Legend of Ransera

"I hasten to assure you, I'm a lover, not a fi—"

The impact of the fist on his face gave him a blissful moment of non-existence before his body registered the pain opening like a flower to the sun. Hands that had been held up to placate, empty of weapons, flailed as he was rocked off balance. Thankfully, he had turned his head just so before impact, snapping his head to the side rather than in ways his neck was less able to compensate for. He was falling, his body tucking just so to mitigate whatever damage it might accrue when it touched violently to the ground. Another blooming pain emanated from his shoulder, another from his hip. Heavy footfalls whirled about him like he was the eye of a storm

Everything was going to be all right. Everything was going to plan.

He was still falling.
He was still falling, and then the water embraced him all over. It was quiet down there, and there was an equal pressure on every inch of his skin, holding him together. Time dilated as it did when everything shifted and changed.

Opening his eyes, he watched the bubbles from his mouth racing toward the translucent barrier of the surface, the bright from which he was hiding. He had been falling; now he was sinking. Numbers ticked by in his head with the regularity of a metronome. He counted, the numbers rising more slowly than the air from his lungs that he expelled to reduce his buoyancy. After the numbers swelled and surpassed previous milestones, he saw faint movement from above, a lightening even as the edges of his vision began to blur toward a more permanent dark.

He tucked, then kicked off the floor, arrowing toward the surface. Breaking back into the starker world above, he gasped for breath, caught the edge of the quay, and began to hoist his wiry little body up before he could bring his racing breath to heel. Control was key. Self-control was the key to control of one's environment. Control was an illusion.

Struggling to master his own body, the boy pushed up to his knees and before he could even be sure of his balance there, he staggered up to his feet. Feet spread wider than normal to help keep him stable, he balled his fists and bent his knees. One never knew what was coming next; one had to be prepared for anything—for everything. That was how one survived.

"I did it, Ma," he said, when she did nothing, merely watched. Knowing her better than most people, she was still inscrutable most of the time. Her hair was a truer red than his, the angles of her face arranged in a cruel beauty at rest. Her smiles, though, could light up a room or melt a heart. He had her skin, her freckles, and her strength belied by a slender frame. Her eyes were her own, blue and calculating. She was hard on him, and that was love. A blade would break if it wasn't forged just so, steel tempered with fire, cold, and battery. She loved him, and so she wouldn't let him be breakable. That was how she had survived, after all.

"You did it," she replied. It made him nervous, though. Confidence was allowed when earned; pride was a weakness. A shiver thrilled through him despite the hot summer air.

His breathing slowed back to normal, his posture becoming a bit more relaxed in its readiness.

"Happy birthday, Aurin," she said, still not softening, still observing his recovery.

"Six."

"Six. Another year survived, little blade. Life hasn't killed you yet."

He shook his head, lifted his chin. If he was not allowed pride, he was growing a sort of confidence. His mother was deadly, but she was preparing him to be the same. Life wouldn't kill him until he was good and ready.

"And what does my son say when Life inevitably knocks him down?" Her own chin raised and he knew what was coming.

"I get back up," he said, preparing himself, "and I say, 'you hit like a bitch.'"

Something like a smile flickered across her face before she struck like a serpent. He managed to deflect some of her incoming momentum, but not enough—never enough. Turning just so, he prevented crippling damage, but all the same, he was knocked off his feet and he was falling.

Everything was going to be all right. Everything was going to plan.

He was still falling. The water below the quay was rising up to embrace him again.
He was still falling, and then he was swimming in the darkness.

Pressure focused on his jaw. It stung. He struck like a serpent, still blind and disoriented. Then, blinking blearily up, he saw a familiar face twisted in fright. The boy's hands were clutching at Aurin's where it was clutching his neck. The dreamer immediately released him, then tried to focus on the real world returning to him as the young one tried to focus on breathing properly.

"Sorry," he grunted, sitting up in the bed that was finer than his own. They must have carried him out of the Main Hall after he took the inevitable blow to the face that would prevent wider violence and disruption of Mistress Lunaria's income. Normally, he was able to charm and cajole, but some bastards had a violence in them that could not be stopped, merely deflected. Aurin was the fixer in the Velvet Cabaret. Tonight, that meant taking it on the chin—well, on the jaw.

A look at the boy read him like a book. He was young, new to the life of a courtesan, his slim figure corsetted, his face painted just enough, and his naturally long hair arranged in a more feminine style to give the illusion of a girl his age. Well, a woman. Aurin was a bastard, but he wouldn't work somewhere childhood innocence was peddled to pederasts. Innocence was an illusion. Well, perhaps it was, but some fragile things could be sheltered. Not everyone was destined to be a blade. He patted the young man's back.

"Sorry," he repeated. "Best not sneak up on me when I'm out. Takes a moment to remember where I am."

"W-w-," he began, then coughed. "Were you dreaming?"

"Yeah."

The little drag princess was quick enough to read his silence as evidence he didn't want to talk about it. He pursed his lips thoughtfully, the pigment making it look like a little bow.

Aurin exhaled. "What's on your mind?"

Given permission, the young man said, "Nobody has ever stood up for me before—"

"I didn't stand up for you," he interrupted gruffly. "Disgruntled patron. It's my job to talk them down and I didn't do my job well so he hit me."

The faux bow lips pursed again.

Aurin exhaled. "What?"

"Pardon me," he said, trying to recall the courtly graces he was supposed to embody as a courtesan, "but I have seen you talk violent patrons down before. I've seen you manipulate the situations, the people, to keep everyone happy, everyone spending money."

The older man observed the younger one for a moment, then made a noncommittal noise.

"Paying attention is good," he advised. "Gauging a man or a woman, what they want, what they need—it'll help you avoid some of this shit. Or at least see it coming early enough to flag me down and I can take care of it."

"Thank you," he said after a moment. His eyes dropped and Aurin figured it was honest vulnerability and not the ploys they taught him in courtesan school, or whatever the apprenticeship program here entailed.

"Don't mention it. Lunaria pays me to do it."

"Yeah."

After a pause, Aurin started to get up. "Well, thanks for tending—"

The lad's hand alit on his wrist, and he paused.

"You could charm... anyone." His breast, such as it was, heaved a bit, nervous.

Oh, shit.

Aurin took the offending wrist and firmly set the lad's hand in his own lap. Some fragile things could be sheltered, but they needed some awareness of danger or they would walk off the cliff with their eyes in the air like the Fool in a witch's card deck. A little pain, a mercy killing of whatever misguided hope being born in that slender ribcage.

"Nobody's going to buy the whole cart if you're giving away the treats for free," he said.

They were just words, but the young man flinched.

"Get on back to work," he said, and stood up. The lad did too, but was rooted where he stood.

Well, fuck.

"All right, sweetmeat," he said, the nickname derogatory, but his tone lacking in the surgical precision of the words that had wounded. "Help me straighten this bed. I don't mean to pay for it. Then you go back to your room. I'll make sure you don't get into any trouble."

Grateful, though still emotionally flailing a bit, the lad bent to help him smooth out the coverlet.

Everything was going to be all right. Everything was going to plan.

He was still falling.