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KKM: Dashing Heroes, a sidestory
Warnings: Similar to the other thing I wrote as a One Last Adventure sidestory. Segues into episode 68. Features the small child Sage, an even younger Shinou, and a lesson somewhat learned.
"Come here, the boy. Today we will learn about heroes."
It felt like they had been walking forever, since the earliest crack of dawn when the boy had been rousted from his bed to make this interminable journey to nowhere. Now, with afternoon waning, the boy wanted nothing more than to be allowed to sit and rest for a while. He had, in fact, just settled on a rock, prepared to do exactly that, permission or no. But his clever master finally, finally shared the purpose of their excursion, that there was a lesson to discover after all, and that alone heaved the dark-haired boy to his feet.
"Cover your head," advised his master, whose hair had so long been silvered that no one remembered what color it had once been. "We approach the town, and do not wish to be disturbed."
The boy drew his hood up over his head, casting his features into shadow, and his master nodded approval and resumed walking.
In short order they came across signs of the town: the road easing from a faint trail into a well-traveled dirt path, and the smoke of fires rising over the canopy of trees. It was a small village, one a considerable distance from the little hut where the boy and his master lived -- ordinarily, more than a single day's travel. Somehow the boy didn't count himself lucky to have walked there in only a single day.
No one stopped them as they traveled through the streets. The village was of a moderate size, so they were used to not knowing every face that passed by. If anyone thought the old man with the silver-braided beard was odd, or the slight figure of the boy that followed behind him, shrouded nearly head to toe in a cloak, they kept their observations to a whisper.
Finally, the master stopped before a gate, and the boy lifted his head to study the manor house beyond. It seemed to belong to a moderately wealthy family -- the house was big enough for three or four servants, and although it was not richly decorated, the curtains and garden were in good condition.
"A hero was born here," said the master.
The boy raised his eyebrows, interested but unsure where this was going.
"Let us go inside, the boy. We will visit his family." He pushed his way past the gate as if he belonged there, and the boy followed him dutifully. If they were about to get yelled at and chased out, well, it wouldn't be the first time, and he always rather enjoyed it when his master's iron certainty about the world was proven wrong.
The trio they found in the sitting room adjoining the foyer looked startled as they entered: a man and a woman, well-dressed, attended by a young girl who could only have been a maid. The lady flushed, getting to her feet, a hand flying to her blond hair, impeccably done up, and she demanded, "Who is this?" in the same breath that her husband demanded, "What in the name of the holy is going on here?"
It was all the boy could do to keep from grinning in anticipation of the scene to follow, but his master said without turning a hair, "Greetings, young sir, young madam. Blessings upon both your houses."
Young Sir did not seem impressed and opened his mouth to retort, but he was cut short. "Are you--" His wife was flustered. "Are you, by any chance, the Hidden Sage?"
Oh, now that's a shame. They both seemed to be stunned into forgetting their quarrel with the man who had burst into their home without so much as a knock.
The boy's master said with an unusual gentleness, "I am occasionally called so, Miss Spitzberg."
"Bielefeld--"
"Yes, of course. My apologies, sir. I'm so used to communing with your lovely wife's family..."
Miss Spitzberg was flushed. She sat back to the divan and said breathlessly, "His Grace came to my sister's wedding, Teddy."
"Is that so." It was clear from Sir Bielefeld's expression that he wanted to know why his own wedding hadn't been worthy of such an august presence.
The master took a step into the living room, shedding his engulfing cloak to reveal the rich red and violet silk robes that were always worn for such visits. It never failed to impress, and it did very well at that now. "I've only come to have words with you. I believe that you were recently honored with a son..."
"Oh, yes!" Miss Spitzberg was clearly thrilled. "Yes-- We shall talk of Gustaf-- Annabel, silly girl, hurry and bring His Grace something to eat."
Still hovering in the doorway, waiting for his master's word, the boy thought that something to eat would be wonderful, as he had eaten nothing since the thin stew before they had departed that morning.
"The boy," said his master, as if sensing his agitation. "Why don't you go and say hello to the young Bielefeld child?" Obligingly, the boy turned to follow Annabel, who was waving at him; perhaps she would give him something to eat on her way to fetch his master something. He overheard, "Have no fear, the boy is my student. He is as kind a soul as one can hope for, considering that I am raising him!"
Polite laughter followed, and the boy rolled his eyes.
The maid Annabel took him up the stairs and waved him into a room which, disappointingly, did not seem to be anywhere near the kitchen. She held a finger to her lips to indicate that he should be quiet, and then hurried back down the steps, leaving the boy alone in the plush nursery.
It seemed like a pleasant house to grow up in. Hesitant, he crossed over to the cradle by the window, drawing down his hood. The boy leaned over the bars to peer in at the sleeping infant.
He was not very familiar with other children, much less with much younger children. One of the few things the boy didn't remember with perfect clarity was the time when he himself had been young, before joining his master: he hadn't the faintest idea what his parents had looked like, only that they had been gaunt, and scared of him.
The young Bielefeld child slept with perfect innocence. Wisps of blond hair that promised to fill out to a burnished gold surrounded his chubby face, and the boy reached out a hand gently to touch it, just to see what it felt like -- it was soft and fine like the silk of the boy's robes beneath his threadbare cloak. He drew back his hand, wary of waking the child, and curled his own raven hair around a finger, thoughtful.
Why was he here? A hero was born here. Yet his master had sent him to watch over this child instead of listening to some story of long-ago heroes. This little child?
"Perhaps you will be a hero," murmured the boy, and tried to find some trace of this. He stretched out his senses, listening to the rhythmic heartbeat, the steady breathing, the gentle swirl of maryoku in the air: both of this child's parents were strong in it, and it filled their household.
He wondered how his master knew. Had he seen a vision? It was the gift of his maryoku, the way that the boy's gift was to act as a catalyst.
As an experiment, the boy let his hand fall again, touching the infant's tiny fist, and his eyes widened slightly as his finger was seized in a curling reflexive grip. He let his maryoku seep into the infant, a subtle pulse of power hardly enough to light a candle. But the child giggled, opening shockingly blue eyes to look up at the boy who had woken him, and flailed a bit with the finger still in his clutches.
The boy was smiling, charmed, when he heard the voice of his master downstairs. "It's time! We must leave, the boy."
Reluctantly, he pried himself loose of the Bielefeld child, who fidgeted restlessly. The tendril of maryoku had sunk into him so effortlessly, leaving hardly a trace.
Will you be so powerful, when you come into your own? The boy caressed the child's face one last time before drawing away, twitching his hood back over his telltale black hair and taking long, quick steps from the cradle before the child could cry out or whatever children did when they were left alone and wanted company.
"I'm here," he said, taking the stairs two at a time.
"Good. We mustn't overstay our welcome..."
"There's no such thing," said Sir Bielefeld politely, apparently much more pleased now than he had been earlier. "We hope to see you again, Your Grace. Your visit has honored us."
The master said, benevolent, "Yes, I know." He whisked the boy out the door, as similarly abrupt as his entrance.
They left the town quickly, and in silence. The boy eyed his master, who travelled empty-handed. "You didn't bring me any food?" he asked, exasperated.
"What's wrong with my cooking, the boy?"
"Well, it will be dawn again before we're home."
His master made a displeased grunt. "You'll eat what I prepare for you, and that's all. When we're home I shall cook."
The boy crossed his arms over his pitifully empty stomach. Hunger was supposed to build character, he remembered hearing somewhere. "Was that child the hero you spoke of?"
"Yes," said his master, sounding more at ease now that they had wandered back onto the topic. "What did you think of him?"
He thought about it, and shook his head. "I thought of him as a child -- like any other."
"You see, that is what we have come here to discover! There is no difference between a hero and any other man. The word 'hero' only means one who becomes more than his peers. It is a word they use to avoid feeling guilty for failing to overcome their own flaws."
You never have anything good to say, the boy thought. Perhaps just to annoy his master, he said philosophically, "I would like to meet a hero someday."
His master sighed. "The boy, what did I just tell you?"
The boy laughed, pleased. "I would like to look the man who has overcome his own flaws in the face," he said. "I would like to see myself in his eyes, and know how I measure up to such an august personage."
"You are not to be measured by mere men! You will be a sage. They will come to you to see if they are worthy. You will turn away countless thousands who are undeserving of you."
But the boy was not listening anymore.
* *
The Great Sage finds his attention drawn to the darkness that grows, ever more sinister in the corner of his vision. It catches at his spirit, bleak and terrible, and whispers to him of a darkness that has always belonged to stories, folklore of days long past. Everyone comes to him and says, 'Save us, tell us what to do!' They're too frightened to judge for themselves, and he despises such weakness with all the cynicism burned into his heart alongside wisdom.
A vibrant flash of color distracts him from the black cloud. The man who approaches is in armor, a soldier perhaps, with hair like burnished gold and shockingly blue eyes. He grins as he draws his mount to a stop, taking in the Sage in an easy, familiar gesture.
You have become a hero. He remembers with perfect clarity.
The admiration in that unwavering regard makes it hard to keep from smiling, but he has a reputation to maintain, after all.
"Come here, the boy. Today we will learn about heroes."
It felt like they had been walking forever, since the earliest crack of dawn when the boy had been rousted from his bed to make this interminable journey to nowhere. Now, with afternoon waning, the boy wanted nothing more than to be allowed to sit and rest for a while. He had, in fact, just settled on a rock, prepared to do exactly that, permission or no. But his clever master finally, finally shared the purpose of their excursion, that there was a lesson to discover after all, and that alone heaved the dark-haired boy to his feet.
"Cover your head," advised his master, whose hair had so long been silvered that no one remembered what color it had once been. "We approach the town, and do not wish to be disturbed."
The boy drew his hood up over his head, casting his features into shadow, and his master nodded approval and resumed walking.
In short order they came across signs of the town: the road easing from a faint trail into a well-traveled dirt path, and the smoke of fires rising over the canopy of trees. It was a small village, one a considerable distance from the little hut where the boy and his master lived -- ordinarily, more than a single day's travel. Somehow the boy didn't count himself lucky to have walked there in only a single day.
No one stopped them as they traveled through the streets. The village was of a moderate size, so they were used to not knowing every face that passed by. If anyone thought the old man with the silver-braided beard was odd, or the slight figure of the boy that followed behind him, shrouded nearly head to toe in a cloak, they kept their observations to a whisper.
Finally, the master stopped before a gate, and the boy lifted his head to study the manor house beyond. It seemed to belong to a moderately wealthy family -- the house was big enough for three or four servants, and although it was not richly decorated, the curtains and garden were in good condition.
"A hero was born here," said the master.
The boy raised his eyebrows, interested but unsure where this was going.
"Let us go inside, the boy. We will visit his family." He pushed his way past the gate as if he belonged there, and the boy followed him dutifully. If they were about to get yelled at and chased out, well, it wouldn't be the first time, and he always rather enjoyed it when his master's iron certainty about the world was proven wrong.
The trio they found in the sitting room adjoining the foyer looked startled as they entered: a man and a woman, well-dressed, attended by a young girl who could only have been a maid. The lady flushed, getting to her feet, a hand flying to her blond hair, impeccably done up, and she demanded, "Who is this?" in the same breath that her husband demanded, "What in the name of the holy is going on here?"
It was all the boy could do to keep from grinning in anticipation of the scene to follow, but his master said without turning a hair, "Greetings, young sir, young madam. Blessings upon both your houses."
Young Sir did not seem impressed and opened his mouth to retort, but he was cut short. "Are you--" His wife was flustered. "Are you, by any chance, the Hidden Sage?"
Oh, now that's a shame. They both seemed to be stunned into forgetting their quarrel with the man who had burst into their home without so much as a knock.
The boy's master said with an unusual gentleness, "I am occasionally called so, Miss Spitzberg."
"Bielefeld--"
"Yes, of course. My apologies, sir. I'm so used to communing with your lovely wife's family..."
Miss Spitzberg was flushed. She sat back to the divan and said breathlessly, "His Grace came to my sister's wedding, Teddy."
"Is that so." It was clear from Sir Bielefeld's expression that he wanted to know why his own wedding hadn't been worthy of such an august presence.
The master took a step into the living room, shedding his engulfing cloak to reveal the rich red and violet silk robes that were always worn for such visits. It never failed to impress, and it did very well at that now. "I've only come to have words with you. I believe that you were recently honored with a son..."
"Oh, yes!" Miss Spitzberg was clearly thrilled. "Yes-- We shall talk of Gustaf-- Annabel, silly girl, hurry and bring His Grace something to eat."
Still hovering in the doorway, waiting for his master's word, the boy thought that something to eat would be wonderful, as he had eaten nothing since the thin stew before they had departed that morning.
"The boy," said his master, as if sensing his agitation. "Why don't you go and say hello to the young Bielefeld child?" Obligingly, the boy turned to follow Annabel, who was waving at him; perhaps she would give him something to eat on her way to fetch his master something. He overheard, "Have no fear, the boy is my student. He is as kind a soul as one can hope for, considering that I am raising him!"
Polite laughter followed, and the boy rolled his eyes.
The maid Annabel took him up the stairs and waved him into a room which, disappointingly, did not seem to be anywhere near the kitchen. She held a finger to her lips to indicate that he should be quiet, and then hurried back down the steps, leaving the boy alone in the plush nursery.
It seemed like a pleasant house to grow up in. Hesitant, he crossed over to the cradle by the window, drawing down his hood. The boy leaned over the bars to peer in at the sleeping infant.
He was not very familiar with other children, much less with much younger children. One of the few things the boy didn't remember with perfect clarity was the time when he himself had been young, before joining his master: he hadn't the faintest idea what his parents had looked like, only that they had been gaunt, and scared of him.
The young Bielefeld child slept with perfect innocence. Wisps of blond hair that promised to fill out to a burnished gold surrounded his chubby face, and the boy reached out a hand gently to touch it, just to see what it felt like -- it was soft and fine like the silk of the boy's robes beneath his threadbare cloak. He drew back his hand, wary of waking the child, and curled his own raven hair around a finger, thoughtful.
Why was he here? A hero was born here. Yet his master had sent him to watch over this child instead of listening to some story of long-ago heroes. This little child?
"Perhaps you will be a hero," murmured the boy, and tried to find some trace of this. He stretched out his senses, listening to the rhythmic heartbeat, the steady breathing, the gentle swirl of maryoku in the air: both of this child's parents were strong in it, and it filled their household.
He wondered how his master knew. Had he seen a vision? It was the gift of his maryoku, the way that the boy's gift was to act as a catalyst.
As an experiment, the boy let his hand fall again, touching the infant's tiny fist, and his eyes widened slightly as his finger was seized in a curling reflexive grip. He let his maryoku seep into the infant, a subtle pulse of power hardly enough to light a candle. But the child giggled, opening shockingly blue eyes to look up at the boy who had woken him, and flailed a bit with the finger still in his clutches.
The boy was smiling, charmed, when he heard the voice of his master downstairs. "It's time! We must leave, the boy."
Reluctantly, he pried himself loose of the Bielefeld child, who fidgeted restlessly. The tendril of maryoku had sunk into him so effortlessly, leaving hardly a trace.
Will you be so powerful, when you come into your own? The boy caressed the child's face one last time before drawing away, twitching his hood back over his telltale black hair and taking long, quick steps from the cradle before the child could cry out or whatever children did when they were left alone and wanted company.
"I'm here," he said, taking the stairs two at a time.
"Good. We mustn't overstay our welcome..."
"There's no such thing," said Sir Bielefeld politely, apparently much more pleased now than he had been earlier. "We hope to see you again, Your Grace. Your visit has honored us."
The master said, benevolent, "Yes, I know." He whisked the boy out the door, as similarly abrupt as his entrance.
They left the town quickly, and in silence. The boy eyed his master, who travelled empty-handed. "You didn't bring me any food?" he asked, exasperated.
"What's wrong with my cooking, the boy?"
"Well, it will be dawn again before we're home."
His master made a displeased grunt. "You'll eat what I prepare for you, and that's all. When we're home I shall cook."
The boy crossed his arms over his pitifully empty stomach. Hunger was supposed to build character, he remembered hearing somewhere. "Was that child the hero you spoke of?"
"Yes," said his master, sounding more at ease now that they had wandered back onto the topic. "What did you think of him?"
He thought about it, and shook his head. "I thought of him as a child -- like any other."
"You see, that is what we have come here to discover! There is no difference between a hero and any other man. The word 'hero' only means one who becomes more than his peers. It is a word they use to avoid feeling guilty for failing to overcome their own flaws."
You never have anything good to say, the boy thought. Perhaps just to annoy his master, he said philosophically, "I would like to meet a hero someday."
His master sighed. "The boy, what did I just tell you?"
The boy laughed, pleased. "I would like to look the man who has overcome his own flaws in the face," he said. "I would like to see myself in his eyes, and know how I measure up to such an august personage."
"You are not to be measured by mere men! You will be a sage. They will come to you to see if they are worthy. You will turn away countless thousands who are undeserving of you."
But the boy was not listening anymore.
* *
The Great Sage finds his attention drawn to the darkness that grows, ever more sinister in the corner of his vision. It catches at his spirit, bleak and terrible, and whispers to him of a darkness that has always belonged to stories, folklore of days long past. Everyone comes to him and says, 'Save us, tell us what to do!' They're too frightened to judge for themselves, and he despises such weakness with all the cynicism burned into his heart alongside wisdom.
A vibrant flash of color distracts him from the black cloud. The man who approaches is in armor, a soldier perhaps, with hair like burnished gold and shockingly blue eyes. He grins as he draws his mount to a stop, taking in the Sage in an easy, familiar gesture.
You have become a hero. He remembers with perfect clarity.
The admiration in that unwavering regard makes it hard to keep from smiling, but he has a reputation to maintain, after all.