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Entry tags:
Kyou Kara Maou: One Last Adventure, sidestory
I actually wrote this before finishing the full-length fic it was attached to (relevant section in italics).
How do you become enlightened? Well, according to all the movies I've seen, you have a crotchety mentor, who makes you do ridiculous things. Clearly this is the way to go.
Shinou told cheerful stories about when he'd been a boy, and his father had taken him to the ocean -- he didn't have many memories of his father, as they had not been close, but that one was vivid in his mind even after all these years. The Sage had an amusing anecdote to share about his own younger years, when he had studied under his master, and the old man had given him a test, commanding him to sing so that fish would hear him. Morgif also had a story, but they were missing some of the key concepts to understand it, which he seemed disappointed about and bemoaned loudly.
The blond did all the fishing, but the Sage assured him that he was a very poor fisher, and a much better storyteller, so he didn't mind. Time spent between stories was spent attempting to coerce the taller man into singing, but apparently fish rated higher on the cosmic scale than royalty, and he was granted not a warble for his efforts.
***
"They won't listen to you if you tell them about the hurricane. They are foolish, all."
It was frustrating, to see the signs and have them mean nothing in the end. "Maybe nobody's listening because you don't say things the right way."
His mentor had arched an eyebrow in response. "You say such interesting things. I want them to hear you, the boy," he had said. "Sing for the fish."
The boy studied the surface of the water skeptically, extending one foot from beneath his robes to test the temperature of the water. It was freezing. He sighed and curled his legs back up, resting his head in one hand as he pondered. Fish were not traditionally inclined towards music and would probably flee if he just started making noise. He couldn't breathe underwater and he was definitely not planning on swimming in midwinter water.
Well, if he knew his master, he might be out here for several days until he found a solution.
Never an impatient child, the boy sat on a rock sticking out of the lake, and he thought about it.
***
The hurricane passed and some of the villagers went and fished up all the dead fish out of the mouth of the lake, but they didn't go near its northern bank where that mysterious hermit lived with the boy. Too many trespassers had gotten angry lectures and threats of 'thrashings so serious you'll need to create new words for suffering' had chased them away. Any whispers that the strange hermit might be a wiseman had long ago faded into exasperation and condescending talk of senile old Mazoku.
In the early morning the boy left, his mentor never speaking to him. He hurried along the shoreline to the rock bridge, and he nimbly hopped out to the boulder where he had spent the day before. He curled onto his stomach and thought about singing to the fish.
Another child might have used maryoku to enable himself to sing even with his head underwater, or perhaps projected his words directly into the minds of the fish. The boy couldn't do those things: his maryoku was, he felt certain, quite useless.
What kind of things did fish like? How could he get them to pay attention to him, and not just to what he fed them or the disruption he caused?
His fingers traced idly over the surface of the water, an intricate and rippling dance.
***
On the third day he leaned anxiously over the edge of the rock, straight black hair falling around his face from behind his ears as he hovered; he ran his fingers in gentle patterns over the lake water. The boy made sure to keep his thoughts clear and calm, although it was hard to still the excited tremor of his heart. He kicked his legs back and forth to vent his tension, sandalled feet waving.
The rhythm, the repetition, the subtle and unintrusive touches. A slow gathering of maryoku -- less an exertion of power than an accumulation of it. Even the boy could gather power: he simply had no method to release it the way that others, users of fire magic or wind magic, could do.
And it had drawn fish. They lurked just below the surface where he tapped the water, curious, perhaps hungry, but paying attention to him.
Cheered, the boy continued to trace, weaving his maryoku around his audience, and he tilted his head back and in a soft clear tenor, he began to sing.
***
"Welcome back, the boy," said his mentor, the first words he had spoken in the three days since he had given his ward the task. "Did the fish enjoy your singing?"
The boy shrugged. "I don't know," he said, brushing the shoulder-length hair behind his ears. "But they listened."
"I think that they must have enjoyed it, then." The old man nodded to himself. "So few people make the effort to speak to them, after all. And unlike men, they are not ungrateful."
His mentor was a pessimist and did not much care for people. "Perhaps," said the boy, "but it only makes me wonder if there could be a man out there who would truly listen."
As if amused by this childish insistence, his mentor shook his head. "You say such interesting things, the boy," he said. "I know better than to wonder that way. Maybe it is because you know no better that someday you will surpass me."
The boy kicked his legs, waiting for the old man to make him supper, and he smiled.
How do you become enlightened? Well, according to all the movies I've seen, you have a crotchety mentor, who makes you do ridiculous things. Clearly this is the way to go.
Shinou told cheerful stories about when he'd been a boy, and his father had taken him to the ocean -- he didn't have many memories of his father, as they had not been close, but that one was vivid in his mind even after all these years. The Sage had an amusing anecdote to share about his own younger years, when he had studied under his master, and the old man had given him a test, commanding him to sing so that fish would hear him. Morgif also had a story, but they were missing some of the key concepts to understand it, which he seemed disappointed about and bemoaned loudly.
The blond did all the fishing, but the Sage assured him that he was a very poor fisher, and a much better storyteller, so he didn't mind. Time spent between stories was spent attempting to coerce the taller man into singing, but apparently fish rated higher on the cosmic scale than royalty, and he was granted not a warble for his efforts.
***
"They won't listen to you if you tell them about the hurricane. They are foolish, all."
It was frustrating, to see the signs and have them mean nothing in the end. "Maybe nobody's listening because you don't say things the right way."
His mentor had arched an eyebrow in response. "You say such interesting things. I want them to hear you, the boy," he had said. "Sing for the fish."
The boy studied the surface of the water skeptically, extending one foot from beneath his robes to test the temperature of the water. It was freezing. He sighed and curled his legs back up, resting his head in one hand as he pondered. Fish were not traditionally inclined towards music and would probably flee if he just started making noise. He couldn't breathe underwater and he was definitely not planning on swimming in midwinter water.
Well, if he knew his master, he might be out here for several days until he found a solution.
Never an impatient child, the boy sat on a rock sticking out of the lake, and he thought about it.
***
The hurricane passed and some of the villagers went and fished up all the dead fish out of the mouth of the lake, but they didn't go near its northern bank where that mysterious hermit lived with the boy. Too many trespassers had gotten angry lectures and threats of 'thrashings so serious you'll need to create new words for suffering' had chased them away. Any whispers that the strange hermit might be a wiseman had long ago faded into exasperation and condescending talk of senile old Mazoku.
In the early morning the boy left, his mentor never speaking to him. He hurried along the shoreline to the rock bridge, and he nimbly hopped out to the boulder where he had spent the day before. He curled onto his stomach and thought about singing to the fish.
Another child might have used maryoku to enable himself to sing even with his head underwater, or perhaps projected his words directly into the minds of the fish. The boy couldn't do those things: his maryoku was, he felt certain, quite useless.
What kind of things did fish like? How could he get them to pay attention to him, and not just to what he fed them or the disruption he caused?
His fingers traced idly over the surface of the water, an intricate and rippling dance.
***
On the third day he leaned anxiously over the edge of the rock, straight black hair falling around his face from behind his ears as he hovered; he ran his fingers in gentle patterns over the lake water. The boy made sure to keep his thoughts clear and calm, although it was hard to still the excited tremor of his heart. He kicked his legs back and forth to vent his tension, sandalled feet waving.
The rhythm, the repetition, the subtle and unintrusive touches. A slow gathering of maryoku -- less an exertion of power than an accumulation of it. Even the boy could gather power: he simply had no method to release it the way that others, users of fire magic or wind magic, could do.
And it had drawn fish. They lurked just below the surface where he tapped the water, curious, perhaps hungry, but paying attention to him.
Cheered, the boy continued to trace, weaving his maryoku around his audience, and he tilted his head back and in a soft clear tenor, he began to sing.
***
"Welcome back, the boy," said his mentor, the first words he had spoken in the three days since he had given his ward the task. "Did the fish enjoy your singing?"
The boy shrugged. "I don't know," he said, brushing the shoulder-length hair behind his ears. "But they listened."
"I think that they must have enjoyed it, then." The old man nodded to himself. "So few people make the effort to speak to them, after all. And unlike men, they are not ungrateful."
His mentor was a pessimist and did not much care for people. "Perhaps," said the boy, "but it only makes me wonder if there could be a man out there who would truly listen."
As if amused by this childish insistence, his mentor shook his head. "You say such interesting things, the boy," he said. "I know better than to wonder that way. Maybe it is because you know no better that someday you will surpass me."
The boy kicked his legs, waiting for the old man to make him supper, and he smiled.