word, one name. Dark-haired girl with sullen eyes stares out from the window. Short and thin, plain white dress, no inclination of what will be, save small, curled fists. Mother in the background tells her to ignore them. It never worked before. It doesn't work now.
"I named myself that."
A pause of surprise. "How come?"
"You saw my staff."
"But it's metal, it's not-"
Stick rolled over, words hissed in a quick burst of anger. "Do you think people get weapons like that made if they don't know how to use them already? My first staff was a flimsy pole I found in the garbage. The next one was a crooked tree branch. I had seven staves- and broke six- before I got the one I have now. You live here. You know how it is. No one gets anywhere unless they're feared. How many of the bastards out there do you think will fear 'Sarah'?
"I don't care how many people think Stick sounds funny. Better to be named after what you're going to use to hit the people who ^@#$ with you instead of something that's going to make you a target for every friend of every &@#$&@# you have to beat the &@#$ out of because he's too drunk to keep his hands off of you. Now go to sleep!"
"Okay." Anastasia rolled away from the pallet placidly.
Black hairs whipped across Stick's face as she spun towards the wall in a huff, pulling bedsheets to her neck. She heard the younger girl's soft, sleep-noise breathing drift up, peaceful, unaffected, and realized that was how Zennosuke had always wanted her to be, not a bristling ball of angry tension that trembled at decade-old memories. At least seven years Stick's junior, Anastasia idolized the stories their sensei told of the mighty Sarah Allian, but was already superior to the real thing in every important way.
Stick sank into the straw mattress, exhausted, finally understanding the depths of her failure, and cried until the night disappeared.
They sat in silence, teacher and pupil, tea cooling in the afternoon shade. Anastasia unhappily busied herself with chores; the day provided precious few hours when it was safe to remain outside while being able to avoid the harsh gaze of a sun seemingly created for no other purpose than to liquify the residents in this part of town, and she didn't appreciate having to spend them indoors.
At the moment, however, it was better than being within ten feet of Stick. Their morning workout had been a disaster. The younger student's crispness was enviable, her concentration as perfect as could be expected of one her age and then some. Stick's only advantage, pure physical prowess, was nullified by a complete lack of focus, borne of frustration with the reminders from each strike of how much better she was at them six months prior. It was nearly impossible for her to remember what she was capable of before Firestar came along; somehow, she didn't think knowing would be much consolation.
Stick watched her tea. Zennosuke watched Stick. She sighed, sinking forward, face resting in her hands, eyes rubbed automatically.
"I don't know what I'm doing anymore, sensei."
"Hmm."
She glanced over, smirking more in her mind than in reality. "That's where you tell me that I'm wrong, and I do know what I'm doing."
"I have never lied to a student, Sarah, and I don't intend to begin now."
The young woman's expression drooped, despondent eyes cast upon the ground. "I really was that bad?"
Silence.
"I knew I should have waited to visit. I was starting to get back in shape, I would've-"
"Your physical condition is irrelevant. You are capable of reaching the level you were at within the month." Zennosuke's impassiveness forced an inward sigh. Stick knew she was going to hear something she didn't want to hear. She also knew that a forced change in the conversation's path would only make it worse. The only way to avoid it was to stop talking.
She couldn't. She knew that, too.
"I still don't have my strength back."
"Anastasia matched your power punch for punch, kick for kick, in every possible way. Are you trying to suggest she is your physical equal? No. Your mind is weak. Your heart is misplaced. Muscle is for show. Where did your strength come from?"
Get up. Leave. You're not ready for this. Sweep the floor, let the other girl get a little fresh air.
"....I needed it. To survive. You know how it is."
"Others survive without strength. They may be stepped on, beaten up, and abused, but they survive."
"But I-"
"Are you lying only to me, or to yourself as well?"
"Sensei.."
The next thing Stick saw was Zennosuke standing above her, shockingly tall, arm angled in recoil from a backhanded strike. A moment later, she noticed herself laying up against the dojo's outside wall, sprawled along the ground. Her eye throbbed; once the puzzle was solved, Stick found herself face to face with the sensei, not as a conscious decision, but a reaction.
"What the ^@#$ was that for!"
"You will give me the truth, Sarah! What made you strong?"
"Being pissed off made me strong! Anger, rage, that made me strong! You know that, damnit!"
"You are here because you feel weak, and you wish to be strong again?"
"Yes!"
"Do you miss your rage?"
Their eyes locked, wisdom working its magic. The question's force buckled Stick's knees, forcing her down to the transplanted indoor stool. Lips parted, tongue pressed to upper teeth, breath was taken, eyes scanned the tea set for help, but no words came. By the time her attention returned to the teacher, he was sitting again, picturesque calm, observing.
"I miss being strong."
"Do you miss your rage?"
"...No."
A strong finger caught the young woman's chin before it could drop too far. Zennosuke lifted her gaze to his, patting a cheek with a hand whose warm comfort was matched only by his wrinkled smile.
"It's about time."
She frowned.
"When you left, I had wondered if you would learn about being human again."
Blink.
His smile grew, motioning to the small table before them. "We will speak later. Drink your tea."
Late night, creeping into early morning hours. Stick sits with Angel in candlelight, relaying the conversation in full.
"I see. So you learned something?" Stick is glad her friend is here; the vampire's lilt has always been a comfort in times of confusion.
"I don't know. I kind of knew all that already. I'm tired of being angry all the time, but I don't want to feel so weak, either. I guess the only difference is that now you guys know, not just me.. I still don't have any idea what to do about it."
"That is sometimes better, especially when 'you guys' includes a man like Zennosuke."
"Yeah." She considers for a moment before continuing. "Can I ask you something, Angel?"
"Of course, dear."
"How the ^@#$ does he do that?"
Light, womanly laughter fills the room, forcing a smile out of the girl. "Sarah, all I can tell you is that your sensei is a very wise man, and, given eight hundred more years, I still may not understand all he is capable of."
` "Okay. I'm going to bed."
"Good night."
Stick ascends the dojo stairs, cautiously avoiding her floor-bound roommate, and slips between the sheets of her simple bed. When she wakes in the morning, she will be unable to remember the last time she slept so well; the fact she is incapable of carrying more than vague memories of the months prior to winning Firestar (such as it can be considered a victory now) is not a coincidence.
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Hello, Old Friend
Date: 6/14/2003 1:48 AM Eastern Daylight Time
From: Sarah The Stick
"Hey, sensei?"
"Yes, Sarah?"
"Do you remember my friend Stefan?"
"Yes."
"Whatever happened to him?"
She found him by the waterfront.
It was an accident, really. Surveying the area and its dilapidated buildings, watching long rows of wooden planks extend out into unending blue and green, reminiscing despite her best attempts not to, she literally tripped over a leg extending out from a ratty piece of some gray, indeterminate fabric. The attached person pulled himself to a sitting position as Stick, initially sprawled out, instinctively rolled up to hands and knees. Stringy blond hair flowed over his face in waves as he leaned forward, eyeing this obstacle to peace and quiet who sat before him. Shadowed eyes blinked, then widened.
"No &@$*#$^ way."
It was him, all right; Stick had just been thinking about how, if any of the people in RhyDin met Stefan, they would get a crash course on the beginnings of her foul mouth.
Crawling, slowly, she approached, hand extending; as it neared, he trembled, until he sprung out from beneath the makeshift blanket and backed away. She stopped again, gazing up at her old friend; she could see unhealthily defined chin angles, thin, uneven facial hair, and the same cherry red lips which had spewed some of her favorite curses.
"What the ^@#$ are you doing here, Stick?" His words radiated fear.
She stood, fingers interlocking behind her back.
"Looking for you."
He shuffled backwards. She followed, observing uncoordinated, barefoot steps, a body even thinner than the one she remembered covered in clothes worse off than his blanket, and a wooden shack he would back into shortly, along with very good odds he had no idea it was there.
"You shouldn't be here."
"Why?"
"You know.. that, guy, uh, Rene, he still obsesses about you. If he finds out you're here, he'll come after you."
"What's your point? He never scared me before."
"I... uh... I know. I'm just saying."
"Why do you keep backing away from me, Stef? Aren't you happy to see me?"
"Well, yeah, I just.. things aren't going so well, you know, uh.."
A few more steps...
"Stef, why won't you look at me?"
She was ready for him to panic and run, but showed no sign; she was equally prepared to be gentle, in case he panicked and couldn't move.
What Stick didn't expect was for him to turn around, run directly into the building he hadn't seen, and collapse in a broken heap of flesh, bones, and not much else.
He awoke an hour later. The first thing he saw was a low ceiling of smoked wood.
"Where am I..."
The second was a pair of dark, serious eyes which had haunted him for months.
"Inside that little wooden ^@#$-hole you decided to run face-first into the side of."
A pause hung heavily in the cramped quarters.
"So... my face doesn't hurt because you beat the ^@#$ out of me?"
"No."
"I guess that's why we're in here, huh." A weak sigh slipped out of Stefan, and for a moment Stick wondered if he was about to cry.
"Actually, I was thinking about us going to get some food."
"Huh?" She dabbed his face with a washcloth as he mumbled the question. Given the water conditions at dockside, he didn't want to know where it had come from.
"Food. To eat. You look like you've forgotten what it's like."
Memories of black diamonds and the threat of his most prized possessions being removed and force-fed to him floated through the skinny man's hazy mind. Thinking about it seemed like bad luck, so he kept quiet, looked up, and tried to figure out, who is this girl cleaning me up, and where's the real Stick?
The pair sat on wooden packing boxes, plates of stringy green vegetables and tenderly cooked meat steaming on a larger crate before them. Inside, the restaurant was cozy and clean, spotless white jarring in a borough of such muck and filth. Outside, the only sign of its existence was, in fact, a sign over the door, death-black script spelling out LEO'S on rotting wood. Stick had eaten here all the time, years ago, but only now did the placard seem symbolic of every other decaying thing she saw around her.
Walking the blocks to Leo's had been an exercise in patience. Stefan's gait was unsteady, to be kind. He looked like someone who had been walking forever and could continue forever just as long as he made sure not to stop. Oppressive silence had helped nothing. Their meeting was still one of people who knew each other, knew they knew each other, but couldn't figure out exactly who it was they were walking with.
Now, here they were, Stick calmly eating her meal as Stefan watched. He would take occasional bites, choking them down, nervous she might stab him with the chopsticks if he didn't. As his belly became used to the impact of real, nutritious food again, the process became less and less painful, to the point where the little black diamond laying on the crate went unnoticed until he was finished.
Shaky fingers darted to his pockets. Empty.
The pain of her stare was exponentially worse than the severest withdrawl. She knew. He knew it from the start, but now even self-denial was impossible. She knew, she was hurt, and when that damn baton of hers appeared above the crate's splintered edge, she was going to stand up and hurt him.
As the metal crashed down, Stefan braced, eyes clenched, preparing as best he could for the worst, which he wasn't prepared for at all. A sound rivaling the explosion of a fire wand rattled his ears, but it took several seconds for him to notice a surprising lack of pain.
Then he opened his eyes.
The diamond was gone. In its place lay scattered powder. It was a dare, he knew it, a dare to go ahead and touch the toxins, let the magic plunge into his brain and sweep him away, show him what the world would be like if he could escape into his happiest imaginings forever. Thumb and forefinger, that's all he needed, enough to rub the crystalline fragments into flesh. All he needed for the high that some people had sold the rest of their fingers to get more of.
Exactly what she's going to smash with that pipe of hers if I go for it, he thought.
If Stick knew how long he had been addicted, she probably would have been very impressed with the length of time he held out. What she wondered, instead, was if he realized how badly he was shaking for the entire three minutes before one clumsy hand slapped at the crate, searching for paydirt that a single breath blew away.
They sat on the street, backs against the wall of another cookie-cutter brick building project that had been abandoned and left for squatters. Down a narrow alley, the horizon overtook the sun.
"If this is where you live, why were you sleeping out by the docks?"
"I got into a fight with another one of the.. uh.."
"....People like you?"
"Yeah. I thought you were gonna say 'druggies' or something."
"Well... that's true too, but you spent an hour crying already. I didn't want to upset you any more."
Stefan smiled then, sincere, uninfluenced. Stick automatically smothered him in a tight hug, sure for the first time he wasn't completely lost.
He coughed. "Hey.. easy... I'm fragile."
She blinked up at him. He blinked back.
"Uh.. what?"
"...Nothing.. just that my boyfriend says he's fragile all the time, too."
Silence. She waited for her old friend to say something; he was too busy gawking. She nestled her head on his shoulder, hiding a smirk as she remembered all the nasty things about boys that had ever flown from her mouth in his presence, all the reasons he must have to be questioning reality at the moment.
"It's not that surprising."
"&^@# yes it is."
"How come?"
"Because.. you're.. you. You scare the hell out of most guys and piss off the rest. I'm supposed to believe you found someone that didn't happen with?"
"Sort of."
"What's that mean?"
"I only started pissing him off after we got together."
A laughing fit from both was followed by another coughing fit from one. Stefan touched the smaller hand on his chest, smiling weakly at the concerned face watching him suffer.
"I'm okay, I'm okay."
"Pull the other one."
"I am! You should've seen me a month ago."
"Don't talk like that."
His smile faded, there, then not there, only a moment's gap between the two states. "What happened to you, Stick? You're so g.. uh... sensitive now."
"Go ahead, say it. I'm girly. It's okay. I can be girly and still kick your ass."
"It's not like that's hard now."
"I'm glad you see it my way. Now you won't fight about it when I say you're sleeping at the dojo tonight. Or else."
"Fight it? Hell, I'd welcome a roof over my head that doesn't leak, but I don't think your sensei likes me very much. Shouldn't you ask him first?"
"You need help and you're not a hopeless cause. He won't mind."
"Fine by me. I'll go inside and get the stuff I left, then we better go. It's getting too dark."
"What kind of stuff?"
"Stuff that doesn't include anything like what you stole out of my pocket."
Stick grinned, hands sliding back to her own lap. "I missed you, Stef."
"Don't go getting all girly and sentimental on me now." He coughed, scratched the back of his neck, mumbled. "Imissedyoutoo."
Climbing up, dusting gravel from his already-filthy clothes, Stefan bounded off at a saunter towards the opening that served as a door to his home. Stick watched the whole way, never losing her smile, seeing the move-like-the-wind, look-like-a-sloth style that was uniquely his.
He vanished inside. Only a minute later, he was looking out at her again, leaning against the doorway.
"Stef?" Standing now. "Did you get your stuff already?"
She was halfway to him by the time he hit the ground. Encroaching darkness concealed the liquid that covered her hand when it touched his back, then his neck. Rustling from indoors kept her vigilant towards danger, but when his eyes turned to glass, everything went black.
Only when she found herself back in the dojo, dragging in the lifeless body of an adopted brother by his tear-soaked shirt before Anastasia's shocked eyes, would Stick be able to piece together what happened.
But it would be a long time before she tried.
From: Sarah The Stick
"Hey, sensei?"
"Yes, Sarah?"
"Do you remember my friend Stefan?"
"Yes."
"Whatever happened to him?"
She found him by the waterfront.
It was an accident, really. Surveying the area and its dilapidated buildings, watching long rows of wooden planks extend out into unending blue and green, reminiscing despite her best attempts not to, she literally tripped over a leg extending out from a ratty piece of some gray, indeterminate fabric. The attached person pulled himself to a sitting position as Stick, initially sprawled out, instinctively rolled up to hands and knees. Stringy blond hair flowed over his face in waves as he leaned forward, eyeing this obstacle to peace and quiet who sat before him. Shadowed eyes blinked, then widened.
"No &@$*#$^ way."
It was him, all right; Stick had just been thinking about how, if any of the people in RhyDin met Stefan, they would get a crash course on the beginnings of her foul mouth.
Crawling, slowly, she approached, hand extending; as it neared, he trembled, until he sprung out from beneath the makeshift blanket and backed away. She stopped again, gazing up at her old friend; she could see unhealthily defined chin angles, thin, uneven facial hair, and the same cherry red lips which had spewed some of her favorite curses.
"What the ^@#$ are you doing here, Stick?" His words radiated fear.
She stood, fingers interlocking behind her back.
"Looking for you."
He shuffled backwards. She followed, observing uncoordinated, barefoot steps, a body even thinner than the one she remembered covered in clothes worse off than his blanket, and a wooden shack he would back into shortly, along with very good odds he had no idea it was there.
"You shouldn't be here."
"Why?"
"You know.. that, guy, uh, Rene, he still obsesses about you. If he finds out you're here, he'll come after you."
"What's your point? He never scared me before."
"I... uh... I know. I'm just saying."
"Why do you keep backing away from me, Stef? Aren't you happy to see me?"
"Well, yeah, I just.. things aren't going so well, you know, uh.."
A few more steps...
"Stef, why won't you look at me?"
She was ready for him to panic and run, but showed no sign; she was equally prepared to be gentle, in case he panicked and couldn't move.
What Stick didn't expect was for him to turn around, run directly into the building he hadn't seen, and collapse in a broken heap of flesh, bones, and not much else.
He awoke an hour later. The first thing he saw was a low ceiling of smoked wood.
"Where am I..."
The second was a pair of dark, serious eyes which had haunted him for months.
"Inside that little wooden ^@#$-hole you decided to run face-first into the side of."
A pause hung heavily in the cramped quarters.
"So... my face doesn't hurt because you beat the ^@#$ out of me?"
"No."
"I guess that's why we're in here, huh." A weak sigh slipped out of Stefan, and for a moment Stick wondered if he was about to cry.
"Actually, I was thinking about us going to get some food."
"Huh?" She dabbed his face with a washcloth as he mumbled the question. Given the water conditions at dockside, he didn't want to know where it had come from.
"Food. To eat. You look like you've forgotten what it's like."
Memories of black diamonds and the threat of his most prized possessions being removed and force-fed to him floated through the skinny man's hazy mind. Thinking about it seemed like bad luck, so he kept quiet, looked up, and tried to figure out, who is this girl cleaning me up, and where's the real Stick?
The pair sat on wooden packing boxes, plates of stringy green vegetables and tenderly cooked meat steaming on a larger crate before them. Inside, the restaurant was cozy and clean, spotless white jarring in a borough of such muck and filth. Outside, the only sign of its existence was, in fact, a sign over the door, death-black script spelling out LEO'S on rotting wood. Stick had eaten here all the time, years ago, but only now did the placard seem symbolic of every other decaying thing she saw around her.
Walking the blocks to Leo's had been an exercise in patience. Stefan's gait was unsteady, to be kind. He looked like someone who had been walking forever and could continue forever just as long as he made sure not to stop. Oppressive silence had helped nothing. Their meeting was still one of people who knew each other, knew they knew each other, but couldn't figure out exactly who it was they were walking with.
Now, here they were, Stick calmly eating her meal as Stefan watched. He would take occasional bites, choking them down, nervous she might stab him with the chopsticks if he didn't. As his belly became used to the impact of real, nutritious food again, the process became less and less painful, to the point where the little black diamond laying on the crate went unnoticed until he was finished.
Shaky fingers darted to his pockets. Empty.
The pain of her stare was exponentially worse than the severest withdrawl. She knew. He knew it from the start, but now even self-denial was impossible. She knew, she was hurt, and when that damn baton of hers appeared above the crate's splintered edge, she was going to stand up and hurt him.
As the metal crashed down, Stefan braced, eyes clenched, preparing as best he could for the worst, which he wasn't prepared for at all. A sound rivaling the explosion of a fire wand rattled his ears, but it took several seconds for him to notice a surprising lack of pain.
Then he opened his eyes.
The diamond was gone. In its place lay scattered powder. It was a dare, he knew it, a dare to go ahead and touch the toxins, let the magic plunge into his brain and sweep him away, show him what the world would be like if he could escape into his happiest imaginings forever. Thumb and forefinger, that's all he needed, enough to rub the crystalline fragments into flesh. All he needed for the high that some people had sold the rest of their fingers to get more of.
Exactly what she's going to smash with that pipe of hers if I go for it, he thought.
If Stick knew how long he had been addicted, she probably would have been very impressed with the length of time he held out. What she wondered, instead, was if he realized how badly he was shaking for the entire three minutes before one clumsy hand slapped at the crate, searching for paydirt that a single breath blew away.
They sat on the street, backs against the wall of another cookie-cutter brick building project that had been abandoned and left for squatters. Down a narrow alley, the horizon overtook the sun.
"If this is where you live, why were you sleeping out by the docks?"
"I got into a fight with another one of the.. uh.."
"....People like you?"
"Yeah. I thought you were gonna say 'druggies' or something."
"Well... that's true too, but you spent an hour crying already. I didn't want to upset you any more."
Stefan smiled then, sincere, uninfluenced. Stick automatically smothered him in a tight hug, sure for the first time he wasn't completely lost.
He coughed. "Hey.. easy... I'm fragile."
She blinked up at him. He blinked back.
"Uh.. what?"
"...Nothing.. just that my boyfriend says he's fragile all the time, too."
Silence. She waited for her old friend to say something; he was too busy gawking. She nestled her head on his shoulder, hiding a smirk as she remembered all the nasty things about boys that had ever flown from her mouth in his presence, all the reasons he must have to be questioning reality at the moment.
"It's not that surprising."
"&^@# yes it is."
"How come?"
"Because.. you're.. you. You scare the hell out of most guys and piss off the rest. I'm supposed to believe you found someone that didn't happen with?"
"Sort of."
"What's that mean?"
"I only started pissing him off after we got together."
A laughing fit from both was followed by another coughing fit from one. Stefan touched the smaller hand on his chest, smiling weakly at the concerned face watching him suffer.
"I'm okay, I'm okay."
"Pull the other one."
"I am! You should've seen me a month ago."
"Don't talk like that."
His smile faded, there, then not there, only a moment's gap between the two states. "What happened to you, Stick? You're so g.. uh... sensitive now."
"Go ahead, say it. I'm girly. It's okay. I can be girly and still kick your ass."
"It's not like that's hard now."
"I'm glad you see it my way. Now you won't fight about it when I say you're sleeping at the dojo tonight. Or else."
"Fight it? Hell, I'd welcome a roof over my head that doesn't leak, but I don't think your sensei likes me very much. Shouldn't you ask him first?"
"You need help and you're not a hopeless cause. He won't mind."
"Fine by me. I'll go inside and get the stuff I left, then we better go. It's getting too dark."
"What kind of stuff?"
"Stuff that doesn't include anything like what you stole out of my pocket."
Stick grinned, hands sliding back to her own lap. "I missed you, Stef."
"Don't go getting all girly and sentimental on me now." He coughed, scratched the back of his neck, mumbled. "Imissedyoutoo."
Climbing up, dusting gravel from his already-filthy clothes, Stefan bounded off at a saunter towards the opening that served as a door to his home. Stick watched the whole way, never losing her smile, seeing the move-like-the-wind, look-like-a-sloth style that was uniquely his.
He vanished inside. Only a minute later, he was looking out at her again, leaning against the doorway.
"Stef?" Standing now. "Did you get your stuff already?"
She was halfway to him by the time he hit the ground. Encroaching darkness concealed the liquid that covered her hand when it touched his back, then his neck. Rustling from indoors kept her vigilant towards danger, but when his eyes turned to glass, everything went black.
Only when she found herself back in the dojo, dragging in the lifeless body of an adopted brother by his tear-soaked shirt before Anastasia's shocked eyes, would Stick be able to piece together what happened.
But it would be a long time before she tried.
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...And Goodbye
Date: 6/14/2003 2:08 AM Eastern Daylight Time
From: Sarah The Stick
She knelt on freshly turned ground. Superstition held it was bad luck to walk over the ground of graves, but she didn't think Stefan would mind. It was the only way to see him in the illusion-magic tombstone Angel had helped her buy.
Ears covered, the music box played.
It's unsuspecting, it seems to find us now
When we least suspect it tries to pull us down
Agonizing pain, this loss of life
Rips through us now
This is our fight
The feathery touch of Angel's hand on her shoulder was the last sign anyone had remained behind. It meant they were leaving; just as well. Their support only made the situation harder to bear.
Everything's a painful reminder
How could the world do this to me?
And when I reach out to find you
This world has taken you from me
Tears obscured the view of his image, as did an oncoming rainstorm. The drops felt heavy, like tears themselves. Maybe it was true, what Stefan used to say about angels crying. Maybe they were crying with her now. She couldn't be the only one who would miss him.
And if I ever said our time is not well spent
Those are the times I wish for now it's my lament
It is the crown I wear, it is the crown of shame
Guilt I carry, to the world I place the blame
She remembered sprinting down roads and alleys, danger nipping at her heels, slipping to a halt before the ambush. Then the thin, older boy, the one she vaguely recognized from around town, standing over two writhing bodies, shock wand crackling in his hand.
It happened so fast..
She turned, saw the pursuers flee, turned back. Still there, hand extended, offering to walk with her.
Smiling.
I've gotta keep pushing and fighting and moving on
When the pain is all I see
I've gotta keep moving forward and moving on
When the pain is all I need
A new sight, now, curled up with him, safest place in the world. They would lay together for hours, imaginations soaring above the murk, the danger. Brother and sister, team for the ages. Unstoppable.
I've gotta keep pushing and fighting and moving on
When the pain is all I see
I've gotta keep moving forward and moving on
When the pain is all I need
The woman stood, black-eyed and screaming, a nightmare witch out of some children's tale told by parents in the city proper to scare them away from the docks. Tangled, unbrushed tresses threatened to reach out and steal the girl's soul. So close they came, so intent the girl was on becoming part of the corner she was backed into, the splintering door didn't register.
Her mother's face, smashed into a wall, sliding to the floor and out of consciousness, did.
In the present, Stick blinked.
Everything's a painful reminder
How could the world do this to me?
And when I reach out for you
This world has taken you from me
Blind stumbles took her from grave to grave. She passed by tombstones of all shapes and sizes without inspection. Tall or short, large or small, smooth as an egg or jagged as a tiger's teeth, if she could see it from a distance, it wasn't the right one.
A single resting place stood out in its emptiness. There, a block of wood lay half-buried in the ground, hiding, ashamed of the name carved into it.
I've gotta keep living for you
They can't take you from me
And as I scream out to you
I hope that you hear me
Trembling hands desecrated weeds overgrowing the marker. It remained impossible to see clearly through flowing tears, but this was definitely the right place. No spring rain could be responsible for her deep chill.
Desperate fingers clawed at dirt until its grip loosened, letting cursed maple crumble in two, water-stained top half separating from the worm-eaten bottom.
And if I ever said our time is not well spent
Those are the times I wish for now it's my lament
It is the crown I wear, it is the crown of shame
Guilt I carry, to the world I place the blame
To the world I place the blame
MARIA ALLIAN
Everything's a painful reminder
How could the world do this to me?
And when I reach out for you
This world has taken you from me
Drenched, matted hair stung Stick's face as it swung right, dropping off a slick cheek as she stormed towards a real tombstone, solid, suited to her needs. She angled the wood against it, names split, and pushed.
Snap.
She heard her own scream over the music as she splintered the front half over a knee, unrecoverable.
I've gotta keep living for you
They can't take you from me
And as I scream out to you
I hope that you hear me
One finger glided over the black box, pausing the song as she came back in front of Stefan's unseeing gaze. Sitting cross-legged, the young woman spoke, feeling very much the confused little girl as she looked him in the eyes.
"I know you always thought she didn't deserve this stupid little thing." She showed her family name. "Maybe not. Maybe I bought it then so it would be here for me to come back and get. Doesn't matter... it's mine now, Stef. I took my name back. That's what she didn't deserve.
"Sensei would say you didn't really die, because there is no death. We're always part of the universe, no matter what form we're in. I know we always used to question it, laugh at it, but... it kind of makes me feel better, knowing that you'll always be around. I don't have to say goodbye that way. But I do have to say goodbye, don't I?
"God, I don't know. We said 'until next time' four years ago, remember? There was a next time. Let's say it again this time, so I know you'll be with me, okay?"
Leaning towards him, forehead pressed to granite, she sobbed until the only water running down her face was rain. When her eyes opened again, there he was, the slight, consistent smile remaining, as it would, forever.
She rose to a crouch, then stood.
"Bye, Stef. I love you."
Play.
I've gotta keep living for you
The pain is all I need
And as I scream out to you
The pain is all I need
Turning away for the last time, she tread a path towards the gate, squinting to make sure it was really Anastasia approaching, simple blue-green sundress soaked to alabaster skin. The younger girl gave a silent hug and a smile in greeting, and walked her hero home.
Hope is all I see
From: Sarah The Stick
She knelt on freshly turned ground. Superstition held it was bad luck to walk over the ground of graves, but she didn't think Stefan would mind. It was the only way to see him in the illusion-magic tombstone Angel had helped her buy.
Ears covered, the music box played.
It's unsuspecting, it seems to find us now
When we least suspect it tries to pull us down
Agonizing pain, this loss of life
Rips through us now
This is our fight
The feathery touch of Angel's hand on her shoulder was the last sign anyone had remained behind. It meant they were leaving; just as well. Their support only made the situation harder to bear.
Everything's a painful reminder
How could the world do this to me?
And when I reach out to find you
This world has taken you from me
Tears obscured the view of his image, as did an oncoming rainstorm. The drops felt heavy, like tears themselves. Maybe it was true, what Stefan used to say about angels crying. Maybe they were crying with her now. She couldn't be the only one who would miss him.
And if I ever said our time is not well spent
Those are the times I wish for now it's my lament
It is the crown I wear, it is the crown of shame
Guilt I carry, to the world I place the blame
She remembered sprinting down roads and alleys, danger nipping at her heels, slipping to a halt before the ambush. Then the thin, older boy, the one she vaguely recognized from around town, standing over two writhing bodies, shock wand crackling in his hand.
It happened so fast..
She turned, saw the pursuers flee, turned back. Still there, hand extended, offering to walk with her.
Smiling.
I've gotta keep pushing and fighting and moving on
When the pain is all I see
I've gotta keep moving forward and moving on
When the pain is all I need
A new sight, now, curled up with him, safest place in the world. They would lay together for hours, imaginations soaring above the murk, the danger. Brother and sister, team for the ages. Unstoppable.
I've gotta keep pushing and fighting and moving on
When the pain is all I see
I've gotta keep moving forward and moving on
When the pain is all I need
The woman stood, black-eyed and screaming, a nightmare witch out of some children's tale told by parents in the city proper to scare them away from the docks. Tangled, unbrushed tresses threatened to reach out and steal the girl's soul. So close they came, so intent the girl was on becoming part of the corner she was backed into, the splintering door didn't register.
Her mother's face, smashed into a wall, sliding to the floor and out of consciousness, did.
In the present, Stick blinked.
Everything's a painful reminder
How could the world do this to me?
And when I reach out for you
This world has taken you from me
Blind stumbles took her from grave to grave. She passed by tombstones of all shapes and sizes without inspection. Tall or short, large or small, smooth as an egg or jagged as a tiger's teeth, if she could see it from a distance, it wasn't the right one.
A single resting place stood out in its emptiness. There, a block of wood lay half-buried in the ground, hiding, ashamed of the name carved into it.
I've gotta keep living for you
They can't take you from me
And as I scream out to you
I hope that you hear me
Trembling hands desecrated weeds overgrowing the marker. It remained impossible to see clearly through flowing tears, but this was definitely the right place. No spring rain could be responsible for her deep chill.
Desperate fingers clawed at dirt until its grip loosened, letting cursed maple crumble in two, water-stained top half separating from the worm-eaten bottom.
And if I ever said our time is not well spent
Those are the times I wish for now it's my lament
It is the crown I wear, it is the crown of shame
Guilt I carry, to the world I place the blame
To the world I place the blame
MARIA ALLIAN
Everything's a painful reminder
How could the world do this to me?
And when I reach out for you
This world has taken you from me
Drenched, matted hair stung Stick's face as it swung right, dropping off a slick cheek as she stormed towards a real tombstone, solid, suited to her needs. She angled the wood against it, names split, and pushed.
Snap.
She heard her own scream over the music as she splintered the front half over a knee, unrecoverable.
I've gotta keep living for you
They can't take you from me
And as I scream out to you
I hope that you hear me
One finger glided over the black box, pausing the song as she came back in front of Stefan's unseeing gaze. Sitting cross-legged, the young woman spoke, feeling very much the confused little girl as she looked him in the eyes.
"I know you always thought she didn't deserve this stupid little thing." She showed her family name. "Maybe not. Maybe I bought it then so it would be here for me to come back and get. Doesn't matter... it's mine now, Stef. I took my name back. That's what she didn't deserve.
"Sensei would say you didn't really die, because there is no death. We're always part of the universe, no matter what form we're in. I know we always used to question it, laugh at it, but... it kind of makes me feel better, knowing that you'll always be around. I don't have to say goodbye that way. But I do have to say goodbye, don't I?
"God, I don't know. We said 'until next time' four years ago, remember? There was a next time. Let's say it again this time, so I know you'll be with me, okay?"
Leaning towards him, forehead pressed to granite, she sobbed until the only water running down her face was rain. When her eyes opened again, there he was, the slight, consistent smile remaining, as it would, forever.
She rose to a crouch, then stood.
"Bye, Stef. I love you."
Play.
I've gotta keep living for you
The pain is all I need
And as I scream out to you
The pain is all I need
Turning away for the last time, she tread a path towards the gate, squinting to make sure it was really Anastasia approaching, simple blue-green sundress soaked to alabaster skin. The younger girl gave a silent hug and a smile in greeting, and walked her hero home.
Hope is all I see
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DoF Archive
- Archivist
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The End
Date: 6/15/2003 11:54 PM Eastern Daylight Time
From: Sarah The Stick
From the door, she could see a night sky approaching, pushing back fading dusk light. Inside, Angel and Zennosuke held what the vampire would call idle conversation. Stick had always assumed that, for those two, idle conversation involved some sort of deep philosophy that would take her a lifetime and a half to understand. After the past two months, she wondered if it might only require one lifetime. That sounded right; gain insight into all their secrets, then expire.
She spun on a heel, slowly, carefully balancing herself with the large duffle bag resting over her shoulder. Tugging the straps of her backpack forward, the girl started one last tour of the key to her life.
Until a week earlier, she may as well have been eighteen again. Workouts were excruciating, to be polite. Somewhere, she imagined, someone probably enjoyed this sort of thing. Each day, five hundred pushups. Five hundred situps. Five hundred jumping squats. Not all at once, of course; interspersed with the conditioning were non-stop attempts to rip holes in practice pads with fists and feet. Sometimes, for variety, Zennosuke would forego the number of situps and have both girls work their midsections for ten consecutive minutes. If one went too slowly for his liking, each had a minute added to her time. Anastasia obviously learned this lesson well, as the first thirteen-minute day had been entirely Stick's fault.
Even their one day of rest each week was spent cleaning, sweeping, running errands, and taking care of all the dojo's necessities. This was a life that allowed precious little time for contemplation of the small things. This was the life of a fighter-to-be, or, in some circumstances, a fighter that was and will be again.
Then Stefan died, and everything changed.
The master watched through a tint of irony as Stick upped her intensity level twofold, with Anastasia dutifully following suit. By the end of the third day, he was compelled to step in and force the girls to slow their pace. The older one was managing, feeding off a strength deeper than pain; the younger was near collapse, underfed and overworked by an inborn unwillingness to disappoint. He let them go as long as he dared, but now it was time to return to a more normal routine, one physically possible for both of them.
Not that it mattered. As it turned out, Stick had already decided to leave the next night. Her words regarding the subject- "It's time to go"- brought a smile to the sensei's face. Her fellow student needed more convincing, but when invited for a visit were she ever to find herself in RhyDin, the girl's face lit up, and nothing more needed to be said.
The teacher and his prized pupil stood face-to-face one more time.
"I guess I should be going, huh."
"You know you may stay as long as you wish."
"And that's why we both know I need to leave."
Zennosuke nodded. "Your journey was worthwhile?"
She thought about Stefan, motionless. She thought about Stefan, smiling, a new memory.
Fingers glided over the duffel bag, holder of a very special piece of wood.
"Yes."
"Good."
Stick unconsciously chewed her lip for a moment. "I'm not going to see you again, am I, sensei?"
His well-creased visage pulled into a tight smile, silent. It was okay with her; one thing she had learned, somewhere along the line, was that she preferred simply knowing a sad truth over hearing it.
They embraced smoothly, despite the bags. Anastasia took her hug next, with more difficulty. They all shared a short laugh when the teenager's arm was caught in the duffel's strap, but everyone quieted out of respect for her somber demeanor.
"You promise I won't have any trouble finding you?"
"I told you, the Red Dragon is the biggest inn around, and it's at the center of the city to boot."
"What if you move?"
"You won't have any trouble. Trust me."
"Okay." She stood bravely before the three elders, keeping a stiff upper lip and dry eyes, though a sniffly inhale betrayed her sadness.
Stick smiled weakly, head down as she turned towards the door, glancing at Angel and her unusual black, pants-and-top outfit. Apparently they both wanted to exit the city with as little notice as possible. "Ready to go?"
"Whenever you are, dear."
The woman nodded respectfully towards her friend, initiating a move towards the door in both. It was fully night now, safest time for them to travel, curfew be damned. One step out, Stick turned back inside, keeping Anastasia in her peripheral vision.
"If you come to see me, you'd better be sensei's new best student."
A smile, a wave, and then they left for home.
From: Sarah The Stick
From the door, she could see a night sky approaching, pushing back fading dusk light. Inside, Angel and Zennosuke held what the vampire would call idle conversation. Stick had always assumed that, for those two, idle conversation involved some sort of deep philosophy that would take her a lifetime and a half to understand. After the past two months, she wondered if it might only require one lifetime. That sounded right; gain insight into all their secrets, then expire.
She spun on a heel, slowly, carefully balancing herself with the large duffle bag resting over her shoulder. Tugging the straps of her backpack forward, the girl started one last tour of the key to her life.
Until a week earlier, she may as well have been eighteen again. Workouts were excruciating, to be polite. Somewhere, she imagined, someone probably enjoyed this sort of thing. Each day, five hundred pushups. Five hundred situps. Five hundred jumping squats. Not all at once, of course; interspersed with the conditioning were non-stop attempts to rip holes in practice pads with fists and feet. Sometimes, for variety, Zennosuke would forego the number of situps and have both girls work their midsections for ten consecutive minutes. If one went too slowly for his liking, each had a minute added to her time. Anastasia obviously learned this lesson well, as the first thirteen-minute day had been entirely Stick's fault.
Even their one day of rest each week was spent cleaning, sweeping, running errands, and taking care of all the dojo's necessities. This was a life that allowed precious little time for contemplation of the small things. This was the life of a fighter-to-be, or, in some circumstances, a fighter that was and will be again.
Then Stefan died, and everything changed.
The master watched through a tint of irony as Stick upped her intensity level twofold, with Anastasia dutifully following suit. By the end of the third day, he was compelled to step in and force the girls to slow their pace. The older one was managing, feeding off a strength deeper than pain; the younger was near collapse, underfed and overworked by an inborn unwillingness to disappoint. He let them go as long as he dared, but now it was time to return to a more normal routine, one physically possible for both of them.
Not that it mattered. As it turned out, Stick had already decided to leave the next night. Her words regarding the subject- "It's time to go"- brought a smile to the sensei's face. Her fellow student needed more convincing, but when invited for a visit were she ever to find herself in RhyDin, the girl's face lit up, and nothing more needed to be said.
The teacher and his prized pupil stood face-to-face one more time.
"I guess I should be going, huh."
"You know you may stay as long as you wish."
"And that's why we both know I need to leave."
Zennosuke nodded. "Your journey was worthwhile?"
She thought about Stefan, motionless. She thought about Stefan, smiling, a new memory.
Fingers glided over the duffel bag, holder of a very special piece of wood.
"Yes."
"Good."
Stick unconsciously chewed her lip for a moment. "I'm not going to see you again, am I, sensei?"
His well-creased visage pulled into a tight smile, silent. It was okay with her; one thing she had learned, somewhere along the line, was that she preferred simply knowing a sad truth over hearing it.
They embraced smoothly, despite the bags. Anastasia took her hug next, with more difficulty. They all shared a short laugh when the teenager's arm was caught in the duffel's strap, but everyone quieted out of respect for her somber demeanor.
"You promise I won't have any trouble finding you?"
"I told you, the Red Dragon is the biggest inn around, and it's at the center of the city to boot."
"What if you move?"
"You won't have any trouble. Trust me."
"Okay." She stood bravely before the three elders, keeping a stiff upper lip and dry eyes, though a sniffly inhale betrayed her sadness.
Stick smiled weakly, head down as she turned towards the door, glancing at Angel and her unusual black, pants-and-top outfit. Apparently they both wanted to exit the city with as little notice as possible. "Ready to go?"
"Whenever you are, dear."
The woman nodded respectfully towards her friend, initiating a move towards the door in both. It was fully night now, safest time for them to travel, curfew be damned. One step out, Stick turned back inside, keeping Anastasia in her peripheral vision.
"If you come to see me, you'd better be sensei's new best student."
A smile, a wave, and then they left for home.