Forged By Adversity

“Vile stagnation…” Unable to restrain her laughter, Gwynevere hid her eyes beneath her hand, uncertain as to why she’d hid them, instead of her lips; though perhaps it was because she knew well enough that hiding her laughter would prove impossible. When the laughter finally receded, the Princess rose to her full height, curtsied, and then… Took a smart seat next to the ‘dragon’,  resting her hands against the mess of silks that had fallen around her legs. Some more of her mirth faded, as her fingers drew tense around skin - and for a minute, the ambience of the day threatened to overcome any further words from her. But then, the flashfire of her smile lit up once more, and she glanced from her knuckles to his eyes - and her unwavering gaze stayed there, resolute. “Thou art a master warrior, Knight Captain, though I do not fear thy skill at arms.” Motioning for him to sit next to her - and with a firm grin that made it clear refusal was out of the question - silence returned, and her mirth fell a bit more, though just as briefly. “… I spoke of mine work with Sir Gough, who gave to me some semblance of instruction; but I fear thou hast already stumbled upon the crueler wyrm. But… But.”

Whatever she wrestled with was kept well-hidden, communicated in glances and half-gestures. But just as the sun fell from behind clouds, she could not stay so pensive - and, her legs kicking up into the air at the half-begotten dragon’s side, Gwynevere stared up at Ornstein - eyes radiant.

“You would give your life, then… I hope to mine fullest, such a terrible oath shall never come to pass. But! Thine promise comes with a price, for, I do have a minor request of thee.” Gwyndolin, as ever he did, had found a way to give her the gift of time. And the cost of such a gift was acting on it - her hands took his, however briefly, and she dared not blink, watching his expression intently. “There is a - I believe it is a festival dedicated to the harvest of the hardwood trees, and their fruits. Mine presence was requested - I did intend to go. And I know it is a stretch, but…” Her grasp tightened, for a moment. “… Go with me?”

—  || ☨

Ornstein remained kneeling as Gwynevere broke into peals of bright and bell-like laughter, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes as good humor danced in the grey like the swirl of her skirts. It pleased him to see the Lady of Gentle Sunlight indulge in such carefree whims – and truth be told, her efforts did much to lighten his own spirits from the weight of its cares.

The glint in his eye matched her own. “I shouldst hope thou dost not fear me at all, Princess, for what reason wouldst thou hast to do so? Save, perhaps, for those pursuits at which I am unskilled, but I shall fail to mention them for the sake of my pride.”

When Gwynevere patted the ground beside her, he knew the command for what it was, and needed not the further enticement of her dimpled grin to take the open spot at her side – though he certainly appreciated the sight of it, bright and beaming and, in this moment, all for him.

“To confirm that I have indeed seen fiercer foes than this shouldst not devalue the product of thine efforts here.” He reached out, one long arm stretching over her shoulder, in order to further examine the ferocious foe she’d constructed from wood and paper. “Gough aided thee well. It carries a fine semblance indeed, though perhaps with some… artistic deviations.” A small, secretive smile, and he tapped the side of his nose. “Nothing that cannot be forgiven, of course.”

For all that he next expected her to ask him to fell the “dragon” that she had created, perhaps acting out one of his previous battles, the request was a far gentler one.

“My lady, thou hast but only to ask; in mine own heart I hath no wish or will to refuse, and I doubt such a request is one that thy Lord father wouldst deny. ‘Tis only sound prudence to request the presence of an escort, after all.

“Ow-ow-ow! Still packing on the pain - though, hey, glad to see the world of freedom, or whatever, is still treating you pretty well.” Hands thrust behind his head, Dante gave an enigmatic shrug - one somewhat displaced by his easy-going grin. “I can’t promise a motorcycle ride, unfortunately. The old girl is in the shop - I know a guy who knew a guy here, and since I was in town, I figured… Well, nothing says maturity like abandoning your responsibilities to see a friend, right?” Pausing, Dante rubbed at his chin, trying to look a little more stoic then he felt. “Okonomiyaki, though… That, that I can do. But wait! Isn’t going for pancakes something you, flouncy hat and droopy-eyes do? Guess we’re officially pals, now!.. Under better circumstances than murdering each other over bargain bin junk. Candelabrums, I mean. Candelbrae? Heh, never really cared for Latin - so, this place I’m thinking of, it has some great konjac!” The streets around them pulsed with life. People going about their daily business; shopping, talking animatedly, walking and losing themselves in the thrum of humanity. He watched them pass by for a bit, and chuckled. “… Doesn’t seem like a bad life, kid. But, hey, how do you feel about deciding who pays with a coin flip..?”

—  || ❂

“What? No bike?” It was the kind of whine only a thwarted teenager could make, and for all that he’d survived the end of the world, swayed and threatened demons to his side, and pretty much made a deal with the actual Devil himself, Naoki was still just a boy in his teens.

His disappointed pout was truly impressive, especially when accompanied by a roll of his eyes and the most dramatic sigh he could muster. “Fiiiiiine, but next time you’re in town I demand a ride. Some world of freedom if we can’t go blasting down the highway…”

Naoki scuffed the sole of his trainers along the concrete, hands stuffed into his pockets, and grinned up at the tall half-demon that towered over him with ease. “So what is it then? Pancakes, or konnyaku? Though I gotta warn you, when Chiaki and Isamu and I go to get pancakes, it’s a friendship bonding exercise, and by that I mean that we try to steal the butter off the top of each other’s pancake towers, and if you think Chiaki was vicious with a demon arm then you should see her armed with a fork.”

The grin widened, sharpening, and perhaps if one looked close one could see the demifiend that still lurked under the illusion of a boy. “If you think a scrum over candlesticks was tough, just wait ‘til you see how well I can defend a plate.

“You will find, of course, that this task is one I could not trust to any other - you must know it has given me fitful dreams, for some time - I could scarce sing nor write, Sir Ornstein…” Throughout the wide roads of Anor Londo, her words echoed; though the alleyways that the Princess of Sunlight took were surely unfamiliar to her, or at least should have been; though so implicit did her trust seem that it was, perhaps, an impossibility in her mind it might be betrayed. And though she remained at a somewhat cautious distance, mandated by decorum… So too did she stop, leading him forward by his hand, whenever her companion faltered. Finally, their destination reach, she held a sun-kissed hand to her face, and withheld a terrifying screech! … Before them, someone had constructed an object, or target, perhaps - one of wood and paper and paint. It clearly bore the shape of a dragon, though somewhat amateurishly… “… I was aided with the paint, you see. My original attempt was less - regal.” Her tiny huff of laughter made it clear just who had helped with that. And Gwynevere brought her arms to her chest, and bobbed her head low - perhaps to hide her smile. “You see, I realized there were no more dragons to slay, so I - I felt I might give you one, to see your valour, once more.”

—  || ☨

Gwynevere gave no indication of where she intended to lead him, but still the Knight Captain followed her without hesitation. Through winding ways they walked as the Princess spoke of distraction, of distress, even though the sun shone gentle and fair upon the day.

Though her restrained shriek startled him true, the sight of the source of her unrest was not as dire as he feared.

“Bright one!” He gasped in theatrical fear, writ large and wounded across both body and face. “Thou wouldst startle the heart from this poor knight, bringing him to face one of his greatest foes without so much as a whisper of warning!”

Curious, he stepped forward to examine the ingenious – if somewhat haphazard – creation that stretched its thin wings to the sky. “‘tis fitting, though, that even thine hands couldst not bring true regality to this creature’s fearsome countenance. A dragon’s innate foulness cannot help but seep through to corrupt its outer form, even if-” And here he tapped a finger against the hint of a smile on his lips, eyes twinkling with the mischief shared between them. “-that form is paint and paper rather than scale and stone!”

“… Anime yakuza.” She frowned at him, and her eyes made it clear that she found nothing about the phrase funny - Right until she snickered, under her breath. “Only you’d say something like that with a straight face. At least that means you’re still… You. On that note - hold on.” The travel-bag she’d kept with her, filled with little things that she’d assumed might be useful, lay discarded against her feet. She’d planned to abandon it even before they’d crossed paths, of course; like the protagonist burning their house to cinders, or those about to embark on a mission with a certain outcome… Well, there was no need for anything in it, anymore. Her leg brushed up against his, and she left it there; one thing nobody could accuse her of being was shy, and with the rest of humanity dead, or turned into shades and food for these… Things… “… Not that you don’t look good, but a man who doesn’t take care of his appearance is probably already good as dead. And fortunately, I had the foresight to…” Rob the hospital gift & care centre. “… Take some things from home. They might be a bit girly, but congratulations; in this world, I suppose they’re also more precious than gold. Treasure them, okay?” It was another lie - she’d thrown the same relics of the past she was placing against the tabletop haphazardly into her bag, without care for their intended purpose. They were just things - and given the matted sweat and dirt clinging to her hair, remnants of a long march past that ridiculous manta ray-thing… Since he wasn’t recoiling - shouldn’t she be the one recoiling? But now that he was so candid, there was this, it was almost fascinating - Her fingers crept along his arm, traced the flow of what looked like ink, but felt alive, like some sort of tracing eel beneath the sea of his skin. … She smirked. “It seems like you’re an anime yakuza who’s been weight-lifting, at least.“ There was quite a lot more that she wanted to say; to ask if it was weird how nervous she felt, and how nervous she didn’t feel; to ask if he remembered that time they’d watched that one show together, the one form the 80′s, the ultr*man rip-off, if he planned to stick around, for awhile… But Chiaki sighed, and inhaled the dust and smoke and the scent of sweat against his skin; and lay back in her seat, face wreathed by the umber neon glow of the place and the soft blue light of those tattoos - and it was inorganic and a little stilted, as she usually was, as she always was, as she asked, without a trace of remorse - “Do you wanna dance, for a bit? There’s nothing else here, after all…”

—  || ❂

“Hey, ‘s not like any real or self-respecting yakuza would get tattoos like this – they’re too ridiculous. Therefore, anime.” He grinned, the tattoos on his face warping slightly with the movement and the blue glow casting a cool light across his teeth, and puffed his chest out with bolstered pride at her compliment on his somewhat buff-er figure. Lifting weights was perhaps a bit of a stretch, but at least he wasn’t scrawny anymore. “Still, give me a bike and my old jacket? I’d cut a pretty intimidating figure.”

And of course, the moment she rested her leg against his and left it there while she rummaged in her bag, his brain fritzed a little, and for a moment it was as if they were in a Shinjuku nightclub with people all around, no demons to worry about, no burning in his skin, just her and him alone after Isamu’d wandered off to the bar with their fake ID, and he started to lean over-

She straightened back up with a satisfied little hah and the illusion was broken. The tattoos crackled under his skin, reminding him of where they were. He took the offered toiletries with a little smirk and pressed his leg back against hers. “I guess I’ll just blame you when demons start hitting on me for smelling like a girl-” He preemptively jerked back with a laugh in anticipation of a swift, hard swat. “-but at least I’ll have the hair to merit it.”

He shifted to pocket the gifts she’d given him, and in doing so brushed against some of the other things he’d scavenged since awaking in the Medical Center. “Here,” his fingers closed around a worn pebble with a faint warmth to it and passed it over to her, “since you’re giving up some shampoo, take this in return. It’s not much, but the hospital was pretty ransacked by the time I punched my way past that asshole manta Forneus.”

A tingle raced up his arm to the horn at the base of his neck from where her touch followed the line of his tattoos. Somehow, that was what made the heat start to rise in his cheeks, and even the tips of his ears felt a bit warm. Maybe it’s because I don’t have a shirt on…? Damn, I can almost hear Isamu laughing his ass off at me.

Well, what else was there to do?

Naoki stood up and stretched, arms over his head. The music of the club pounded through the walls, through the floor, heightened by the thump of dancing feet. A glance out over the dance floor showed mostly the chaos of any other club if one ignored the forms of the demonic dancers. He held his hand out to Chiaki.

❝  In my head, I am still there.  ❞