Misheard Whisper
[b][color=#FF0000]I[/color] [color=#FF7F00]also[/c
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***NOTE: THIS IS NOW A POKEMON CRACKFANFIC, AS OF CHAPTER FIVE. LOOK FORWARD TO IT.***
This, folks, is MW's second NaNo novel this year. My first, a pseudo-dystopian urban fantasy, working title Icebound, clocked in the other day at just over 80,000 words, which still left me desirous of about 20,000 to reach my personal goal.
First, I started to novelise Artificial, but I soon realised that it was far too close to my heart to watch myself butcher it as I and thousands of others are wont to do during November, so I put a lid on that for the moment. And I had no idea how to spread my 18k plot over 60k words, so yeah.
Anyway, this is my new work. It's Mary Sue meets every bad fanfic meets TV Tropes meets Alice in freakin' Wonderland. Readers beware: you must be prepared for Rebellious Princess Syndrome, things that make no sense in the story's setting, Japanese names, stating and restating of the obvious, and general WTFery. If this sounds like fun, read on. If not, read on anyway. You'll love it, I swear.
One final note before we get started: this is a NaNo story. While I do endeavour to publish only quality work here for you to read, there will likely be errors. I ask that you view these with a little more lenience due to the fact that I am attempting to write more words in a month than I have likely ever written in my life up to this point. (well, maybe that's an exaggeration. But meh.)
Enjoy. :-)
Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, there was a planet named Earth. Earth was, of course, not so very far, far away at all – you know, being our home planet and all. But then again, if you are reading this book in a galaxy far, far away, Earth may, in fact, be very far, far away indeed. For the convenience of these potential readers, we shall assume that Earth is in a galaxy far, far away.
Anyway, there was this funny little planet called Earth. The Earth we're discussing here, however, may well be very different to the Earth that you are familiar with. This Earth was filled to the brim with magic, knights, dragons, castles, kings and princesses – not necessarily in that order. For example, the dragons had been on Earth for far longer than anything else, except, of course, some of the vegetables, and maybe even a few of the lesser life forms, such as amoebas.
It so happened that upon this planet lived a young boy. Of course, there were several million young boys living on Earth, but we're only talking about this particular one, here. This particular boy lived in a small village called Clapton, right smack bang in the middle of the kingdom of Claptonia. Why the kingdom chose to name itself after a tiny village instead of the capital city of Lilitania is a mystery. At any rate, this boy lived in Clapton, and his adventure began the day Clapton received an extremely strange visitor.
Sora sighed as he pushed his sweaty blonde hair back out of his eyes with an equally sweaty hand. It was awfully hot in Clapton, he reflected as he took up his shovel again and drove it into the earth. Sora was not really a farmer, but it was planting time in the village, and everybody had, in the spirit of community, pitched in to help. Of course, in a village like Clapton, 'everybody' consisted of maybe seventy people. Clapton was one of those little farming communities where everybody knew everybody, and the only distinction it had from any of the other seven hundred and thirty-four small villages of similar size in the kingdom was the dubious honour of having the kingdom itself named after it. The most exciting event of the year – barring the post-harvest hoe-down in the village square (which was actually more of a vaguely rounded rectangle) – was when All the King's Horses and All the King's Men came to visit to collect All the King's Taxes.
That would be coming up soon, Sora realised as he turned over yet another patch of earth. In just a few weeks, All the King's Men would come riding into town in their jingling finery in order to take their cut of the year's produce. They knew, of course, that Clapton produced very little, its population being barely seventy people, but they still demanded that they surrender a sizable percentage of their crop to the Crown. Sora figured he should be concerned about this, but he had no idea what a 'percentage' was, so he simply shrugged and carried on.
The sun slowly began to creep towards the horizon, and Sora kept his ears pricked for the tell-tale sound of the bell that would herald the end of another day's work. It didn't come until long after the sun had disappeared, when the last skerricks of sunlight had been leached from the sky. By this time, Sora was exhausted, filthy and sweaty, and instead of heading home straight away like he had been planning, he took a detour to the river Julep, in the bend of which the village itself sat.
When he reached the shallow, slow-flowing river, Sora gratefully stripped off his tunic and plunged in, gasping slightly at how cold the water was. Despite just having had a full day of scorching sun on it, it was frigid. Sora grumbled inwardly. He would think that the river would show a little more courtesy.
Once Sora had cleaned himself off sufficiently, he decided to head back home. He dried himself off as best he could by rolling on the grass, put his tunic back on and trotted off, now decidedly itchy from the grass-rolling.
As Sora entered the village, still scratching awkwardly at a spot on his back that he couldn't quite reach, a sudden melancholy struck him, icy tendrils of despair creeping throughout his body, sucking all the warmth out of him. He stopped dead on the spot, wondering what had brought it on. He glanced around his surroundings, wondering if a bogeyman had somehow managed to sneak into the village. He had heard that they brought sadness and depression with them wherever they went, transferred to any human who glimpsed their lantern of were-fire.
The street was empty. The village of Clapton consisted of one road, with several houses lined up along each side. Sora walked along slowly, still feeling inexplicably glum, checking the spaces in between each house for a sight of the infamous flickering, purple lanterns of the bogeymen. There was none. Clapton was as quiet as the grave. Everybody else had beaten him home thanks to his detour, and now the sun was well and truly gone. The rest of the villagers had most likely gone to sleep already in anticipation of the hard day's work that was sure to follow the next day. Only one light remained on in the entire village – Sora's house.
As Sora pushed the door open, he was greeted by his thunderous-looking mother and decidedly exhausted-looking father. "You little rascal!" his mother growled. "Where in hell's name have you been?"
"I just . . . went down to the river!" he protested, suddenly realising how late it was. "It's not like I was gone long!"
"It's been half an hour," his father said sternly, trying to swallow a yawn. "I want to go to bed, but I can't if you're going to go running off like this all the time!"
"I'm sorry," Sora apologised sincerely. He had forgotten all about the time during his detour to the river. "I won't do it again, I promise!"
"That's what you said after the last time!" his mother said angrily. "I expect better from you, Sora."
"We never had to put up with this from your brother," his father mumbled. Sora's jaw tightened.
"Flight," he muttered resentfully. "Will you stop comparing me to him?" he demanded.
"I don't see what you mean, Sora!" his mother said, frowning. "You should take a few leaves out of Archer's book! As a matter of fact, perhaps you should just borrow the whole thing."
"I'm going to bed," Sora announced suddenly, gritting his teeth and pushing past his parents to his room. His mother threw her hands up in despair as he passed.
"You'll never make anything of your life like that, young man. There's no future in sulking," she said, but let him go.
In his room, Sora blew out the candle and then lay flat on his back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. "They don't understand me," he grumbled as he lay there, wide awake, unable to sleep. Instead, he let his mind drift. In his imagination, he was a brave knight astride a mighty stallion, and there was nobody that could stand in his way. He saved princesses, slew dragons and won the adoration of all the people in the kingdom.
Then he was a wizard, a powerful mage who lived in a tower in the farthest corner of the world, and he spent his days creating potions and spells. People would flock from thousands of miles away to seek his aid with their problems, and he fixed them all. Kings sent ambassadors to beg for him to help them win wars. He gave his favour to those he felt like giving it to, and no others. None dared to argue with him, because they knew that if they did, they would not survive another day. He had absolute power, and he enjoyed it marvellously.
It must be wonderful to be a hero, he thought wistfully. It would have to be a lot better than living in Clapton for the rest of my life, at least. What is there for me here, really? Just a few other kids that don't like me, parents that always try and turn me into Archer, and a bunch of farmers that couldn't care less about me. I should just leave. The trouble was, though, that he had no idea how. For starters, he had no idea which way he would have to go to reach any form of civilisation other than Clapton. On top of that, he had to be somewhat realistic about these things. He couldn't cast magic or wield a sword. Nor could he ride a horse or brew potions. It seemed he was doomed to a life of being a farmer like everybody else in the village.
As Sora finally began to drift towards sleep, a single tear trickled out of his eye and down his cheek, staining his pillow a wet, dull grey where it fell.
Morning dawned bright and early the next day for Sora. The sun came streaming in through his window, warming his bed and forcing him into wakefulness. Wishing he could ignore the golden beams, Sora swung his feet off the side of the bed.
During the night, however, he had moved a little more than he had thought, and found himself falling to the floor with a crash. He yelled, more from shock than from pain, and leapt upright, clutching his knee.
"Sora?" his mother called from the next room. "What just happened in there?"
"N-nothing!" Sora called back, biting back an angry retort. It's not like she'd care anyway, he thought.
"Well, if it's nothing, then kindly stop making such a racket. Just because everyone is awake doesn't mean you can go shouting about nothing at this hour in the morning!"
Sora, grumbling under his breath, pulled on a clean tunic and slouched out of his room to the kitchen, snagging a hunk of bread as he passed the table. "I'll be back in time to start work!" he promised as he dashed out of the house, ignoring his mother's shouts.
Sora ran through Clapton as fast as his legs would carry him, relishing the feeling of the cool morning wind rushing past his face and making his lanky blonde hair fly out behind him like a flag. There were a few clouds in the sky, he noticed as he left the village and kept running, down to the little stand of trees that clustered around the ford in the river. Perhaps the day would be a little cooler than the one before.
Then again, he thought sourly, probably not. It was always hot in Clapton. The only time of year where the temperature even approached bearable was during the dead of winter, when the temperature fell from 'boiling' to 'sizzling'. There would be another solid week's worth of digging, hoeing and planting in the sweltering heat before he even got a break, other than to sleep and eat.
The shade of the trees provided some respite from the already uncomfortably warm sun, and Sora flopped down gratefully among the roots of a massive oak tree. His run had made him a little sweaty already, and he was slightly short of breath as he lay back against the bole of the oak and sighed.
"It's like I'm trapped in an endless nightmare of torment," he said aloud. He thought that sounded quite poetic, so he said it again. "Endless nightmare of torment. Hee hee."
Sora rolled his eyes. Sometimes, he just felt like he could scream with frustration. They wouldn't let him have a break, these people. Moving quickly but carefully, so as to avoid attention, he clambered through the trees, only alighting on the ground at the edge of the grove away from where he had seen his father heading. Once he hit the ground, he ran as fast as he possibly could to the field where he had been working the previous evening and picked up a shovel, ignoring the sideways glances he received from the other men and boys in the vicinity. He didn't care what they thought of him any more. When he had been younger, their constant bullying had really gotten to him, but these days, he just ignored it. They had tried it so often that he just became immune to it. Yawning, Sora resigned himself to another week of hard work.
Three days later, however, something happened to interrupt the planting. All the King's Horses and All the King's Men came riding into the village, making a merry jingling noise that Sora could hear even from the fields. Curious as always for any glimps of the outside world, he rushed along with all the other residents of Clapton to the town square to view the excitement.
The town's elder, Old Ozawa, with his bushy, bedraggled beard and silver hair, was arguing with the captain of All the King's Men. "Why do you come now?" he demanded, planting his stick firmly on the ground in front of him. "You are not due for another week or more!"
"Nevertheless, we are here to collect," the captain said, glaring impassively at Old Ozawa. "Do you have the taxes prepared?" he asked, gesturing forward a large, creaking wagon drawn by two horses.
"No . . ." Old Ozawa admitted. "We were not expecting you so soon. But if you give us a couple of days, we can collect what you ask."
"We have no time, old man!" the captain said sharply. "Either you will produce what you owe right this second, or we start taking your people captive. They will fetch a decent enough price on the market – I should think twenty or so should be enough to cover the price of the taxes you owe."
"We – we cannot!" Old Ozawa protested. "We have not measured and divided the harvests yet – it is impossible to do it now! If you wait, we can have it done by tomorrow. We will have everything in order by tomorrow evening, and some more besides as an apology for making you wait!" Sora's eyes widened. The village could barely survive on what it produced in a given year, and after the Crown had taken its cut, they were forced to stretch what they did have unimaginably to make it go the necessary distance. If Old Ozawa offered more, people would starve. He didn't like Clapton much, but he wasn't fond of starving to death either.
"You can't!" he exclaimed, inadvertently breaking the silence. The captain and Old Ozawa both glanced over at him. The captain smiled.
"Your offer is unacceptable. We want your taxes now. Seeing as you are unable to deliver, we will take twenty of your people with us – starting with him." He pointed directly at Sora.
Sora blinked in shock, his heart suddenly pounding. Take him? He had envisioned leaving Clapton at some point, of course – the sooner the better – but not as a slave! Two burly soldiers strode forward and grasped Sora by the upper arms before he could decide whether to resist or run. They lifted his feet off the ground as if he were made of straw and started marching him over towards the captain.
"Wait," said a voice. Sora shivered. It was a soft, rich voice, with a cold edge to it that chilled Sora to the bone. Another man stepped out from behind the captain, clothed in a long, black robe with a voluminous hood that obscured his face. Only the barest hint of a mouth was visible. "I have a better idea."
After only a moment's hesitation, the captain bowed. "Of course, Master Sanada," he said respectfully, stepping aside. Sanada approached Old Ozawa slowly. Sora shivered as he passed.
Sanada stopped directly in front of the elder and bent down slightly so that he could look him in the eye – as much as anyone wearing a hood that large could look someone in the eye. "I believe you are in possession of a large collection of books," he said quietly – so quietly that only Old Ozawa, Sora, the captain, and a few of his guards could hear. Sora glanced around at the rest of the villagers. They were all still arrayed around the square, although most of them had surreptitiously taken a few steps backwards.
"I am," Old Ozawa said, equally quietly. Sora heard a note of fear in his voice, but he couldn't blame the elder. Sanada exuded something strange and mysterious. "What of it?"
"Ah, I thought as much. We are kindred spirits, you and I," Sanada said, his voice lightening somewhat. "I am a scholar, myself. I collect books, you see, and I spend much of my time searching for new ones to add to my collection. My suggestion is this. To avoid tearing your village in two, I will examine your collection and take whatever I deem to be interesting enough to be worth my while. In exchange, you keep your villagers and your taxes. Does that sound fair to you?"
"M-master Sanada," the captain stammered. "Are you sure about this? The Crown demands its taxes."
"I am quite sure," Sanada said, turning away from Old Ozawa for a moment. "In any case, my authority far outweighs yours, and besides – should trouble arise from this, I will be the one who is blamed. Do not worry. You will not be punished for returning one village's worth of tax short." Having said that, he turned back to Old Ozawa. "Well?" he prompted.
Old Ozawa's lined face twisted. "My books," he mumbled. "They are my life."
"I can imagine," Sanada said, laughing gently. It was not a pleasant laugh. "Nevertheless, you now have two options again, seeing as you are unable to pay your taxes right now. It's your books . . . or your villagers."
Old Ozawa closed his eyes and sighed. "Do as you will," he said, his reluctance clear on his face. "I will not sell my friends into slavery." He stepped back and pointed. "The books are in my house. I don't know how you found out about them, but they're all in there."
"Good," Sanada said, sounding pleased. "Come with me," he said, beckoning to the two soldiers still holding Sora. "You can help me carry the books." The soldiers dropped Sora, which he was very grateful for, and marched into the elder's house behind Sanada. Sora quietly made his way back to the ring of villagers that still remained, watching with bated breath, as Sanada opened the door and entered Old Ozawa's house, snapping the door shut behind him.
"What's going on?" the other villagers demanded of Sora, having been too far away to hear the negotiations.
"Old Ozawa's negotiated," Sora said. "They're taking some of his books instead of our crops – or us." There was a subdued cheer, and Sora shook his head. Somehow, he felt that even though they had gotten off without losing any of their number to slavery, they were going to regret the decision. The expression on Old Ozawa's face had spoken far more than his words – those books were clearly even more important to him than he had protested. Even now, as he watched the elder standing, head bowed, in the middle of the square, Sora felt a strange wave of pity for him.
Then Old Ozawa's house exploded in flames. Everybody in the square panicked: villagers ran for cover as the flames roared and spread, horses bolted and soldiers looked helplessly to their captain for orders. The captain shook his head and signalled for a retreat as the flames grew larger, spreading to neighbouring houses with alarming speed. Sora was the only one who remained, staring dumbfounded at the blazing inferno. He thought he could hear something from inside it – a sort of chanting.
With a crash, the walls of the house collapsed into piles of ash and debris, leaving a single figure standing alone in the rubble – Sanada, his robe whipping around him as he raised his hands in the air. Mysterious winds howled through the village, snatching at Sora's hair as they passed, scattering flames all around. Sora watched in horror as all the houses surrounding the square began to burn, though none with such ferocity as Old Ozawa's house had been.
With a start, Sora realised that Old Ozawa was still standing in the middle of the square, staring at what remained of his house. Sora ran over to him and shook his shoulder, shouting in his ear over the winds that buffeted them both. "You need to get out of here! It's dangerous!"
"I'm not going anywhere, Old Ozawa grunted, barely audible over the wind. "I'm staying right here."
"Why?" Sora asked desperately, glancing up as a sudden rumble of thunder split the air. Billowing thunderheads whirled in the sky, growing and spreading before his eyes. Lightning flashed, followed a split second later by another crash of thunder. Rain began to pour from the sky, drenching the whole village, yet the flames kept burning.
"Witchcraft!" Old Ozawa howled, shaking his fist at the lone figure of Sanada standing amongst the ruins of his house. "That's what this is – plain witchcraft! This is not real magic!" Sora was confused, but he nodded agreement anyway.
"That's bad, right?"
"Of course it's bad! This magic stinks of a kind not seen or heard of for centuries – a kind that was never to be used again!"
With a crash of thunder louder than the rest, the clouds split, and a single ray of light pierced through to the ground below, landing directly in front of Sora and Old Ozawa. In this ray of light materialised a man. At least, Sora thought it was a man. It seemed to be made of pure light, shimmering and blending with the ray of sunlight in which it stood, but it was definitely man-shaped. Then it laughed, and Sora clapped his hands to his ears. The thing's voice was ghastly, like a thousand screams being rubbed through a cheese grater.
"You shall not have it, Sanada!" it shouted triumphantly, and Sora winced as the voice passed into his ears as if he had not even bothered to block them in the first place, piercing and twisting like a knife. "The Grimoire shall once again be denied you!" The figure extended a hand towards Sanada, who turned to glare at it.
"It is mine!" Sanada screamed, his hood blown off by the elements. Through the driving rain and increasing smoke, Sora made out a pale face with a pure white ponytail whipping around behind it. "It is my right, and you shall not keep it from me!" Sanada bent down and picked something up from the ashes, lifting it high above his head. It looked like a large book, Sora thought.
"That belongs to me!" Old Ozawa hollered angrily. "Get your filthy hands off it, witch!"
The man made of light laughed again and waved a hand sharply behind him without looking back. Old Ozawa choked and convulsed as what looked like a ray of light pierced him directly through the heart. Within seconds, he keeled over, falling heavily to the ground as he clutched at his chest. "Do not presume to interfere, mortals!" the strange being warned. Sora knelt down beside the old man frantically and pressed his ear to his chest. Even through the background noise of the wind, rain, fire and thunder, he was fairly certain that there was no heartbeat. He glared at the two strangers facing each other off across the square.
"I will deny you the Grimoire, Sanada," the unnamed stranger said, advancing on Sanada slowly, his ray of light moving with him. With a flick of his wrist, the book was yanked out of Sanada's desperately clutching grasp and flew across the square into his hands. There was a smile in his voice when he next spoke. "Until next time." With a blinding flash of light that forced Sora to look away, he was gone, leaving behind only the rain.
This, folks, is MW's second NaNo novel this year. My first, a pseudo-dystopian urban fantasy, working title Icebound, clocked in the other day at just over 80,000 words, which still left me desirous of about 20,000 to reach my personal goal.
First, I started to novelise Artificial, but I soon realised that it was far too close to my heart to watch myself butcher it as I and thousands of others are wont to do during November, so I put a lid on that for the moment. And I had no idea how to spread my 18k plot over 60k words, so yeah.
Anyway, this is my new work. It's Mary Sue meets every bad fanfic meets TV Tropes meets Alice in freakin' Wonderland. Readers beware: you must be prepared for Rebellious Princess Syndrome, things that make no sense in the story's setting, Japanese names, stating and restating of the obvious, and general WTFery. If this sounds like fun, read on. If not, read on anyway. You'll love it, I swear.
One final note before we get started: this is a NaNo story. While I do endeavour to publish only quality work here for you to read, there will likely be errors. I ask that you view these with a little more lenience due to the fact that I am attempting to write more words in a month than I have likely ever written in my life up to this point. (well, maybe that's an exaggeration. But meh.)
Enjoy. :-)
[FONT=Angelic War, monospace]<the quest for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow>[/FONT]
Prologue
Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, there was a planet named Earth. Earth was, of course, not so very far, far away at all – you know, being our home planet and all. But then again, if you are reading this book in a galaxy far, far away, Earth may, in fact, be very far, far away indeed. For the convenience of these potential readers, we shall assume that Earth is in a galaxy far, far away.
Anyway, there was this funny little planet called Earth. The Earth we're discussing here, however, may well be very different to the Earth that you are familiar with. This Earth was filled to the brim with magic, knights, dragons, castles, kings and princesses – not necessarily in that order. For example, the dragons had been on Earth for far longer than anything else, except, of course, some of the vegetables, and maybe even a few of the lesser life forms, such as amoebas.
It so happened that upon this planet lived a young boy. Of course, there were several million young boys living on Earth, but we're only talking about this particular one, here. This particular boy lived in a small village called Clapton, right smack bang in the middle of the kingdom of Claptonia. Why the kingdom chose to name itself after a tiny village instead of the capital city of Lilitania is a mystery. At any rate, this boy lived in Clapton, and his adventure began the day Clapton received an extremely strange visitor.
Chapter One
Sora sighed as he pushed his sweaty blonde hair back out of his eyes with an equally sweaty hand. It was awfully hot in Clapton, he reflected as he took up his shovel again and drove it into the earth. Sora was not really a farmer, but it was planting time in the village, and everybody had, in the spirit of community, pitched in to help. Of course, in a village like Clapton, 'everybody' consisted of maybe seventy people. Clapton was one of those little farming communities where everybody knew everybody, and the only distinction it had from any of the other seven hundred and thirty-four small villages of similar size in the kingdom was the dubious honour of having the kingdom itself named after it. The most exciting event of the year – barring the post-harvest hoe-down in the village square (which was actually more of a vaguely rounded rectangle) – was when All the King's Horses and All the King's Men came to visit to collect All the King's Taxes.
That would be coming up soon, Sora realised as he turned over yet another patch of earth. In just a few weeks, All the King's Men would come riding into town in their jingling finery in order to take their cut of the year's produce. They knew, of course, that Clapton produced very little, its population being barely seventy people, but they still demanded that they surrender a sizable percentage of their crop to the Crown. Sora figured he should be concerned about this, but he had no idea what a 'percentage' was, so he simply shrugged and carried on.
The sun slowly began to creep towards the horizon, and Sora kept his ears pricked for the tell-tale sound of the bell that would herald the end of another day's work. It didn't come until long after the sun had disappeared, when the last skerricks of sunlight had been leached from the sky. By this time, Sora was exhausted, filthy and sweaty, and instead of heading home straight away like he had been planning, he took a detour to the river Julep, in the bend of which the village itself sat.
When he reached the shallow, slow-flowing river, Sora gratefully stripped off his tunic and plunged in, gasping slightly at how cold the water was. Despite just having had a full day of scorching sun on it, it was frigid. Sora grumbled inwardly. He would think that the river would show a little more courtesy.
Once Sora had cleaned himself off sufficiently, he decided to head back home. He dried himself off as best he could by rolling on the grass, put his tunic back on and trotted off, now decidedly itchy from the grass-rolling.
As Sora entered the village, still scratching awkwardly at a spot on his back that he couldn't quite reach, a sudden melancholy struck him, icy tendrils of despair creeping throughout his body, sucking all the warmth out of him. He stopped dead on the spot, wondering what had brought it on. He glanced around his surroundings, wondering if a bogeyman had somehow managed to sneak into the village. He had heard that they brought sadness and depression with them wherever they went, transferred to any human who glimpsed their lantern of were-fire.
The street was empty. The village of Clapton consisted of one road, with several houses lined up along each side. Sora walked along slowly, still feeling inexplicably glum, checking the spaces in between each house for a sight of the infamous flickering, purple lanterns of the bogeymen. There was none. Clapton was as quiet as the grave. Everybody else had beaten him home thanks to his detour, and now the sun was well and truly gone. The rest of the villagers had most likely gone to sleep already in anticipation of the hard day's work that was sure to follow the next day. Only one light remained on in the entire village – Sora's house.
As Sora pushed the door open, he was greeted by his thunderous-looking mother and decidedly exhausted-looking father. "You little rascal!" his mother growled. "Where in hell's name have you been?"
"I just . . . went down to the river!" he protested, suddenly realising how late it was. "It's not like I was gone long!"
"It's been half an hour," his father said sternly, trying to swallow a yawn. "I want to go to bed, but I can't if you're going to go running off like this all the time!"
"I'm sorry," Sora apologised sincerely. He had forgotten all about the time during his detour to the river. "I won't do it again, I promise!"
"That's what you said after the last time!" his mother said angrily. "I expect better from you, Sora."
"We never had to put up with this from your brother," his father mumbled. Sora's jaw tightened.
"Flight," he muttered resentfully. "Will you stop comparing me to him?" he demanded.
"I don't see what you mean, Sora!" his mother said, frowning. "You should take a few leaves out of Archer's book! As a matter of fact, perhaps you should just borrow the whole thing."
"I'm going to bed," Sora announced suddenly, gritting his teeth and pushing past his parents to his room. His mother threw her hands up in despair as he passed.
"You'll never make anything of your life like that, young man. There's no future in sulking," she said, but let him go.
In his room, Sora blew out the candle and then lay flat on his back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. "They don't understand me," he grumbled as he lay there, wide awake, unable to sleep. Instead, he let his mind drift. In his imagination, he was a brave knight astride a mighty stallion, and there was nobody that could stand in his way. He saved princesses, slew dragons and won the adoration of all the people in the kingdom.
Then he was a wizard, a powerful mage who lived in a tower in the farthest corner of the world, and he spent his days creating potions and spells. People would flock from thousands of miles away to seek his aid with their problems, and he fixed them all. Kings sent ambassadors to beg for him to help them win wars. He gave his favour to those he felt like giving it to, and no others. None dared to argue with him, because they knew that if they did, they would not survive another day. He had absolute power, and he enjoyed it marvellously.
It must be wonderful to be a hero, he thought wistfully. It would have to be a lot better than living in Clapton for the rest of my life, at least. What is there for me here, really? Just a few other kids that don't like me, parents that always try and turn me into Archer, and a bunch of farmers that couldn't care less about me. I should just leave. The trouble was, though, that he had no idea how. For starters, he had no idea which way he would have to go to reach any form of civilisation other than Clapton. On top of that, he had to be somewhat realistic about these things. He couldn't cast magic or wield a sword. Nor could he ride a horse or brew potions. It seemed he was doomed to a life of being a farmer like everybody else in the village.
As Sora finally began to drift towards sleep, a single tear trickled out of his eye and down his cheek, staining his pillow a wet, dull grey where it fell.
***
Morning dawned bright and early the next day for Sora. The sun came streaming in through his window, warming his bed and forcing him into wakefulness. Wishing he could ignore the golden beams, Sora swung his feet off the side of the bed.
During the night, however, he had moved a little more than he had thought, and found himself falling to the floor with a crash. He yelled, more from shock than from pain, and leapt upright, clutching his knee.
"Sora?" his mother called from the next room. "What just happened in there?"
"N-nothing!" Sora called back, biting back an angry retort. It's not like she'd care anyway, he thought.
"Well, if it's nothing, then kindly stop making such a racket. Just because everyone is awake doesn't mean you can go shouting about nothing at this hour in the morning!"
Sora, grumbling under his breath, pulled on a clean tunic and slouched out of his room to the kitchen, snagging a hunk of bread as he passed the table. "I'll be back in time to start work!" he promised as he dashed out of the house, ignoring his mother's shouts.
Sora ran through Clapton as fast as his legs would carry him, relishing the feeling of the cool morning wind rushing past his face and making his lanky blonde hair fly out behind him like a flag. There were a few clouds in the sky, he noticed as he left the village and kept running, down to the little stand of trees that clustered around the ford in the river. Perhaps the day would be a little cooler than the one before.
Then again, he thought sourly, probably not. It was always hot in Clapton. The only time of year where the temperature even approached bearable was during the dead of winter, when the temperature fell from 'boiling' to 'sizzling'. There would be another solid week's worth of digging, hoeing and planting in the sweltering heat before he even got a break, other than to sleep and eat.
The shade of the trees provided some respite from the already uncomfortably warm sun, and Sora flopped down gratefully among the roots of a massive oak tree. His run had made him a little sweaty already, and he was slightly short of breath as he lay back against the bole of the oak and sighed.
"It's like I'm trapped in an endless nightmare of torment," he said aloud. He thought that sounded quite poetic, so he said it again. "Endless nightmare of torment. Hee hee."
"Sora!" came his father's voice from somewhere behind him. Eyes widening in panic, Sora quickly and quietly leapt to his feet and shimmied up the tree, perching himself carefully on one of its lower branches. He remained there, perfectly still and silent as his father passed by underneath, checking around every tree for him. "Sora, you are going to shift yourself this instant and get back in that field, or the consequences will be dire!" he said warningly.
Sora rolled his eyes. Sometimes, he just felt like he could scream with frustration. They wouldn't let him have a break, these people. Moving quickly but carefully, so as to avoid attention, he clambered through the trees, only alighting on the ground at the edge of the grove away from where he had seen his father heading. Once he hit the ground, he ran as fast as he possibly could to the field where he had been working the previous evening and picked up a shovel, ignoring the sideways glances he received from the other men and boys in the vicinity. He didn't care what they thought of him any more. When he had been younger, their constant bullying had really gotten to him, but these days, he just ignored it. They had tried it so often that he just became immune to it. Yawning, Sora resigned himself to another week of hard work.
***
Three days later, however, something happened to interrupt the planting. All the King's Horses and All the King's Men came riding into the village, making a merry jingling noise that Sora could hear even from the fields. Curious as always for any glimps of the outside world, he rushed along with all the other residents of Clapton to the town square to view the excitement.
The town's elder, Old Ozawa, with his bushy, bedraggled beard and silver hair, was arguing with the captain of All the King's Men. "Why do you come now?" he demanded, planting his stick firmly on the ground in front of him. "You are not due for another week or more!"
"Nevertheless, we are here to collect," the captain said, glaring impassively at Old Ozawa. "Do you have the taxes prepared?" he asked, gesturing forward a large, creaking wagon drawn by two horses.
"No . . ." Old Ozawa admitted. "We were not expecting you so soon. But if you give us a couple of days, we can collect what you ask."
"We have no time, old man!" the captain said sharply. "Either you will produce what you owe right this second, or we start taking your people captive. They will fetch a decent enough price on the market – I should think twenty or so should be enough to cover the price of the taxes you owe."
"We – we cannot!" Old Ozawa protested. "We have not measured and divided the harvests yet – it is impossible to do it now! If you wait, we can have it done by tomorrow. We will have everything in order by tomorrow evening, and some more besides as an apology for making you wait!" Sora's eyes widened. The village could barely survive on what it produced in a given year, and after the Crown had taken its cut, they were forced to stretch what they did have unimaginably to make it go the necessary distance. If Old Ozawa offered more, people would starve. He didn't like Clapton much, but he wasn't fond of starving to death either.
"You can't!" he exclaimed, inadvertently breaking the silence. The captain and Old Ozawa both glanced over at him. The captain smiled.
"Your offer is unacceptable. We want your taxes now. Seeing as you are unable to deliver, we will take twenty of your people with us – starting with him." He pointed directly at Sora.
Sora blinked in shock, his heart suddenly pounding. Take him? He had envisioned leaving Clapton at some point, of course – the sooner the better – but not as a slave! Two burly soldiers strode forward and grasped Sora by the upper arms before he could decide whether to resist or run. They lifted his feet off the ground as if he were made of straw and started marching him over towards the captain.
"Wait," said a voice. Sora shivered. It was a soft, rich voice, with a cold edge to it that chilled Sora to the bone. Another man stepped out from behind the captain, clothed in a long, black robe with a voluminous hood that obscured his face. Only the barest hint of a mouth was visible. "I have a better idea."
After only a moment's hesitation, the captain bowed. "Of course, Master Sanada," he said respectfully, stepping aside. Sanada approached Old Ozawa slowly. Sora shivered as he passed.
Sanada stopped directly in front of the elder and bent down slightly so that he could look him in the eye – as much as anyone wearing a hood that large could look someone in the eye. "I believe you are in possession of a large collection of books," he said quietly – so quietly that only Old Ozawa, Sora, the captain, and a few of his guards could hear. Sora glanced around at the rest of the villagers. They were all still arrayed around the square, although most of them had surreptitiously taken a few steps backwards.
"I am," Old Ozawa said, equally quietly. Sora heard a note of fear in his voice, but he couldn't blame the elder. Sanada exuded something strange and mysterious. "What of it?"
"Ah, I thought as much. We are kindred spirits, you and I," Sanada said, his voice lightening somewhat. "I am a scholar, myself. I collect books, you see, and I spend much of my time searching for new ones to add to my collection. My suggestion is this. To avoid tearing your village in two, I will examine your collection and take whatever I deem to be interesting enough to be worth my while. In exchange, you keep your villagers and your taxes. Does that sound fair to you?"
"M-master Sanada," the captain stammered. "Are you sure about this? The Crown demands its taxes."
"I am quite sure," Sanada said, turning away from Old Ozawa for a moment. "In any case, my authority far outweighs yours, and besides – should trouble arise from this, I will be the one who is blamed. Do not worry. You will not be punished for returning one village's worth of tax short." Having said that, he turned back to Old Ozawa. "Well?" he prompted.
Old Ozawa's lined face twisted. "My books," he mumbled. "They are my life."
"I can imagine," Sanada said, laughing gently. It was not a pleasant laugh. "Nevertheless, you now have two options again, seeing as you are unable to pay your taxes right now. It's your books . . . or your villagers."
Old Ozawa closed his eyes and sighed. "Do as you will," he said, his reluctance clear on his face. "I will not sell my friends into slavery." He stepped back and pointed. "The books are in my house. I don't know how you found out about them, but they're all in there."
"Good," Sanada said, sounding pleased. "Come with me," he said, beckoning to the two soldiers still holding Sora. "You can help me carry the books." The soldiers dropped Sora, which he was very grateful for, and marched into the elder's house behind Sanada. Sora quietly made his way back to the ring of villagers that still remained, watching with bated breath, as Sanada opened the door and entered Old Ozawa's house, snapping the door shut behind him.
"What's going on?" the other villagers demanded of Sora, having been too far away to hear the negotiations.
"Old Ozawa's negotiated," Sora said. "They're taking some of his books instead of our crops – or us." There was a subdued cheer, and Sora shook his head. Somehow, he felt that even though they had gotten off without losing any of their number to slavery, they were going to regret the decision. The expression on Old Ozawa's face had spoken far more than his words – those books were clearly even more important to him than he had protested. Even now, as he watched the elder standing, head bowed, in the middle of the square, Sora felt a strange wave of pity for him.
Then Old Ozawa's house exploded in flames. Everybody in the square panicked: villagers ran for cover as the flames roared and spread, horses bolted and soldiers looked helplessly to their captain for orders. The captain shook his head and signalled for a retreat as the flames grew larger, spreading to neighbouring houses with alarming speed. Sora was the only one who remained, staring dumbfounded at the blazing inferno. He thought he could hear something from inside it – a sort of chanting.
With a crash, the walls of the house collapsed into piles of ash and debris, leaving a single figure standing alone in the rubble – Sanada, his robe whipping around him as he raised his hands in the air. Mysterious winds howled through the village, snatching at Sora's hair as they passed, scattering flames all around. Sora watched in horror as all the houses surrounding the square began to burn, though none with such ferocity as Old Ozawa's house had been.
With a start, Sora realised that Old Ozawa was still standing in the middle of the square, staring at what remained of his house. Sora ran over to him and shook his shoulder, shouting in his ear over the winds that buffeted them both. "You need to get out of here! It's dangerous!"
"I'm not going anywhere, Old Ozawa grunted, barely audible over the wind. "I'm staying right here."
"Why?" Sora asked desperately, glancing up as a sudden rumble of thunder split the air. Billowing thunderheads whirled in the sky, growing and spreading before his eyes. Lightning flashed, followed a split second later by another crash of thunder. Rain began to pour from the sky, drenching the whole village, yet the flames kept burning.
"Witchcraft!" Old Ozawa howled, shaking his fist at the lone figure of Sanada standing amongst the ruins of his house. "That's what this is – plain witchcraft! This is not real magic!" Sora was confused, but he nodded agreement anyway.
"That's bad, right?"
"Of course it's bad! This magic stinks of a kind not seen or heard of for centuries – a kind that was never to be used again!"
With a crash of thunder louder than the rest, the clouds split, and a single ray of light pierced through to the ground below, landing directly in front of Sora and Old Ozawa. In this ray of light materialised a man. At least, Sora thought it was a man. It seemed to be made of pure light, shimmering and blending with the ray of sunlight in which it stood, but it was definitely man-shaped. Then it laughed, and Sora clapped his hands to his ears. The thing's voice was ghastly, like a thousand screams being rubbed through a cheese grater.
"You shall not have it, Sanada!" it shouted triumphantly, and Sora winced as the voice passed into his ears as if he had not even bothered to block them in the first place, piercing and twisting like a knife. "The Grimoire shall once again be denied you!" The figure extended a hand towards Sanada, who turned to glare at it.
"It is mine!" Sanada screamed, his hood blown off by the elements. Through the driving rain and increasing smoke, Sora made out a pale face with a pure white ponytail whipping around behind it. "It is my right, and you shall not keep it from me!" Sanada bent down and picked something up from the ashes, lifting it high above his head. It looked like a large book, Sora thought.
"That belongs to me!" Old Ozawa hollered angrily. "Get your filthy hands off it, witch!"
The man made of light laughed again and waved a hand sharply behind him without looking back. Old Ozawa choked and convulsed as what looked like a ray of light pierced him directly through the heart. Within seconds, he keeled over, falling heavily to the ground as he clutched at his chest. "Do not presume to interfere, mortals!" the strange being warned. Sora knelt down beside the old man frantically and pressed his ear to his chest. Even through the background noise of the wind, rain, fire and thunder, he was fairly certain that there was no heartbeat. He glared at the two strangers facing each other off across the square.
"I will deny you the Grimoire, Sanada," the unnamed stranger said, advancing on Sanada slowly, his ray of light moving with him. With a flick of his wrist, the book was yanked out of Sanada's desperately clutching grasp and flew across the square into his hands. There was a smile in his voice when he next spoke. "Until next time." With a blinding flash of light that forced Sora to look away, he was gone, leaving behind only the rain.
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