Fic
Vaguely AU futurefic that spawned from trying to getting inside Ken's head a bit. OOC Wolf wiggled in at the end.
TW: thoughts on suicide, depression
On a Bad Day
He’s climbed up to the walkway between the towers, where the roof slopes down over the outer wall. The view stretches out for miles here, much farther than the village under the castle and the farms that feed it, and even the forest beyond that. Sometimes the mountains are raw spikes clawing at the clear sky. Today, clouds are gathering, softening the edges.
He can hear his guard, his watcher, his care taker, dancing about, fretting, in the doorway. It’s no easy task to get onto the walkway roof. You have to be nimble, and small enough to fit through the narrow windows. His watcher is twice his size and burdened by armor.
He’s not supposed to be up here, for two reasons. It is considered “running away”, for one, even if they know exactly where he is. It is comparable to locking himself in a room. His watchers must be able to reach him, at all times. He agreed to that rule, though it’s the one he has the most trouble following.
The second reason is for his own protection. The walkway on this side of the castle is especially high. A misstep climbing out or back in, too strong a wind, plain bad luck. The fall is too far, and the rocks below too sharp. None of the healers would be able to fix what was left. And, well, you know how you are, they say, with a look of hesitant pity.
He’s promised, upside-down, backwards, and sideways, that he won’t jump. But on really bad days, maybe he sits a little too close to the edge. Maybe he leans over a little too far, and hopes for a strong wind.
Today is a bad day. The tips of his boots tease the edge of the roof. His eyes are fixed on the horizon, on the hazy mountains far away. In his own world, he could see part of them from his cell window. In his world, what was left of the Mazoku race hid somewhere in those mountains from the human hoards who invaded their lands.
His ear twitches as someone scrabbles up the tiles onto the roof. He doesn’t have to look to know who it is. Only one person would come after him up here, and as the other boy moves into his peripheral, the sun catches on his bright golden hair, confirming his identity.
“Go away, Wolf,” he says. His voice his thin and tired. He doesn’t pretend with Wolf. Not anymore.
Wolf doesn’t go away. He never goes away. He’s stubborn. He says, “Please come down, Ken.” Because he knows what it means when Ken sits too close to the edge.
Ken can be stubborn too. He shakes his head, curls his arms around his legs and sets his chin on them. The action causes his whole body to shift closer to the edge. Wolf jerks forward, arms reaching to snatch him back if he were to tumble. Oblivious, he looks out on the free world defiantly. His eyes, though, shine with the hurt that brought him here in the first place.
A long, tense silence stretches between them. The sun inches toward the mountains. Little by little, Ken looses his grip on his knees. He lets go of a breath and scoots back from the edge, and picks his way across the tiles to tower wall. He can hear Wolf’s boots scraping the clay as he follows behind him. With the last of the day’s light, they climb down the wall and wiggle through the narrow window to safety.
Ken’s watcher looks relieved, but also angry. He doesn’t say anything, only motions for the black-haired boy to move. Ken glances at Wolf, thanking him and pleading with him, before he starts quickly down the hall to his room.
Bad days come and go. Some days he can talk to Wolf. Some days he just wants to shut everything down, any way he can. But he’ll talk to Wolf anyway, and eventually, somehow, the bad days will turn around. And maybe, someday, the bad days won’t be so bad. Maybe, someday, there will be more good days to balance out the bad days. And maybe, someday, he’ll stop sitting so close to the edge and hoping for a strong wind.
TW: thoughts on suicide, depression
On a Bad Day
He’s climbed up to the walkway between the towers, where the roof slopes down over the outer wall. The view stretches out for miles here, much farther than the village under the castle and the farms that feed it, and even the forest beyond that. Sometimes the mountains are raw spikes clawing at the clear sky. Today, clouds are gathering, softening the edges.
He can hear his guard, his watcher, his care taker, dancing about, fretting, in the doorway. It’s no easy task to get onto the walkway roof. You have to be nimble, and small enough to fit through the narrow windows. His watcher is twice his size and burdened by armor.
He’s not supposed to be up here, for two reasons. It is considered “running away”, for one, even if they know exactly where he is. It is comparable to locking himself in a room. His watchers must be able to reach him, at all times. He agreed to that rule, though it’s the one he has the most trouble following.
The second reason is for his own protection. The walkway on this side of the castle is especially high. A misstep climbing out or back in, too strong a wind, plain bad luck. The fall is too far, and the rocks below too sharp. None of the healers would be able to fix what was left. And, well, you know how you are, they say, with a look of hesitant pity.
He’s promised, upside-down, backwards, and sideways, that he won’t jump. But on really bad days, maybe he sits a little too close to the edge. Maybe he leans over a little too far, and hopes for a strong wind.
Today is a bad day. The tips of his boots tease the edge of the roof. His eyes are fixed on the horizon, on the hazy mountains far away. In his own world, he could see part of them from his cell window. In his world, what was left of the Mazoku race hid somewhere in those mountains from the human hoards who invaded their lands.
His ear twitches as someone scrabbles up the tiles onto the roof. He doesn’t have to look to know who it is. Only one person would come after him up here, and as the other boy moves into his peripheral, the sun catches on his bright golden hair, confirming his identity.
“Go away, Wolf,” he says. His voice his thin and tired. He doesn’t pretend with Wolf. Not anymore.
Wolf doesn’t go away. He never goes away. He’s stubborn. He says, “Please come down, Ken.” Because he knows what it means when Ken sits too close to the edge.
Ken can be stubborn too. He shakes his head, curls his arms around his legs and sets his chin on them. The action causes his whole body to shift closer to the edge. Wolf jerks forward, arms reaching to snatch him back if he were to tumble. Oblivious, he looks out on the free world defiantly. His eyes, though, shine with the hurt that brought him here in the first place.
A long, tense silence stretches between them. The sun inches toward the mountains. Little by little, Ken looses his grip on his knees. He lets go of a breath and scoots back from the edge, and picks his way across the tiles to tower wall. He can hear Wolf’s boots scraping the clay as he follows behind him. With the last of the day’s light, they climb down the wall and wiggle through the narrow window to safety.
Ken’s watcher looks relieved, but also angry. He doesn’t say anything, only motions for the black-haired boy to move. Ken glances at Wolf, thanking him and pleading with him, before he starts quickly down the hall to his room.
Bad days come and go. Some days he can talk to Wolf. Some days he just wants to shut everything down, any way he can. But he’ll talk to Wolf anyway, and eventually, somehow, the bad days will turn around. And maybe, someday, the bad days won’t be so bad. Maybe, someday, there will be more good days to balance out the bad days. And maybe, someday, he’ll stop sitting so close to the edge and hoping for a strong wind.