Recursion

Length: Short Story (Max 4 Chapters, 15,000 words)

Synopsis: Short Story. AU. 15 years after parting with Clare, Raki has settled down, with a life & family of his own. But when he is forced to take a life, it triggers a chain of events which puts everyone in danger – or was that what he really wanted?

Disclaimer: It goes without saying that I don't own Claymore & all its characters.

1. Asleep

He stirred. He could not sleep.

In his bed, where he should have felt the safest and the most at ease, he felt robbed of every portion of dignity rightfully meant for a human being. Why am I hunted even in my dreams? There was a dash of lush greenery, and the cry of a young maiden he could barely make out. But is this real?

He hoarded air, taking in deep breath after deep breath – and releasing it all at once, he forced his eyes open.

They squinted in the dark. But, as it was with a thousand times before, the shapes of his upper room leaked out in front of him from an otherwise paralyzing darkness. The wooden table with four legs, the pitcher balanced on top of it, the glass window he had installed himself with the obvious crack in the left corner, and the interior of the upper room – an utterly disappointing, tame domestic scene. It was all real; if he could reach out now, he would feel the certain hardness of wood and glass.

He was not at the forest, wrecked with uncertain and bloodthirsty winds. He was not fearing for his life. He was not running from monsters. There were no monsters here to begin with. And there was no silver-eyed maiden with the long sword whose name he needed to dredge from the sands of his memory.

He stared at the ceiling. I have been dreaming again. He sighed. Insomnia or nightmares or both? The cold was making the tiny hairs on his chest brush against curve of his blanket. He left much of his bare chest uncovered, because Sabeena was not as tall as he was, and had this annoyingly lovable habit of curling into his back – and hogging a great length of blanket with her.

He was tempting himself again: he turned and stole a glance over his shoulder, and caught sight of her, nestled and wrapped up in the blanket as smugly as a cigar. Her sand-coloured head was snuggled an inch away from his bare back and, as always, she looked beautiful (and vulnerable) when her hair was splayed across her cheeks, in its neat disorder.

But somehow, he was disappointed. He was expecting something else. An empty bed, maybe. Or someone else. He sniggered at the thought. He expected another woman in his bed? Oh for goodness' sake! At this rate, I'm going to become an adulterer.

He even knew who this other woman would be – no, wait, I will not go there. Enough.

Summoning enough strength to sit up, he tugged gently at the edges of the blanket and gathered his share. He put them over his Sabeena, and sat up against the nearest bedside pole, contemplating his nightly sleeplessness and blank, vague dreams. When they had begun years back, he was worried. But thirteen years of recurring images had ceased to trouble him, leaving him actually wondering why his mind would not left him move on from those same visions, like a winter cold which was still around through spring and harvest.

There was nothing erotic about those dreams, he always told himself. At first he had given in to the foolish notion that the mere act of dreaming of that other girl was a sin, a mark of his potential unfaithfulness. An emotional adultery. But when he confided with Sabeena, she had laughed at him, even to go as far as to playfully suggest he was having such weird dreams because she was not satisfying him enough. Such a farce, he thought to himself. Whoever the god of dreams was up there, he believed he had a good sense of humour: dreaming of another woman on the bed where I consummated my marriage.

But thirteen years and three children later, the dreams did not stop.

He sighed again, heavier this time; when Sabeena stirred, he cursed his luck but thanked the stars she did not wake. Not as this ungodly hour. She needed the rest as much as he did. Anyway, there were many more things to come.

Yes, many more things. All these inconvenient things troubling him: who was going to put the horses out to graze tomorrow at noon when he had to be in town early to tithe and collect his share of the harvest profits? And who was going to tell Reynard his fence had broken down and his sheep were grazing on what was officially their land? And what about the next crop of maize? And the fields? And the plowing? And…

He shook his head to free his thoughts. There were too many things to worry about – too many tangible things, other than the metaphysical, dark shades of uncertain dreams with faces so familiar he could almost reach out and caress them. Maybe he was just having another mid-life crisis. Maybe he was just nervous about the too many things that would come with the dawn. Maybe I should speak with Father Titus about this. Maybe he did not say his evening prayers again.

Whatever the damn reason, I still need sleep. He slowly slid back down into position with Sabeena, careful not to touch her bare shoulders peaking out from blanket like white hills. Once in his favourite position he turned to face her, and stared hard for a short moment into the face of the woman who did not bother if he was an orphan or if he could not pay the dowry for her hand in marriage. Her mouth thinned and formed into what he swore was a faint smile with the repetition of her breathing, untroubled by familiar dreams with familiar spirits. The closed slits of her eyes reminded him of when the last light of sunset illuminated the ridges beyond town; her breath seemed alive, binding the air between them with a sense of serenity only reserved for him and him alone.

He tore away from her blissful, unconscious face and searched his thoughts. What more could I want?

But his mind had already prepared a sarcastic response: another round of breathlessness, dark suffocating woods and blood-soaked gasps for air. And a diminishing image of a young girl he had forced himself to forget. And her barely audible cry of distress echoing like wind through the fast blurring branches and leaves. And him again forcing his eyes open, awakening to the half-expected, half-dismayed scene of darkness, furniture and family.

Recurring dreams make light sleepers. And light sleepers tend to wake early. That was the theory he had anyway: whether or not he had business to attend to he was out of his bed well before dawn. There was no one within a kilometre of his land that could boast of being out in the fields or with the horses so early.

He swung the saddle onto his shoulder, removing it without hindrance from his steed, a graceful chestnut-coloured stallion which had served him for years. Clutching the reins he led the horse out from the stable and out into the enclosure. As man and horse walked silently in the watchful eye of the house's windows, they stepped out of its shadow into a field dark with grass and a sky teeming with stars.

"Go now," he said. He had no reservations letting this fellow graze without supervision. He always came back. Watching the horse trot proudly out off the enclosure and into the vale he turned his attention to the sky. A slight mauve discolouration in the east was the only hint that the sun was planning to appear today.

"This life has never been this good, hasn't it?" he whispered, to nobody in particular. He was still thinking about Sabeena and the children as he started out on his half-an-hour trek to town. I should really stop speaking to myself. Mostly he was just trying to convince his conscience that he was right. Sabeena thinks I'm starting to let my nights get to me.

To him, Diryakar was one of towns in the continental south-west, in the rich maize and wheat growing regions far removed from the evil excesses of the rocky, tumultuous and landlocked centre. He had learnt a long time ago that people in the south-west desired peace; they were not the kind to kick up a fuss when land was annexed or armies were moving. Put food in my plate, wine in my cup and music in the tavern and life is good. The Diryakar philosophy, he reminded himself.

It was a town conveniently built on the edge and across the meandering channel of a river. The people that lived there had lived by the river for a thousand years with an eye on trade, a bad taste for the "cultivated" lifestyle and a lot of common sense. This meant they were also suspicious of those not from these parts – but he refused to let the thought enter his head. Those days were over.

He crossed the stone bridge and the fast-flowing river flushing beneath it. The sun had risen high enough for him to make out the tiled blue and white marble walls of the town gates as he approached. He also made out the watchful form of a sentry slouched by the gate. Without even looking at the face within the armoured head, he gave it a half-salute in greeting. The sentry did not return it; but then again, he was used to not being acknowledged anyway.

The chiefs should put a better sentry out here if they're afraid of Yoma. He traversed the empty, deserted street, heading for the tavern he and Reynard always met in the morning for a round of breakfast and daily, mutual territorial critique. Or arguing over whose territory was being trespassed on, as Sabeena had preferred to call it. He hardly noticed anything amiss – why would anything be anyway? The sun was just reaching out to him from across the walls; its touch and morning shadow had this unearthly effect of bringing a quiet town square to life, he noticed. He caught the first young lad of the day exit his house with a shovel and rake – just as he entered the tavern.

"Morning, all!" he greeted the master of the tavern as the old man turned to see who had entered.

Again, no reply. He caught sight of three men he did not recognize at the counter, hushed, as if they had concluded some conversation with the master. He looked them down, and deciding it was not worth the trouble to inquire, he proceeded to his friend Reynard, seated glumly alone at a table at the end, flanked by customers who eyed him as if he was a Yoma. With wings.

What's with their looks? Maybe it was just too early in the morning. "Brother Reynard!" he called out. He took a chair, and seated himself at the man's table without asking for permission. "I need to talk to you about that fence."

Reynard, whom he had gotten to know as a piously territorial herdsman and father of seven, recoiled for a moment. Then he broke into a weak smile. "Brother Raki. Strictly business as usual, eh?"

"Ah, at last someone responds!" he replied, cramming in as much sarcasm he could this early in the morning into his house. "You, my brother, are the only one to greet me this day. It's as if this town's all dead."

His comment earned him the disapproving stares from the folks nearby, and a questionable but unreadable narrowing of Reynard's eyes. But he was going to get this matter settled once and for all, regardless of the fuss and annoying narrowing of eyes Reynard was bound to make.

"Your sheep and all manner of fowl you are raising in that barn of yours are nibbling off every blade of grass on the field that I plan to plough for next season's maize," he shot at him. It was a lie, of course, but what's a little deception among friends? "And when you decide to wake up and fix the damn problem, bring me with you! We need to mend our fences over this once and – "

He paused. Everyone in the tavern was staring at him now. Am I that loud? He gave an apologetic smile which made someone go "tsssk!" but he realised he need not have bothered, because everyone returned to their victuals almost immediately.

"All right. I'll mend it today," went Reynard's voice from behind him.

He stared. That was it? I raised my voice and he relented? He turned to face his good friend, slightly confused. But Reynard just stared at him, blank and amicable. He looked at ease and untouched by his morning outburst. Curious. The other patrons hardly gave him another look; as if everyone was acting their own, rehearesed roles in some twisted charade. Or if I'm not mistaken, something is amiss here.

He decided to put up a show himself: "Well, brother Reynard. I'll be off!" he tipped his head in goodbye, but his friend hardly blinked. "God keep you till I see you again." And before he could catch anyone's eye, he headed straight for the doors, not letting out his breath till he was out into the sunlight.

What's wrong with those people? He wondered. Then, it hit him like horse kick to the chest. Those three men. He felt there was something about them; they looked like a pack of mongrels in a herd of sheep: completely out of place. And what were they talking about?

Oh well. I think this is where I tell myself it pays to poke my nose into other people's business. He suppressed the urge to talk to himself, and reentered the tavern.

To face the edge of a sword.

"And to think I was going to send Marruf after you, loud mouth," a voice from behind his confronter said slickly.

He took a deep breath, swallowing his fear. Taking his eyes off the tip of the blade primed for his forehead to regain his bearings. The scene was not quite as he expected: the three formerly at the counter all had swords drawn. One was standing over the wounded master of the tavern; the other (the likely leader) was comfortably eyeing him; the third was staring him down with his lethal sword. Bandits! That was the only explanation. At least not Yoma…

"I've had enough of this," the leader said. "We're just here for the gold, but looks like loud mouth here has given us away." He took a swig from his grail. "Marruf, take him to the corner and lop off his head."

He felt his insides turn to ice. Curses. Before he could say anything, the bandit Marruf had hit him square between the eyes with his other hand. He fell –

A short darkness. And when he forced his eyes to open he was dragged to his knees. The wall was already in front of him. So that meant –

Am I going to die just like this? He took a deep breath. Curses. I couldn't even protect –what was he saying? Whose thoughts were these? Whose presence did he feel behind him?

Who was he supposed to protect again?

He did not have to open his eyes. Instead, on instinct, his right elbow streaked upwards, and met the bandit Marruf's chin. A yelp of pain. A thud of iron on wood. And he was on his feet, the bandit was now on the floor.

He picked up the sword. He got the impression everyone was again staring at him.

"I think you have overstayed your welcome, my dear sirs," was all that came out of his mouth. He was not sure if he was actually speaking.

The sword left his hand. It sailed. And sunk its tip into the left shoulder of the second bandit standing over the master. Bulls-eye. Before the leader could even react, he had covered the distance between the two of them, and was moving for the man's head.

"How in the name of -!"

The leader swiped at him, but it missed – so near he could feel the wind of the blade slice into his throat. That move expended, he took his: his fist connected with the bandit leader's nose; his knuckles first hit bone, and then it sunk into flesh, the force making the face collapse like mud underneath the force of his blow.

"EYAHH!"

Be quiet. He sucker-punched the second bandit before he could recover; and without wasting another second, he tore the sword from the man's shoulder and swung it at his forehead – the same motion as if he was felling a free – but this time there was no opposing force: the blade followed the arc of his swing right through the wounded bandit. A resounding echo of liquid hitting the walls cut the scream short.

Wait. He turned – in time – and parried a blow from Marruf. He still has a dagger! But the bandit forced himself on him. Curses! He overcorrected, tried to regain his balance, and hit his spine painfully on the counter. Drat. And distracted by pain, Marruf took the liberty of attempting to serrate his right arm from his shoulder.

Ahhhhhhh!

He lunged at his attacker, shrieking, insane, boiling from the unsuccessful incision on his shoulder – I'm going to rip – wide-eyed, Marruf parried one blow, but his dagger was no match for a sword, the force carrying him too far – you - and as Marruf fell, the man he was supposed to kill brought the entire length of his former sword down the bridge of his nose – apart–

I'm fine. I'm fine. I've saved you. I saved you. He stumbled back to his feet, and moved back to the counter, possessed with his wounds. The bandit leader did not have time to pick fallen sword when he felt the tip of another on his temple.

He looked to the man who had slained his companions. "Mercy! For the love of the gods – "

"No."

He felt his arm buckle under the weight of the sword, and the graceful flick, as it passed from one temple to the other of the bandit leader's face. Once completed, his arm tensed, then twitched and he dropped his sword to the ground. Strain –

I'm alive I'm alive I'm alive! And I think I'm strong enough now to save you.

"Brother RAKI!"

He did not even feel him feet fold like a deck of cards. He was already back at the dark forest, running to the other side of the mountain.

NOTES:My first Claymore fic, inspired by reading too much Claymore manga. It's not much, and it's mostly Raki. But Clare will come in later. Please give your comments, because I want to improve on mistakes I've made in this first chapter (if any).

There's no formal meaning for the word "Recursion". I checked it in a dictionary already. I learnt to associate "Recursion" as part of a technique in making sentence structure (I study English Language at uni). For this title, take it to mean "the act of recurring". You'll see why later. (08.12)

Reedited on 13.12