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fandomweekly2016-02-12 03:36 pm
ser_pounce_alot) wrote in fandomweekly2016-02-12 03:36 pm
Entry tags:
[#002] Come Marching Home (Chrono Trigger)
Theme Prompt: Practice Makes Perfect
Title: Come Marching Home
Fandom: Chrono Trigger
Rating/Warnings: PG
Bonus: No
Word Count: 993
Summary: The tatters of his life are held together by the webbed skin that now slimes between his fingers.
Notes: Title from an OC Remix track of (mostly) the same name.
His skin – now slimy, stretched taut and clammy – can also blister.
He first discovers it as he limps away from the Denadoro Mountains in shoes that no longer fit. They chafe against his ankles and heels until the skin breaks and bleeds, and he cannot stand any longer. It begins to rain when he is halfway to the forest; big, fat droplets that bead up against the green of his exposed flesh and run rivulets down his arms. He has only three fingers, clumsy and shackled with webs of skin, and when his feet give out, he uses those clunky hands to drag himself forward, bit by bit, until every muscle in his body is screaming in agony and he has found shelter beneath the canopies of leaves.
How long he stays there, curled in a miserable mass of skin and bone that has betrayed every one of his muscle memories, he does not know – when the sun eventually returns to the sky, he knows that he must move or risk being a wild fiend's meal. He finds a small cave, the entrance tucked between brush and weeds. It is narrow and smells of stale air, but it offers protection from the world.
For several weeks, he stays there in agony: raging against the one who did this to him, and loathing the monster that he has become.
--
It is in self-defense that he first picks up a weapon again, and it is only a broken branch. The Nu is ambling towards him with hungry eyes. He has no business living in this world, but the automatic reaction to fight death is stronger than his own misery. His big, webbed fingers manage to close in a fist around the bark and he waves it at the fiend, and then, when it does not seem to startle the creature away, begins to thrust it forward, feet somehow, clumsily, finding the well-practiced steps to the parry.
The weight and center of gravity to his new form are all off; he falls, face-first, and nearly lands on the makeshift weapon himself, but not before the Nu has thought better of attacking something so hell-bent on defending itself. It wanders off in search of an easier meal.
He stays for several long moments in the mud. When he pushes himself up and spits out bits of rock and dirt, he is not sure if he has won or lost – what an easy end it would have been.
--
He tries to push the incident from his mind, but eventually, pragmatism wins out. If he cannot defend himself in this wretched form, then he is doomed to continually repeat his near-defeat.
The clearing outside his cave is a well-used path for fiends, so he begins practicing in his cave. He starts small; his body is still foreign to him, and he struggles with even the tiniest of tasks. His hands might as well be thick, bloated gloves for all he can do with them. He tires easily and has to stop, and those moments are the worst for all the self-loathing that fills his mind. But still, he persists. He rises each morning with a new-found sense of purpose, even if that goal is simply to survive.
His webbed fingers cramp from hours spent curled awkwardly around the branch, but his arms become strong and solid.
--
The first fiend he defeats with the stick is merely a Gnasher, coiled around a tree at the opening of his cave and poised to strike. It goes down easily, but he knows that he will need something more to take down anything larger. He clears the area and searches for a branch large enough to do the job. After he finds it, he spends several hours stripping it and sharpening it in his cave.
It is a crude representation of a sword when he is done, a wooden imitation less powerful than a child's practice blade, but it is heavier, and that weight will be useful. Even though the sloppily-carved hilt drives splinters into his palms, he practices until exhaustion claims him.
For the first time, he does not dream of the life he used to have.
--
He moves through the forest, towards the north. He walks the plains and mountains until he reaches the Zenan Bridge, and then keeps going. The spires of the castle keep his legs moving. He does not know how they will receive him when he arrives, but he is aware that there is only so much time he can spend wallowing in rage, and he has already used up his allotment.
The merchant in Truce sells him a sword – a real blade, and while not superbly made, still sharp and powerful. The man says nothing about his green skin or webbed fingers, but he can see the distrust veiled behind dictated politeness.
He tells himself it does not bother him. Sometimes, he can almost believe it.
--
Years later, they find him again in his cave, and deposit a broken sword piece on the soil.
"Please," Lucca says. "We need your help."
Staring down at the metal, he doesn't know what to think. He has not seen it in years; the gold inlay on the spiraled iron and leather has flaked away, leaving tattered bald patches, and the pommel is bent at an awkward angle. He does not need to lean forward to read the maker's mark, for he already knows what it says, but he does anyway.
It mocks him from the soil, as broken and shattered as his own life.
But the next morning, when the others are sleeping curled around each other against the far wall, he picks up the Masamune and it feels familiar and comfortable in his swollen, webbed hands. He adjusts his grip, and feels the warmth of Cyrus' fingers.
"Alright," he tells them, and the ghost of his old self sighs. "I will help you."
Title: Come Marching Home
Fandom: Chrono Trigger
Rating/Warnings: PG
Bonus: No
Word Count: 993
Summary: The tatters of his life are held together by the webbed skin that now slimes between his fingers.
Notes: Title from an OC Remix track of (mostly) the same name.
His skin – now slimy, stretched taut and clammy – can also blister.
He first discovers it as he limps away from the Denadoro Mountains in shoes that no longer fit. They chafe against his ankles and heels until the skin breaks and bleeds, and he cannot stand any longer. It begins to rain when he is halfway to the forest; big, fat droplets that bead up against the green of his exposed flesh and run rivulets down his arms. He has only three fingers, clumsy and shackled with webs of skin, and when his feet give out, he uses those clunky hands to drag himself forward, bit by bit, until every muscle in his body is screaming in agony and he has found shelter beneath the canopies of leaves.
How long he stays there, curled in a miserable mass of skin and bone that has betrayed every one of his muscle memories, he does not know – when the sun eventually returns to the sky, he knows that he must move or risk being a wild fiend's meal. He finds a small cave, the entrance tucked between brush and weeds. It is narrow and smells of stale air, but it offers protection from the world.
For several weeks, he stays there in agony: raging against the one who did this to him, and loathing the monster that he has become.
--
It is in self-defense that he first picks up a weapon again, and it is only a broken branch. The Nu is ambling towards him with hungry eyes. He has no business living in this world, but the automatic reaction to fight death is stronger than his own misery. His big, webbed fingers manage to close in a fist around the bark and he waves it at the fiend, and then, when it does not seem to startle the creature away, begins to thrust it forward, feet somehow, clumsily, finding the well-practiced steps to the parry.
The weight and center of gravity to his new form are all off; he falls, face-first, and nearly lands on the makeshift weapon himself, but not before the Nu has thought better of attacking something so hell-bent on defending itself. It wanders off in search of an easier meal.
He stays for several long moments in the mud. When he pushes himself up and spits out bits of rock and dirt, he is not sure if he has won or lost – what an easy end it would have been.
--
He tries to push the incident from his mind, but eventually, pragmatism wins out. If he cannot defend himself in this wretched form, then he is doomed to continually repeat his near-defeat.
The clearing outside his cave is a well-used path for fiends, so he begins practicing in his cave. He starts small; his body is still foreign to him, and he struggles with even the tiniest of tasks. His hands might as well be thick, bloated gloves for all he can do with them. He tires easily and has to stop, and those moments are the worst for all the self-loathing that fills his mind. But still, he persists. He rises each morning with a new-found sense of purpose, even if that goal is simply to survive.
His webbed fingers cramp from hours spent curled awkwardly around the branch, but his arms become strong and solid.
--
The first fiend he defeats with the stick is merely a Gnasher, coiled around a tree at the opening of his cave and poised to strike. It goes down easily, but he knows that he will need something more to take down anything larger. He clears the area and searches for a branch large enough to do the job. After he finds it, he spends several hours stripping it and sharpening it in his cave.
It is a crude representation of a sword when he is done, a wooden imitation less powerful than a child's practice blade, but it is heavier, and that weight will be useful. Even though the sloppily-carved hilt drives splinters into his palms, he practices until exhaustion claims him.
For the first time, he does not dream of the life he used to have.
--
He moves through the forest, towards the north. He walks the plains and mountains until he reaches the Zenan Bridge, and then keeps going. The spires of the castle keep his legs moving. He does not know how they will receive him when he arrives, but he is aware that there is only so much time he can spend wallowing in rage, and he has already used up his allotment.
The merchant in Truce sells him a sword – a real blade, and while not superbly made, still sharp and powerful. The man says nothing about his green skin or webbed fingers, but he can see the distrust veiled behind dictated politeness.
He tells himself it does not bother him. Sometimes, he can almost believe it.
--
Years later, they find him again in his cave, and deposit a broken sword piece on the soil.
"Please," Lucca says. "We need your help."
Staring down at the metal, he doesn't know what to think. He has not seen it in years; the gold inlay on the spiraled iron and leather has flaked away, leaving tattered bald patches, and the pommel is bent at an awkward angle. He does not need to lean forward to read the maker's mark, for he already knows what it says, but he does anyway.
It mocks him from the soil, as broken and shattered as his own life.
But the next morning, when the others are sleeping curled around each other against the far wall, he picks up the Masamune and it feels familiar and comfortable in his swollen, webbed hands. He adjusts his grip, and feels the warmth of Cyrus' fingers.
"Alright," he tells them, and the ghost of his old self sighs. "I will help you."
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