Chapter Text
Good child, aren't you a prodigy? They speak about you with the kind of open brashness that makes me feel as though your accomplishments were theirs.
Yes, of course they do. I aim to become a legend.
Good child, do you believe that ambition could spark a flame that burns your life down?
Yes, of course it could. I aim to control that flame.
Good child, I know you are a prodigy. Do you believe you could control the beating drums of fiery passion?
Yes, of course I could. My blade swings with the force of a gale—it cuts through flame and becomes like air.
Good child, don't you know that a blaze will devour the wind?
An overhead swing, pivot to thrust, staccato step back, an underhand sweep to return to form. An overhead swing, a twist of the body, a vicious step-step down as soft shoes stamp into the dirt-crusted pavement, and gentle flourish—flick, flick—garnishes the movement. The old man, wielding a cutlass polished to gleaming white, stands at attention and, sword in chest, bows in front of his audience, a clamoring crowd of gentle onlookers in fine dress, clapping with soft hands.
In their midst, a small child, eyes awash in awe at the graceful display. Gentle cherubim wings flank either shoulder, and soft, cloud-like hair, black at the roots and white at the end, topped their round face. Golden eyes gleamed with the spark of inspiration, and as the crowd dispersed and the man sheathed his blade, the child ran forward with brazen abandon.
"Good sir!" they shout, their small, light voice pushing through the crowd. "Good sir! Please, tell me how you learned to dance."
The man looks down at them under bushy eyebrows and over a bushier expression. "Child," he begins, his voice weighted with the tempered stones of age, "Dance is not an easy thing to learn. I have told you many times before that it is a passion less likely to bear fruit than any other, and one with more challenges than first appears."
"Of course, good sir, but I can see the way you twist your ankle to land gracefully on the ball of your foot, and how your wrist flicks in a circle to add a flourish to your thrust. I believe I could be as good as you!"
"Child," he continues, his voice evenly holding a gentle sigh of exasperation, "I am by no means the pinnacle of the art. I move with decades of experience, and yet still do I see little improvement. Even my formal training could not identify the means to which I would be able to move forward, as eventually, I reached my own plateau."
"Then, good sir, I will just have to pack more decades into my own training, and find my own way up!"
"Child!" he wants to say, but they have already run, turning a corner and disappearing from sight. "Each day you come and speak to me I see more scrapes on your arms, more desperation in your eyes." His cutlass is laid into a cloth package, and from that package his meal is removed. "I fear that you may already be starting on the path of painful ambition, while the people around you see a prodigious talent." A bite of bread. "Should you come back to me again, I shall see fit to turn you away once more."
The child barrels through the sleepy streets of Bedlam, the oldest borough of Pandemonium, a mishmash of cobblestone city streets and dusty corners leading into nowhere—of shops cramped up against each other with back entrances that led you halfway across the city. His feet skid against uneven pavement as he rounds tight turns to sharp alleyways, his understated dexterity allowing him to catch himself when he inevitably tumbles to the ground.
He reaches his family's home, and grabs his unsheathed sword, laying against the side of the home: a sturdy branch of dead wood gathered up from one of the nearby parks, unevenly weighted, knotted and gnarled. In the quiet of his room, where what little furniture he had was pushed to the near edges, and all obstructions on the floor placed haphazardly on his narrow bed, he stepped, and began to recreate the movements he saw in the square.
A clumsy overhead swing that clacks against the back of his head, followed up with a pivot to thrust forward, nearly knocking against a lamp were it not for a last-minute adjustment that overly twisted his center line. A staccato step back that was really just a small hop, with both feet thumping against the scuffed floorboards, and a slow underhand sweep to avoid scraping his already-scuffed knees. Another overhead swing, this time narrowly missing his scalp, a twist of the body, and he hits the ground back first, slipping on poorly placed footwork. A sigh of frustration leaves his lips, and he stands up again, beginning the process anew.
The child would do this every day—catch the show at the square, run home, and mimic the movements until he could do it without falling over. Of course, this kind of lonely practice was full of flaws and quiet mistakes that they could never see on their own, instead put into a phenomenal fantasy of gleaming metal and twisting swords. This, their solace, had been their obsession since they were five years of age, and despite the protests of gentle parents and flustered street performers, they continued to practice each day until they were called down to supper.
Around a low wooden table with small rugs as seats, the child would sit gently, hands sore and blistered from the scratches of wood, clasping a bowl of hot soup and taking pensive sips as they would wait for it to cool off. Their parents would look upon them quietly, remarking nothing of their appearance or scrapes, and make idle chatter about their days; a quiet and a peaceful evening.
Every once in a while they would speak up.
"Robin?"
The child looks up, bowl half-empty, boiled carrots and root vegetables clumping together at the bottom, deftly avoided.
"We have pulled together a small amount of money for your birthday," the parent to the left says.
The one on the right harrumphs, setting down a finished bowl. "We do not have much time for simple pleasures."
"But," the other continues, "we would like to treat you to something special."
Robin's eyes widened in front of them, anticipation building.
"You have been a good child. Disciplined and kind. Would you like—"
"A sword?!" the child exclaims, sitting up and grinning, ear to ear.
"A sword!" the right shouts, humor in their voice. "That is well beyond us—but it is good to have dreams to aspire to. Swords are for the nobles borne with petty money to spend on arts and performances."
Disappointment leached from the child as they sit back down, a sunken expression on their face, hands reaching into their lap for the comfort of warmth.
The left coughs, and shoots a glare at the right. "Perhaps not a sword, child, but something akin."
Robin does not raise their head.
"We'd like to take you to a performance, dear. Something special--a true wonder."
At this, Robin gently raises their head, eyes slightly puffy, an immutable pout to their lip.
The right grunts. They reach out to their child, a hand clasping their shoulder, and pulls them into a warm embrace. "Even if it is not what you want, my love, you must be kinder to yourself. You are just as good, even more, than any of those born into class." They pull back, looking them in the eyes. "Shows are opportunities. Perhaps there is someone you can prove yourself to."
The child gasps. A glimmer returns to their eyes and their surprise quickly molds into a smile. "I must find a better looking stick." They run out from the living room, shouting behind them, "May I be excused?!" as their voice gently fades from the door.
A quiet joy shared between parents. A loud one shared with the neighborhood outside.