Archive of Our Own ^beta

The broadsword leaves a scoreline over faded blue tile as the man yanks it forcefully out of the ground, trailing scraps of red fabric that seem to dissolve like snow. Calcharo turns to face the figure nestled neatly on one of the bright plastic chairs below the railing. Making his way forwards he chides himself for having to squint, and watches as the youth turns a precious stone over in their hands.

The figure turns their head, and from the shock of red hair he finally blinks in recognition, although he would never go so far as to let it show; he casts his mind back a couple months.

Oh, you mean Danjin, Jiyan states simply, as if nothing else needs explaining. He shrugs. Technically, she's registered and trains under the vanguard. Why do you ask?

Calcharo doesn't move.

She's been eyeing me for a while now. Getting on my nerves, he grunts, earning a grin from the general in response.

That's just how she is sometimes, as he busies himself with some papers nearby. Doctors seem to feel the need to keep themselves occupied at every waking moment, regardless of how you try to drill it out of them. Don't tell me you wouldn't do the same, no?

Showed up out of nowhere, or so he said, mere months after his initiation as general. Simply walked into the barracks in the middle of the night, looking like a deer caught in headlights. Stood unresponsive until her knees gave out. Wouldn't eat or drink or sleep until the crimson “sword” pried from her pale, trembling hands was returned to her.

And then, Jiyan continued, with a small wave of the hand, she tried to move on the next day. As if nothing had happened. Apologised for any burden she had placed on resources, and pleaded constantly of an errand that was imperative she had to complete, that the blood that caked her stained tunic wasn't hers, that such cautions really didn't need to be taken, really, it's no trouble.

Calcharo shifts as the girl slips the tempting jade away. She stands and fishes out a Loong Whiskers Crisp, gently tearing the wrapper. In the moment, it is almost impossible for him to piece her together in his mind's eye, as small, fragile, volatile. The girl looks too placid, fumbling with the bright, childish packaging, as if watching a man tear through flesh and bone was far too ordinary an occurrence for her.

She announces, “You should leave here.”

He finds him staring down into polite, blue eyes, as if she'd just given him directions to City Hall, and feels himself frown. Unfazed. Fearless, but not defiant, she continues.

“You don't smell like 'them.'”

There's pause as the girl's face lights up, freeing the dessert from its paper with quiet victory.

“Smell?” The man rumbles, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” The girl nods, all too matter-of-fact. “Greed, wrath, envy...”

She spits out the words so cleanly that she seems completely detached from them, to the point where neat disgust can be faintly heard as she lists on and on. As if reciting statements as truth over and over will strip them of any emotional repulsion that remains.

Calcharo observes as she snaps the crisp neatly in half (though her hands falter and her voice waivers when she reaches “bloodshed”, no matter how well she plays it off), and offers from a gloved hand.

“Take this,” she ends cleanly, in a perfect ranger's tone, “as a token of my gratitude, and I wish you a safe journey.”

Calcharo exhales slowly. Really, now? But at the end of the day, no matter how many smiles, or well-mannered wishes, a child is still a child.

“There's no need for all that.”

He clumsily pieces the two halves of the Loong Whiskers Crisp with a sigh and hands it back to her. She is amused.

“Sticking together...” The pleasantries fade into surprised, appreciative quiet. “That seems nice.” She gestures for him to enter the doorway first, and he nods in reply. But as his hand lingers on the ethereal handle, he knows it is all too clear that she is still searching for something.