Chapter Text
When Mitsuba was asked to spar with Kalluto, she didn’t know that she was being fired.
Even if she had, it wouldn’t have helped her, as she probably wouldn’t have known what being “fired” means for a Zoldyck butler.
Now she won’t ever know anything again.
“Such good work, Kalluto,” Mother says, dabbing the blood from Kalluto’s face with a washcloth. “So elegant, just like your big brother Illumi. You’ll be such a good soldier one day. My precious baby is all grown up.” Her lip trembles.
“I have some pointers,” Father says, emerging from between the trees and entering the sparring ground. Kalluto should have known he was watching.
They turn to face him, attentive. Father is head of the household, and in charge of Kalluto’s combat training to boot. Normally it’s he or Illumi who teaches Kalluto to fight, but today Mother had a special request.
“You waste time,” Father says, wasting none himself. “You target extremities instead of vital points. You need to focus on taking your target out faster.”
“Yes, Father,” Kalluto says. They reluctantly look at Mitsuba’s body. Father is right. Kalluto landed hits on many non-critical areas before targeting the head. Severed limbs lie beside their owner on the ground.
“Killua would do better,” Father says.
“Yes, Kill is our very best son,” Mother adds. “The very best at everything he does. Such natural talent.”
“Has he been keeping up with his poison training at boarding school?” Father says.
“Yes, I have his most recent report if you’d like it.”
Kalluto patiently waits through the discussion of Brother’s talent. They’re used to it-- being only two years younger than twelve-year-old Killua, they’re often compared to him. Kalluto knows that they excel at what they do, but that Killua was chosen as the heir for a reason. Kalluto wishes that Brother would come back from boarding school to train with them like they sometimes used to do.
“Kalluto, go wash up. I’ll be in the parlor.”
Upon Mother’s dismissal, Kalluto practically skips away. The parlor means good things– hair brushing, origami, cookies, it doesn’t matter what– it’s a sign of approval.
Kalluto loves their mother. It isn’t always easy to love her, but Kalluto is used to waiting it out.
They shower quickly and change their clothes, preparing to head to the parlor. Alone in their bedroom, they spread their white paper fan, analyzing their appearance in the mirror. Shiny black hair like Mother’s and Illumi’s and Milluki’s, cut in a bob. Black furisode, formal and feminine. White fan, elegant and perfect. It’s for dancing– Mother teaches them, an elegant traditional style that was popular in her homeland of Meteor City, which she only continues to tolerate because it originated in the esteemed Kakin Empire and not the slums from which she came. Kalluto’s is like Mother’s fan, but simpler– no pattern, no lace on the edges. They can hide their face behind it, revealing only their violet eyes. Eyes like a demon’s, someone once said. Kalluto can’t remember who. That person might not be alive anymore.
The fan accentuates their arm movements when they move, stirring up a breeze. Kalluto sometimes imagines that they could bend the elements to their will with this fan. They bring their arm down with a swish and imagine using their paper to slice a steel rope. The thought may be childish, but it helps make the movement precise and graceful. Graceful like killing. Mother would approve.
They shouldn't keep her waiting. They tuck the paper fan into the sleeve of their furisode and hurry from their room, allowing a slight smile to cross their face.
When Kalluto arrives at the parlor, Mother is there already. Sure enough, there’s a stack of origami paper on the coffee table and a plate of cookies. Maple shortbread from a tin– the kind Kalluto likes.
Mother pats the couch beside her, inviting Kalluto to sit. “I’m very proud of you, my son,” she says. Kalluto can’t keep the corners of their mouth from turning up. “You’ve made good progress. You’re such a magnificent young soldier. Come here.”
Mother wraps Kalluto in her arms, and Kalluto could almost cry from happiness. This might be the most praise they’ve ever earned.
“You missed a spot of blood, dear,” Mother says, and picks at the shell of Kalluto’s ear. It hurts, but it doesn’t matter. This is the best day ever.