Tourniquet
A (Very) Short Story by Kal Ancalas
Foreword
Author's Note: Well, yippee-howdy-do. What, may you ask, is this doing here? An author writing an AU short based off of his own story? Preposterous! 'Have I gone mad?' you may ask. While I am sure that all of you believe the answer is yes, the answer is actually no. Let me pontificate for a moment (and yes, that is a word.)
You see, unlike most authors here (my apologies to other authors) I have a life. It's very annoying and sometimes downright infuriating, but there's not much I can do about it. (Shakes fist at life) As such, this life of mine includes me having to go to school, write up mountains of thesis papers, practice the (expletive) piano all day, run up and down endless flights of stairs, and worry about my future.
In order to write stories, authors must have three things on their hands:
1.) Time
2.) Motivation
3.) Caffeine
As you may expect, I do not have a lot of number 1 right now. About the only time I get to write is on the weekends, which is why updates can take either a week or two. Motivation is doing ok right now, I guess. Personally, I'm aiming for a goal of ten reviews per chapter, but since people have been falling short of my expectations lately (grumble something about damn freeloaders), I guess I'll just have to suck that up and keep pressing on. As for number 3, I learned the hard way that you shouldn't drink Frappuccino when the inscription on the bottle reads "Best By Dec 13 2006".
Therefore, I write this mostly out of boredom, but also to serve as a message. I was rather pissed when for three days after posting chapter 13 of Revolt, I got only one review (from good old Master and Chief and Arbiter, of course). The fact that I had gotten food poisoning, didn't make the cut for my high school's tennis team, and almost got disqualified from a piano competition over the weekend didn't help either. That prompted me to immediately draw a comic which I was about to post to give you all a sock in the conscience. However…as it turned out, immediately after I finished drawing the comic, I saw that more (but not too many more) people had reviewed. C'est la vie. Such is life.
Now, as of now, Chapter 13 has 300 hits, give or take a handful. (Yes, it is that popular. I'm surprised too.) And there are only 6 reviews (not including my own, where I attempted to see if there was a problem with the FF servers. Sadly, there was none.) Even taking into account that some people may have read the chapter twice, although I doubt that, I would say anywhere from 200-250 people read Chapter 13. Last time I checked, 6 divided by 200 equals…3.33 percent. Wow, I guess a hits-to-reviews ratio of 3.33 percent really does a lot for an author's morale.
How many times do I have to say it? If you don't review, you don't get updates. Why do you think I write all those (expletive) cliffhangers in the first place? Duh! I cannot pull motivation from my ass, people; it has to come from somewhere. Only you can prevent forest…er, I mean, writer's block!
Anyways, getting back to the point of this story, I wanted to give a glimpse of what the Devil Children were like way back when, while at the same time entertaining the masses. So I wrote this. The story takes place 2 years pre-Revolt, so Tales would be almost 18, Arundale would be almost 17, Iggy would be barely 19, and Arklanser would be almost 21.
Enjoy this short fic that's almost as short as its foreword now.
Oh, and by the way…not to make you all feel guilty or something, but they say that every time you forget to review, a kitten dies…
-Kal
P.S: My mood improved somewhat when it turned out that in the piano competition I almost got disqualified from, I got first place. Carnegie Hall, here I come. Yay.
He never saw it coming.
It was a quick movement; almost too quick to be seen- but it happened. He would never know how it had happened; a chance accident, or a deliberately-planned assassination- but it had.
There was pain; he could feel it that much. Frantically, he clamped a hand over his wrist, applying pressure as furiously as he could to stop the wound.
To no avail; he felt something wet and hot trickle down his arm and realized it was no use. A droplet of red, brighter than the thorny vine's first rose, sprang from underneath his clamped palm and left a crimson streak as it traveled a mile down his arm. His eyes widened in shock as another drop appeared.
The drops had become a trickle now. He glanced frantically around him, bullets of red flying from his vessels and staining the Ellinian textbooks beneath him a deep hue of burgundy. His friends were still sitting around him; talking nonchalantly, poring over the great sheets of parchment as if nothing had happened. He wanted to scream- why the hell weren't they taking any notice of him?!- but his mouth was glued shut out of fear and shock.
There was nothing he could do…only watch as sanguine life slowly but surely began to drain from his body; he felt faint and leaned against the hard wood of the desk for support. Was this how he was doomed to die? Each vesicle of crimson sheeting down his arm, its color mocking him…as though each one were retribution for his sins. It was almost too fitting for someone like him, but he didn't deserve this!
So much blood…Regret welled up inside of him as the life continued to flow out of him, staining the sleeve of his robe a viciously bittersweet carmine color.
I didn't deserve any of this…no more than them…
The flow was greater now, the drops spilling down his arm and flowing down his body.
No…that's not true…They…
He felt something ominously warm trickle down the back of his leg, beginning to pool in his boots.
I…Someone, please…help…Rysdale, Natalia…anyone…
He was lost; his eyesight was beginning to blur, his vision becoming bloodshot. This was it; he was really going to die, here and now…He was going to pay for his eternal sins at last.
Don't…leave me like this…
His hold on the table slackened as bloodstained hands slowly lost their grip. He tumbled backwards as his head hit the floor with a dull thunk. The chemical taste of blood was in his mouth…he glanced around him, more blood staining the emerald floors a deep vermilion color.
I'm…sorry…
There was no more; no more regrets, no more apologies, no more time for expiation. They were finally starting to notice him now…but it was too late. He was too far gone.
He slowly closed his eyes and gratefully allowed the darkness to wash over him.
-----
"Oh, for crying out loud, Iggy!" Rysdale Tales exasperatedly sighed, trying to hold on to his friend's arm to apply a bandage. "Sheesh, a little paper cut and you pass out…"
"Ow…shut up!" Iggy whined back, clutching feverishly at the small line of red that crossed his arm. "That was a lot of blood, I could have died!"
"It was a few drops, stop overreacting…" The sniper rolled his eyes, wrapping a short length of bandage around the ranger's arm and tying it into a tight bow. "Do you want Natalia to kiss it better as well?" he added, with a slightly wine-dry air.
"Oh, stop it." Arundale muttered, but she moved forward as well, playfully bending down.
"Ack!" Igzarion abruptly jumped backwards from her lips and hit the floor bottom-first with a painful thud. "Stop it!"
They looked curiously at him; watchful, gentle glances, yet shooting sparks at him at the same time.
"I…" Igzarion pulled himself up and managed to regain a remnant of his composure. "That wasn't funny! You know how I feel about-"
"Yeah, yeah, we know, Iggy." Tales said, walking over and grabbing said ranger's arm before pushing him into a chair. "Now come on. We still have to read through eight volumes of demonology and arcane artes before sunset."
"Right, Iggy." Arundale said sweetly, gently batting her eyelashes at him before pulling a thick tome in front of her and beginning to read.
Igzarion sighed, staring down at the dusty pages before him. Why, of all people, did he have to get stuck with this gang? A drier-than-dust sniper, an overbearing stepsister, and an ill-mannered tomboy? He ran a hand through his disheveled black hair, silently casting glances at his three companions, stately reading through their books as though nothing had happened.
"Hey!" All of a sudden, Igzarion felt Tales' hand pull at his shoulder. "Look at this, Iggy! I found something…"
Arklanser and Arundale immediately dropped their books and turned to stare at the pages in front of the sniper. "Look at this…It's an arcane dispersal arte…It's rather archaic, but if we do a little theory on it, it might be able to save you!"
Igzarion's eyes cast a glance at the pages before he turned listlessly away. "Stop bullshitting me, Tales. That doesn't even take into account the mana I'll lose if you perform the technique. Besides, it requires about 400 kn of manaic force to perform, and I'd be surprised if you didn't blow your brains out while doing it."
"But, Iggy, I…-" Igzarion glanced hollowly at the sniper's face and he could see, for a fleeting second, something that looked like pained sorrow behind those spectacles.
"Iggy, he was only trying to help!" Arklanser cut in, her voice piercing through the air. "Don't you care at all about how we worry about you?"
"Can't you people think of anything better?!" he finally snapped, furious with himself, but furious at all of them even more so. He cast a defiant glance at all three of them, their faces laced with shock, before abruptly pushing over his chair and stomping out of the Ellinia archives.
-----
He ran and ran, not pausing to catch a breath until he figured he had to be at least a couple thousand meters away from Ellinia. He sunk himself against a tree, panting.
Why did they always have to be like that? They knew as well as he that Taiga was undeniably a great threat, would drain his energy from him and leave him to die. So why did they have to continue bothering with things that he knew would never help?
It wasn't until he had satisfied himself with clearing several trees down angrily that he paused to catch another breath, lying against the ground.
He was only trying to help…
Yes, he mused, he was only trying to help, after all…
The "near-death" experience that he had had with the paper cut floated back into his mind. It was then that he suddenly realized- he needed them, more than he would have liked to admit, but he needed them all the same.
They were all really trying to help him, even if they didn't want to show it. Natalia, for one, would always be the first to enter and the last to leave the great stacks of books, and that he knew perfectly well because she truly understood him. In a sense, they were both half-demon, each in their own way. It was rather fortunate after all that they were together…
But what about the others? Arklanser, he knew, had had her own troubles with the crystal some years past, and she definitely hadn't gone out of her way to help him…but, as he reflected, she had been working as hard as anyone else on the case of the demonology. She wanted to save him, just like everyone else, even if she would have rather died than admit it.
The truth left a bittersweet taste in the ranger's mouth. And what about…Tales?
Yes, Tales. The sniper with the long, amber hair and familiar glasses. He sighed and lay back against the tree, the rough, gnarled bark pressing against his back. Tales…well, Tales, really was an enigma more than anything. He could never tell the sniper's thoughts from his face; he always wore a mask of a light smile and could divert attention from anything with an off-color remark or insult.
But deep inside…He would never know. He couldn't. Tales was just like him, having lost his parents…but then again, Tales didn't have to be forced to kill his own father. That, in itself, gave him a small burst of self-indignation.
But on the other hand, would it be too far to say that he had even been affected as emotionally as the sniper by his loss? Perhaps he had lost more, in one sense, but on the other hand, Rysdale's parents and sister had really loved him, lavished care and affection upon him, while he himself had gotten no more than a drunken growl and a stiff greeting from his own family in return. So in effect, Tales had really lost more…
Did he have a right to be bitchy just because Tales had experienced the true meaning of love and he hadn't? Perhaps…but then again, he had lost that happiness all the same. He suddenly realized that in Tales' eyes, it was better to not have loved at all than to have loved and lost that love. They were on the same level, both orphaned and desolate, but in the end, the sniper was suffering more, despite the fact that he didn't have a demon chamber embedded through his stomach, and Igzarion was finally able to realize that.
And yet, he still helped him…there had been genuine interest in his eyes when he found the article. He wanted him to recover from the demon, just like everyone else, and when he had brutishly brushed off the article as though it meant nothing, he realized that he had probably hurt him even more than he should have, or thought he should have.
He sighed, his hair fluttering around his shoulders. In the end, he knew things wouldn't change- Tales would go back to being the same sarcastic jerk, and he would go back to being the same reclusive hothead- but he knew, at least, that in the great world that detested him, there were at least three people that could accept him as a part of society.
Friends.
-----
The sun had set when he returned to the Ellinian archives. True to word, the three others had left as soon as the sun had passed over the canopy of the great forest.
As his eyes flickered lazily over the shelves of books, he noticed the encyclopedia, still open, to the page that Tales had marked. Inwardly, he sighed to himself, coming as close to guilt as he ever would.
He walked to the nearest shelf, took down a book on lycanthropy, and began to read.
Fin, 3.17.07
Afterword
Yes, Iggy has hemophobia.
So…how'd you like it? Should I do more Devil Children one-shots? Review, I say, or the kittens get it! And if you haven't already done so, I would suggest reviewing Chapter 13 of Revolt too! (Sorry if I sound rather patronizing. It's not a good thing if the number of hours of sleep you've been getting every night can be counted with one hand.)
-Kal