Character Sketches
Posted by KJ on the 6th of September, 2009 at 7:19 pm under Uncategorized. This post has one comment.The following stories were written for a LiveJournal meme in which people requested a sketch of a character. Since I don’t draw, I offered to write “character sketch” stories instead. Posted between January and August 2009. All rated G, all contain spoilers.
“Hey mister! You gonna buy that?”
The man in the red coat glanced up from the dagger he had been toying with for the last half hour or so. Dacey had seen him in the store several times before, wandering the aisles like a ghost, his movements oddly silent for a man of his size, picking up knives, daggers, even the occasional sword, testing their edges, then putting them back down. As far as she knew, the only item he’d ever purchased was a pair of heavy black boots, just like the ones he was wearing now. But he hadn’t bought them from Dacey; she’d been with another customer at the time, so she’d never heard him speak. Sometimes she wondered if he even could.
She wondered a lot of things about him. There were many reasons that he stood out from the usual clientele at Fine Weaponry of Zanarkand: his broad shoulders, his grizzled cheeks, the arm he perpetually wore in a sling, the scar that cut across the right side of his face. Most of their customers were hot-headed, loud-talking young men and women, arming themselves for an excursion to sea or for the sparring matches held in the blitz arena during the off-season. Fiends showed up so rarely in Zanarkand that most people didn’t take arms and armor all that seriously. Something about this guy told Dacey a different story.
“My apologies,” the man said as Dacey approached. His voice was rougher than she had expected it to be.
“No worries, it’s not like it’s busy today.” She glanced around at the nearly-empty shop. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t need help or something.”
“No. I was just thinking. Thank you for your concern.” Setting the dagger back on the shelf, he nodded to her, then turned around, coat swirling around his knees, and strode to the door. He pushed it open and was gone, disappearing into the crowded marketplace, leaving all of Dacey’s questions unanswered in his wake.
Neeta still remembers the day Baralai arrived in Bevelle: just two years old, his chubby fingers held fast in the hand of the temple summoner who had brought him, and totally bald.
“They found him yesterday, in the wreckage of one of the houses,” the summoner had said, “two days after the attack. The villagers were gathering the fallen for the sending, and they cleared some rubble and there he was — barely alive, but alive. Unfortunately, both of his parents were killed, along with most of their neighbors, and no one left is able take him in. Is there a space in the temple orphanage?”
“Of course.” Neeta looked down at Baralai, whose eyes were cast toward the pavement, hiding his face. The bare skin on the top of his head gleamed in the morning light. “So young to be left alone… we could never turn him away. But whatever happened to his hair? Did Sin–”
The summoner shook his head. “No, he had a full head of black hair when we found him.” He let go of Baralai’s hand and rested his palm atop the boy’s head. “But when he woke up this morning, it had all fallen out. It’s one of the ways a body can react to shock and loss. I’ve seen it before, although never with one so young.” He stroked Baralai’s head, letting his hand come to rest on his back. “It will grow back soon.”
For the first time, Baralai looked up, first at the summoner, then at Neeta. His eyes were large, a startling dark brown in his small pale face, drawn with grief and two days without food or water. “Promise?”
Neeta knelt down, bringing herself to Baralai’s eye level. “I promise,” she said. “Baralai, would you like to live here with us?”
He was silent for a moment, looking around the temple, up at the spire. Then he met her eyes again. “Will I be safe?” he asked, his words unusually clear for a child of his age
“Indeed you will. And when you’re a little older, perhaps we’ll teach you more about Yevon, and how we protect all of Spira from Sin. How does that sound?”
After a short pause, he nodded. Neeta stood and held out her arms, and Baralai stepped into them; she hoisted him to her shoulder, and he put his arms around her neck. She hugged him to her, bid the summoner farewell, and took him to meet the matron.
Baralai had been a model child from that day forward: quiet, polite, respectful, attentive in his lessons. True to the summoner’s word, his hair had grown back within a few weeks: thick, straight, and pure white, its color the only reminder of the terrible trauma. He claims not to be able to remember, when the other children ask; he says his memories begin with that moment on the Highbridge, meeting Neeta and being carried to the orphanage. Neeta has her suspicions though, especially on the sunny days when he doesn’t show up for afternoon lessons. She finds him in the same place every time: on a balcony overlooking the training ground where the warrior monks sparred, his eyes shining with excitement. A single sharp word from her pulls him away from the wall with no argument; he never complains, or looks over his shoulder. But still, Neeta wonders. Tomorrow is his twelfth birthday, the day he will leave the orphanage to begin his training as a priest, and as she watches him pack, the question she purposefully left unasked comes forth.
“Baralai? Do you really want to be a priest?”
He turns to her with a polite nod. “Yes, ma’am. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. You know that.”
“I know it’s the path we’ve always expected you to take.” Neeta buries her hands in the sleeves of her robe and looks closely at him — he is nearly as tall as she, now, his build slight, the shock of white hair standing out against his naturally tanned skin. “But from the way you watch the warrior monks, I sometimes wonder how freely this choice is really made.”
He folds the tunic he is holding into a neat square and places it in the bag on his bed, then looks at her with brown eyes that are still too wise for his young face. “Miss Neeta, I thank you for your concern. I do like watching the monks, but I know I can never be one of them. Yevon has called me to be a priest, and so a priest I shall be. I owe Yevon my life; who am I to question how that life shall be dedicated?” He bows to her and smiles. “Now if you’ll pardon me, ma’am, I have to let the matron know I’m ready to go.”
Neeta follows him out and sends a small prayer to Yevon, hoping with all her heart that they have all made the right decision.
He stands at the entrance to the temple complex, looking up at the spire, the words of the temple summoner still ringing in his ears. “Traitor!” “Heretic!” “Outcast!” Staring into the late morning sun, he can see the faces of the other summoners-in-training closing to him before turning their backs, leaving him nothing but to walk out of the hall, head held high, keeping his steps smooth and even, though his knees wanted to shake.
He clenches his fists at the memory, then lets them fall open; fingers gently tickle his left palm, then slide into his, and he squeezes again, gently this time. One breath, then another — he pulls the fresh air deep into his lungs, replacing the scents of fear and stale incense with cleaner smells, better memories: salt spray, meat grilling somewhere in the city market, her delicate perfume.
“I’m sorry,” she says into his ear, the softness of her breath tickling his neck, and he knows that she must have stood on tiptoe to reach so high. He turns, and she is flat on her feet again, looking up at him, sorrow glinting in her green eyes.
He smiles at her, the rush of tenderness even stronger than it had been that first day, the day they met on the doorstep of Home. “It’s worth it.” He had embarked on that trip certain it would change his life; never would he have guessed just how much. Hand still twined with hers, he turns his back on St. Bevelle and takes her to town, to the home they are building together and will share for the rest of their lives.
Kinoc stood on the ramparts of St. Bevelle, the rising sun at his back as the banners whipped in the wind. Bells rang out overhead, pealing their message of celebration in his honor. In half an hour, he would return to the temple, surrounded by cheering warrior monks, and kneel before the Maester to be rededicated to Yevon and named second in command of the warrior monks, answerable only to the High Commander and to the Maester himself.
His heartbeat quickened at the heady thought, and he gripped the rail to keep from pitching over the edge. Power. It was all he had ever wanted: the right to wield a sword and hold power over the actions of men. Shorter and softer than most of the others called to serve, he had always known that his route to the upper echelons of Yevon would require a subtle touch. So he taught himself quickness and stealth, cunning and strategy. And magic — he’d discovered his aptitude for the magical arts, both white and black, early on, and he had learned as many spells and techniques as he could, soaking up knowledge from the priests and elders whenever he could spare time from his warrior’s training. Only summoning remained beyond him, and that was a role he had never coveted. He preferred to work within the ranks, building alliances and his reputation, never outshining anyone, always slipping in from behind.
And it had worked. So well that he’d manage to whisk this promotion out from under the nose of the man everyone else had expected to get it, himself included. All it had taken was a few words in the right ear, and here he was, ruler of all he surveyed — save the two old men above him, but he expected they would be gone soon enough — while his friend and rival was cast out in disgrace and sent on an impossible quest. Even now, Kinoc could see him in the distance, red coat slung over his shoulders, sword strapped to his back, walking down the long pilgrimage road.
Yes, it had all come together, exactly as he had planned, and soon he would walk through the doors of St. Bevelle to reap the reward he had earned. Even if, watching Auron’s crimson-clad back disappear into the Macalania Forest, the victory tasted like ashes in his mouth. If that was the only price, he could pay it, and count himself lucky.
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