[Guilty Gear] Sand in an Hourglass
Title: Sand in an Hourglass
Fandom: Guilty Gear
Characters: Kliff, Ky
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Notes: The evening before Ky ships out.
Sand in an Hourglass
The doors fall closed, shutting out the brightly lit corridor and leaving him in near total darkness. Kliff draws a breath in the moment it takes for his eyes to adjust, the cool tang of autumn preferable to the atmosphere of the ballroom, perfume and social niceties settling over the crowd like a film and making parts of him itch, not always in irritation.
The early frost has cleared the air so that the moon stands in stark relief, its pale edges sharp enough to cut a slice of the sky. The white gravel paths of the inner courtyard are glowing faintly, weaving in and out between the shrubbery. The first leaves are turning colors, the moon bright enough to see their cracking edges, slowly curling inward. It disturbs the geometric patterns the trees are cut in, domes and triangles and squares, and the thought that someone had the time to take a measuring tape or an angle iron to them and trim every last twig to perfection carries a certain feeling of absurdity.
He is taking his time, in no hurry to go anywhere in particular, dragging his feet just a bit because this isn't the red carpet, or the camps, and if he shakes off the duties of the uniform for just a second, he never really lost the farmer's gait. Pebbles go skittering into the flowerbeds on either side, and if he looks back over his shoulder, he's leaving a couple of streaks deep enough that the soil is shining through. Funny, how something like this can make him feel better, like he's pulling a tiny piece of front-line chaos into the neatness of the capital, of headquarters, because that was one thing he never dealt well with, returning after weeks and months spent in trampled, muddy fields, clambering around ruins or shantytowns, and then seeing the small shops bursting with their tidy, colorful displays and steady price lists, the people living by clock strikes and office hours, or the spotless hallways, white and blue-gray marble polished to a shine.
The disconnect never really went away, crossing the border to some safe, encapsulated realm completely untouched by war, with barely enough time to wash his face or change his clothes before he's dragged in front of a podium and has a glass of champagne shoved in his free hand, to speak about glorious triumphs, of turning tides and flawless victories.
Lying is always easier when he's at least gotten the chance to bury his kids.
Three of them, this time, sacrificed to fear and ignorance. Forced to evacuate instead of attack, an entire town of refugees that was simply not considered worth saving, because the people were different - no nationality, no faith, and children, so many children - too different to be considered worthy of the mercy of God. With two of them, the only way to tell what happened to whom was from the reports, because they were forced into battle with no way to retreat, torn apart by the same wave. The third held out the longest, defending a caravan and dying in the jaws of the Megadeath she managed to bring down with her.
Barely enough left of them to send anything back, but Kliff can't shake off the thought that at least there is something, because finding nothing would be worse than mangled bodies, when he can't be sure that death really was the end for them. It's cold comfort, but it's better than the alternative. In his heart, he knows that the one time was special, specially arranged for him, to accomplish... something. He isn't sure what because hurt was all it did, but that seems much too simple. The one time might have been special, but it doesn't mean he can stop worrying, keep himself from sending a prayer each time.
Technically, any of them could be the next.
He can't keep himself from caring, after all, even without the many hours spent on their training, watching them study and fight and grow, most of them not even on their final boot size. Just the knowledge that he's sending them out there, the most brilliant, best of their generation, those that, in a better time, would spend their talents on art and music instead of learning how to go out and hold the world together. Just that is enough that he can't even pretend they are the same as the thousands and ten thousand others that have fallen, continue to fall. It shouldn't be any different, but it is, and not saying their names does nothing to make it so; they're still there, and so are their faces, guileless as they were on the first day - Luca, Ciel, Iria.
Ahead of him, the path opens up into a wide plaza, a circular platform with tiles forming the sword-crucifix crest, and even without the moon, Kliff is sure he could've seen the figure clearly, too white and too graceful to go unnoticed. For a moment, he hesitates, but the boy already knows he's being observed, his movements growing that much more precise, the blade flashing through the air with a quicksilver speed he's starting to find hard to match.
He didn't plan to meet him here, but it is just as well. Ky has heard, of course, knows what it means for him. He'll ship out in the morning to replace one of those that were lost, leading soldiers that will only see a child, a head shorter than their shortest man, and with anyone else, Kliff would suspect nervousness or anxiety as the reason behind the midnight training session, but not with this boy. The best, last hope he's ever trained, devouring textbooks and wielding a sword like dancing, gazing up at him with honest, serious eyes and waiting for the revelation of a wisdom Kliff isn't sure he ever had.
Sometimes, he dearly wishes he did, if it meant he could keep this boy safe.
It's not fair, he knows, to play favorites, to have Ky mean more to him than all the others, smart, talented kids who are just as worthy. It's not fair, and it's not healthy, and if he had even an ounce of self-preservation left in him, he wouldn't have allowed it, would have handed him over to someone else, but Ky is just enough like Tetsu - serious and driven with that spark in his eyes - and just enough himself that he couldn't help it. Couldn't refuse someone who never demanded.
"Sir?"
Ky has finished his routine, sheathing the sword with a little flourish, a tiny bit of extravaganza in something that is all form, all function. "I thought you were at the banquet?"
"Sometimes, the old songs become a tad... tedious," Kliff says, and climbing the steps to the plaza is just enough time to ensure that there is a smile on his face, because there's no reason to burden the boy more than he already is, more than he will be. The smile he gets in return is the kind that always leaves him a little winded, the bright, rare smile Ky only lets slip when he's absolutely sure it's okay to laugh, all knowing amusement and sympathy.
"You got your orders?"
Originally, he wanted to be the one to hand them to Ky, as that's how he's always done things, with a formal send-off, but this time, the events came crashing down too quickly for him to do more than leave the transcript in his room.
"Yes, sir." The moment fades, Ky immediately straightening and just barely suppressing a salute. "I'm ready."
"I'm sure you are," he says, with a chuckle that doesn't quite want to come out right, and a hand that doesn't rest quite as steady on Ky's shoulder as he'd like. "I'm sure."
He has to bite his tongue to keep from tacking on more useless phrases, things like how it's gonna be fine and how proud he is, because Ky is already gazing at him in the way they all do when he sends them off to face death, bottomless trust and not the faintest hint of blame. He would have liked for things to be different here, and for the longest time, he actually toyed with the idea of keeping Ky back, of sticking him somewhere other than the front, somewhere just as important, because it seemed so wrong to sacrifice such a pure heart to the fighting. Ky had the people skills and the cunning that could be better applied in a place less dangerous, but then the kid turned out to be a lightning user.
All he could do at this point was to stick Ky where he did, hoping against hope that Sol might be able to watch his back a little, keep him alive, keep him whole. Favoritism, again, and Kliff knows Ky wouldn't be happy if he found out that he thinks him in need of protection, but it's not like he can change. God may not play dice, but that doesn't mean Kliff can't rig the game a little, try to gain some sort of edge and ensure the boy a couple more birthdays.
"Sir?" Ky is watching him with concern. "Is... is there something wrong?"
The laughter startles them both, but he can't help himself, not when he's being asked what's wrong with sending a thirteen - still thirteen - year-old boy off to war, like this is how things are supposed to be. Like Ky never thought about anything else, any other options, and Kliff isn't sure whether that makes it better or worse.
Shaking his head, he reaches out, tousling the fine blond hair. The shadows are making Ky slightly older, but by no means taller, the shortest of his batch and everyone always took advantage of that, until he was spending half his days walking around with a bad case of bed-head and a sour look for any squad-mate who appeared to be aiming for anything higher than his shoulder. He isn't glaring now, though, just looking a little bewildered and a little like he knows what's eating Kliff, but is too polite to ask.
"...Stay safe, dear boy."
It's enough to say this, it has to be. He gently squeezes the back of Ky's neck, because it's all he can do to stop himself from apologizing. He can't ask for absolution, because Ky would give it without a second thought.
"Stay safe."
-Fin-
----
A/N: Kliff gets so shafted by canon, and the relationship he has with Ky tends to be completely forgotten (what, not even a line in that silly official relationship chart?), so of course I had to go rectify that. XD C&C is appreciated.
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Fandom: Guilty Gear
Characters: Kliff, Ky
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Notes: The evening before Ky ships out.
Sand in an Hourglass
The doors fall closed, shutting out the brightly lit corridor and leaving him in near total darkness. Kliff draws a breath in the moment it takes for his eyes to adjust, the cool tang of autumn preferable to the atmosphere of the ballroom, perfume and social niceties settling over the crowd like a film and making parts of him itch, not always in irritation.
The early frost has cleared the air so that the moon stands in stark relief, its pale edges sharp enough to cut a slice of the sky. The white gravel paths of the inner courtyard are glowing faintly, weaving in and out between the shrubbery. The first leaves are turning colors, the moon bright enough to see their cracking edges, slowly curling inward. It disturbs the geometric patterns the trees are cut in, domes and triangles and squares, and the thought that someone had the time to take a measuring tape or an angle iron to them and trim every last twig to perfection carries a certain feeling of absurdity.
He is taking his time, in no hurry to go anywhere in particular, dragging his feet just a bit because this isn't the red carpet, or the camps, and if he shakes off the duties of the uniform for just a second, he never really lost the farmer's gait. Pebbles go skittering into the flowerbeds on either side, and if he looks back over his shoulder, he's leaving a couple of streaks deep enough that the soil is shining through. Funny, how something like this can make him feel better, like he's pulling a tiny piece of front-line chaos into the neatness of the capital, of headquarters, because that was one thing he never dealt well with, returning after weeks and months spent in trampled, muddy fields, clambering around ruins or shantytowns, and then seeing the small shops bursting with their tidy, colorful displays and steady price lists, the people living by clock strikes and office hours, or the spotless hallways, white and blue-gray marble polished to a shine.
The disconnect never really went away, crossing the border to some safe, encapsulated realm completely untouched by war, with barely enough time to wash his face or change his clothes before he's dragged in front of a podium and has a glass of champagne shoved in his free hand, to speak about glorious triumphs, of turning tides and flawless victories.
Lying is always easier when he's at least gotten the chance to bury his kids.
Three of them, this time, sacrificed to fear and ignorance. Forced to evacuate instead of attack, an entire town of refugees that was simply not considered worth saving, because the people were different - no nationality, no faith, and children, so many children - too different to be considered worthy of the mercy of God. With two of them, the only way to tell what happened to whom was from the reports, because they were forced into battle with no way to retreat, torn apart by the same wave. The third held out the longest, defending a caravan and dying in the jaws of the Megadeath she managed to bring down with her.
Barely enough left of them to send anything back, but Kliff can't shake off the thought that at least there is something, because finding nothing would be worse than mangled bodies, when he can't be sure that death really was the end for them. It's cold comfort, but it's better than the alternative. In his heart, he knows that the one time was special, specially arranged for him, to accomplish... something. He isn't sure what because hurt was all it did, but that seems much too simple. The one time might have been special, but it doesn't mean he can stop worrying, keep himself from sending a prayer each time.
Technically, any of them could be the next.
He can't keep himself from caring, after all, even without the many hours spent on their training, watching them study and fight and grow, most of them not even on their final boot size. Just the knowledge that he's sending them out there, the most brilliant, best of their generation, those that, in a better time, would spend their talents on art and music instead of learning how to go out and hold the world together. Just that is enough that he can't even pretend they are the same as the thousands and ten thousand others that have fallen, continue to fall. It shouldn't be any different, but it is, and not saying their names does nothing to make it so; they're still there, and so are their faces, guileless as they were on the first day - Luca, Ciel, Iria.
Ahead of him, the path opens up into a wide plaza, a circular platform with tiles forming the sword-crucifix crest, and even without the moon, Kliff is sure he could've seen the figure clearly, too white and too graceful to go unnoticed. For a moment, he hesitates, but the boy already knows he's being observed, his movements growing that much more precise, the blade flashing through the air with a quicksilver speed he's starting to find hard to match.
He didn't plan to meet him here, but it is just as well. Ky has heard, of course, knows what it means for him. He'll ship out in the morning to replace one of those that were lost, leading soldiers that will only see a child, a head shorter than their shortest man, and with anyone else, Kliff would suspect nervousness or anxiety as the reason behind the midnight training session, but not with this boy. The best, last hope he's ever trained, devouring textbooks and wielding a sword like dancing, gazing up at him with honest, serious eyes and waiting for the revelation of a wisdom Kliff isn't sure he ever had.
Sometimes, he dearly wishes he did, if it meant he could keep this boy safe.
It's not fair, he knows, to play favorites, to have Ky mean more to him than all the others, smart, talented kids who are just as worthy. It's not fair, and it's not healthy, and if he had even an ounce of self-preservation left in him, he wouldn't have allowed it, would have handed him over to someone else, but Ky is just enough like Tetsu - serious and driven with that spark in his eyes - and just enough himself that he couldn't help it. Couldn't refuse someone who never demanded.
"Sir?"
Ky has finished his routine, sheathing the sword with a little flourish, a tiny bit of extravaganza in something that is all form, all function. "I thought you were at the banquet?"
"Sometimes, the old songs become a tad... tedious," Kliff says, and climbing the steps to the plaza is just enough time to ensure that there is a smile on his face, because there's no reason to burden the boy more than he already is, more than he will be. The smile he gets in return is the kind that always leaves him a little winded, the bright, rare smile Ky only lets slip when he's absolutely sure it's okay to laugh, all knowing amusement and sympathy.
"You got your orders?"
Originally, he wanted to be the one to hand them to Ky, as that's how he's always done things, with a formal send-off, but this time, the events came crashing down too quickly for him to do more than leave the transcript in his room.
"Yes, sir." The moment fades, Ky immediately straightening and just barely suppressing a salute. "I'm ready."
"I'm sure you are," he says, with a chuckle that doesn't quite want to come out right, and a hand that doesn't rest quite as steady on Ky's shoulder as he'd like. "I'm sure."
He has to bite his tongue to keep from tacking on more useless phrases, things like how it's gonna be fine and how proud he is, because Ky is already gazing at him in the way they all do when he sends them off to face death, bottomless trust and not the faintest hint of blame. He would have liked for things to be different here, and for the longest time, he actually toyed with the idea of keeping Ky back, of sticking him somewhere other than the front, somewhere just as important, because it seemed so wrong to sacrifice such a pure heart to the fighting. Ky had the people skills and the cunning that could be better applied in a place less dangerous, but then the kid turned out to be a lightning user.
All he could do at this point was to stick Ky where he did, hoping against hope that Sol might be able to watch his back a little, keep him alive, keep him whole. Favoritism, again, and Kliff knows Ky wouldn't be happy if he found out that he thinks him in need of protection, but it's not like he can change. God may not play dice, but that doesn't mean Kliff can't rig the game a little, try to gain some sort of edge and ensure the boy a couple more birthdays.
"Sir?" Ky is watching him with concern. "Is... is there something wrong?"
The laughter startles them both, but he can't help himself, not when he's being asked what's wrong with sending a thirteen - still thirteen - year-old boy off to war, like this is how things are supposed to be. Like Ky never thought about anything else, any other options, and Kliff isn't sure whether that makes it better or worse.
Shaking his head, he reaches out, tousling the fine blond hair. The shadows are making Ky slightly older, but by no means taller, the shortest of his batch and everyone always took advantage of that, until he was spending half his days walking around with a bad case of bed-head and a sour look for any squad-mate who appeared to be aiming for anything higher than his shoulder. He isn't glaring now, though, just looking a little bewildered and a little like he knows what's eating Kliff, but is too polite to ask.
"...Stay safe, dear boy."
It's enough to say this, it has to be. He gently squeezes the back of Ky's neck, because it's all he can do to stop himself from apologizing. He can't ask for absolution, because Ky would give it without a second thought.
"Stay safe."
-Fin-
----
A/N: Kliff gets so shafted by canon, and the relationship he has with Ky tends to be completely forgotten (what, not even a line in that silly official relationship chart?), so of course I had to go rectify that. XD C&C is appreciated.
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