I.... ended up writing a Tsubasa:RC AU because paying with your memories for someone's life is so painfully CLAMP, and I'm sorry if this makes no sense. (IF YOU WANT ME TO EXPLAIN I WILL GLADLY FLAIL ABOUT CLAMP AT YOU, NO WORRIES.)
--
They stand before the witch a third time and their hands are empty.
Something that tastes of winter curls light around Oikawa’s mouth, like only the faintest breath of magic left; and then only the faintest breath from his lungs, wet and softly moving, the melt of snow in spring. His remaining eye is closed; there is nothing left in it to give, even if he were strong enough to give it.
(The blood is cold in Oikawa’s veins, but it’s been cold for a very long time.)
Minutes slow down to years around the witch; she looks at them not without kindness, and this above all unsettles Iwaizumi more than he wants to let on. He shifts a little, unbalanced by the years accumulating like weight on his shoulders and Oikawa is heavy, slung onto Iwaizumi’s back awkwardly; too tall, always too tall. Iwaizumi never did get that extra centimetre he longed for so much.
“The price is high, maybe too high,” the witch says, and the falling snow hangs suspended around them. Years turn back to minutes for one hiccough moment, and Iwaizumi’s spine runs cold as something wet pools from the weight on his back. He wills himself not to look; he can smell the iron in the air.
“Let me decide that,” Iwaizumi grunts, and the witch sighs.
“You have already given me your sword, and your sword arm,” she gestures with an elegant hand at the empty scabbard still hanging by Iwaizumi’s side; a mint green ribbon is tied to the lip, a gentle reminder of the first price he paid. His empty coat sleeve is a careful reminder of the second. “Your life isn’t even yours to give, you left it in the hands of that little princess.”
Iwaizumi lets himself just the smallest smile; it’s the memory of a little blonde pigtail circled with stars and the determined set of a mouth, in the face of danger, in the face of overwhelming fear. He learned more from that memory of resilience than he did in all his years of training, and he knows in that moment about the value of things.
“I can pay with my memories of home and of my service,” Iwaizumi says, and he tries to keep his voice steady as Oikawa’s breath stutters in his ear, slowing down even in this timeless place. It feels like years since he’s heard Oikawa’s carefree chatter, and it aches like a phantom pain. “What is of greater value to a knight than his fealty.”
And now the witch truly looks upon him with pity; it darkens her eyes, and it’s like looking into a void, and Iwaizumi hates it.
“Then I will take your fealty, and your meaning of home, but those you did not leave with the little princess.”
Something touches Iwaizumi’s thoughts and he remembers a night sky, endless and dark and full of stars long dead, and the feeling of a pale cold hand in his while they stand together at the end of a world.
“Ah,” Iwaizumi says, as the witch remembers his memory of a kiss, sweet with pearl sugar, stolen right after breakfast on a world where he and Oikawa had raced for a trifle. The weight grows heavier on Iwaizumi’s back and he grows angry with it; it feels like he’ll never have enough time. “I’ll pay it, just get this idiot off my back.”
It might have been a smile that Iwaizumi sees on the witch’s face before everything goes dark, and he might have heard the squeak of something across wooden floors, and a strange bouncing rhythmic sound that echoes off of rafters; but then the world changes.
--
“What did you leave him with?” The wizard’s voice is bemused, gentle, and when he turns his head to look curiously at the witch, the shadows slide away from the light ash of his hair.
“Nothing. A false hope, maybe.”
But the witch also remembers blonde hair aloft in the moonlight, and resilience, and the promise of home. She shakes her head of the memory, and the curtain of her hair falls dark across her face.
FILL: TEAM IMAIZUMI SHUNSUKE/NARUKO SHOUKICHI, G
minor description of injury
I.... ended up writing a Tsubasa:RC AU because paying with your memories for someone's life is so painfully CLAMP, and I'm sorry if this makes no sense. (IF YOU WANT ME TO EXPLAIN I WILL GLADLY FLAIL ABOUT CLAMP AT YOU, NO WORRIES.)
--
They stand before the witch a third time and their hands are empty.
Something that tastes of winter curls light around Oikawa’s mouth, like only the faintest breath of magic left; and then only the faintest breath from his lungs, wet and softly moving, the melt of snow in spring. His remaining eye is closed; there is nothing left in it to give, even if he were strong enough to give it.
(The blood is cold in Oikawa’s veins, but it’s been cold for a very long time.)
Minutes slow down to years around the witch; she looks at them not without kindness, and this above all unsettles Iwaizumi more than he wants to let on. He shifts a little, unbalanced by the years accumulating like weight on his shoulders and Oikawa is heavy, slung onto Iwaizumi’s back awkwardly; too tall, always too tall. Iwaizumi never did get that extra centimetre he longed for so much.
“The price is high, maybe too high,” the witch says, and the falling snow hangs suspended around them. Years turn back to minutes for one hiccough moment, and Iwaizumi’s spine runs cold as something wet pools from the weight on his back. He wills himself not to look; he can smell the iron in the air.
“Let me decide that,” Iwaizumi grunts, and the witch sighs.
“You have already given me your sword, and your sword arm,” she gestures with an elegant hand at the empty scabbard still hanging by Iwaizumi’s side; a mint green ribbon is tied to the lip, a gentle reminder of the first price he paid. His empty coat sleeve is a careful reminder of the second. “Your life isn’t even yours to give, you left it in the hands of that little princess.”
Iwaizumi lets himself just the smallest smile; it’s the memory of a little blonde pigtail circled with stars and the determined set of a mouth, in the face of danger, in the face of overwhelming fear. He learned more from that memory of resilience than he did in all his years of training, and he knows in that moment about the value of things.
“I can pay with my memories of home and of my service,” Iwaizumi says, and he tries to keep his voice steady as Oikawa’s breath stutters in his ear, slowing down even in this timeless place. It feels like years since he’s heard Oikawa’s carefree chatter, and it aches like a phantom pain. “What is of greater value to a knight than his fealty.”
And now the witch truly looks upon him with pity; it darkens her eyes, and it’s like looking into a void, and Iwaizumi hates it.
“Then I will take your fealty, and your meaning of home, but those you did not leave with the little princess.”
Something touches Iwaizumi’s thoughts and he remembers a night sky, endless and dark and full of stars long dead, and the feeling of a pale cold hand in his while they stand together at the end of a world.
“Ah,” Iwaizumi says, as the witch remembers his memory of a kiss, sweet with pearl sugar, stolen right after breakfast on a world where he and Oikawa had raced for a trifle. The weight grows heavier on Iwaizumi’s back and he grows angry with it; it feels like he’ll never have enough time. “I’ll pay it, just get this idiot off my back.”
It might have been a smile that Iwaizumi sees on the witch’s face before everything goes dark, and he might have heard the squeak of something across wooden floors, and a strange bouncing rhythmic sound that echoes off of rafters; but then the world changes.
--
“What did you leave him with?” The wizard’s voice is bemused, gentle, and when he turns his head to look curiously at the witch, the shadows slide away from the light ash of his hair.
“Nothing. A false hope, maybe.”
But the witch also remembers blonde hair aloft in the moonlight, and resilience, and the promise of home. She shakes her head of the memory, and the curtain of her hair falls dark across her face.