yousei-san (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flair) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
metamorphosis2011-09-22 02:38 am
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2011-09-22 02:38 am
Entry tags:
257;
Title: The Rat King
Characters: Spada Belforma, Luca Milda
Rating: G
The Nutcracker and the Mouse King, with liberal artistic liberties.
Christmas is a day that Luca looks forward to every year, as all twelve-year-olds do; it's a day for normal kids to get the games they've been wishing for, and it's a day for Luca to get the books he's been wanting. He's excited to see the big box with his name on it, wrapped in red and gold foil and with the loveliest tinsel blue ribbon on it, and he expects to find the first three volumes of the History of the World, maybe, or a few books dedicated to the study of the human body.
He doesn't expect to find an old and worn nutcracker, with chips in the paint and dents in the wood, and maybe that's why he turns it over in his hands, marvelling at the little details and the faded colors and decides that maybe, this is just as good as a few books. He sets the little stalwart soldier beside him and finishes opening the rest of his presents (none as good as the first, in his mind; clothes, a new novella to pour over and become as worn as the rest he had, and a music box that played a little tinkling tune - one Luca can't quite place, but sounds familiar enough for him to hum with). He takes his gifts - sans the music box, which he keeps on the table - to his room, after thanking his parents for the presents (and especially his mother for the queer little nutcracker), and he sets all of them, save the book, aside. He reads it and rereads it and rereads it again, until he drifts to sleep with it slipping in his fingers.
He's awoken by a noise, and he knows it can't be from downstairs; it's too loud (too near), for one thing, and his parents were both out, on his mother's insistence that they go out caroling every year. Luca usually went, too, but this year his mother had let him sleep, and he wishes she had woken him up to bring him along, as much as he hated to sing in front of people like that. He immediately retracts those wishes, though, as soon as he sees the mice scrambling from the floorboards and an etheral, golden light pouring in from his doorway; dolls, rows upon rows of them, stand in formation, weapons clutched in their tiny porcelain and cotton hands. At the front - the general, Luca thinks, their leader - stands the nutcracker, but he doesn't look like the nutcracker he'd seen before; the only way Luca knows it's the same one is from the tears and rips in his uniform and the same determined, stalwart expression on his face. He raises his saber and yells a cry, and the dolls rush past him, shuffling and tinkling as their feet hit the wooden floor and their clothes ruffle against each other. Luca watches, amazed by the fluidity of their moments, as they duck and twist and turn, like a dance, between the mice and fight, with fists and feet and daggers and swords and guns and threads. It's both a horrific sight (one he can't tear his eyes from, even as the mice bleed and fall and suffocate from the threads looped tightly around their necks and released as soon as the last breath falls from their mouth) and an awesome one (to see good triumph over evil, in his own bedroom; to see the dance of battle as a twelve-year-old who had only read about dolls coming to life and moving in books and fairytales).
Luca's no expert in military tactics - he's read about them, certainly, but they're never explained in great detail in his stories - but he's sure the dolls are winning by the way they cheer and push the mice scrambling back, to the wall and to the holes in the floor they had come from. He almost wants to cheer, too, but he's afraid it'll break their concentration so he settles for smiling and scooting to the edge of his bed, fingers curling into the edge of the mattress and watching the battle go on. It almost seems as if the dolls have won, but the nutcracker still seems wary; the more his army cheers, the tighter his fist clenches around the hilt of his sword and the reason for his anxiousness becomes clear as a large rat climbs from the floor, ruthlessly batting its army aside and raising a sword to the sky. The nutcracker shouts and tears through the dolls, and Luca watches as they part and close up as the nutcracker charges for the rat. The rat isn't as stupid as its mice army; it parries the blows and strikes its own, and their dance is more dangerous and more fleet-footed than any of the separates battles that had gone on before. It goes on for longer too; the nutcracker refuses to give in, even as the tears and cuts become more and more numerous, and the rat king grins and continues his relentless tirade, wearing his opponent down. Luca gasps as the sword is knocked from the nutcracker's hand, and as the rat king raises his own sword to stab the soldier through the gut Luca chucks his novella at him, breathing a sigh of relief as it hits the rat square in the face and it turns tail, scrampering (with its mice army) back where it came from. The glow that had filled the room before fades as the dolls begin to leave, and it's only after they've all escaped out the doorway and back into their places that Luca kneels on the floor and scoops up the nutcracker, made of wood and plastic once more.
He delicately paints over the scratches, both old and new, and sets it aside to dry, and as he begins t odoze off, he can hear the quiet creak of limbs moving and peeks open an eye to see the nutcracker stretching his limbs and admiring his clothes, now without wear or tear. He catches Luca watching him and grins, saluting him; Luca's response is to close his eyes and feign sleep, even as he feels his pillow shift with the slight weight of the tiny figure. When all's still he shyly opens his eyes again and bites his tongue to keep from yelling; the nutcracker's now not two inches from his nose, inspecting him closely. The nutcracker laughs and raises his hands, palms flat.
"Hey, hey, I ain't tryin' to scare you here. You're the guy who patched me up, huh?"
"Uh..."
Luca gulps and nods, and the nutcracker pats his nose comfortingly.
"Thanks, in that case. You the one who threw the book at that fat rat?"
Another nod, and the nutcracker smacks his nose this time. It stings, as if smacked with a small, flat piece of wood.
"I coulda taken him!"
"You were about to get stabbed, sir."
"I coulda taken him! And who're you callin' 'sir'?"
"W-Well I... I don't know your name, so--"
"Well, it ain't sir. The name's Spada. What about you?"
"Huh? Oh..."
It was a little surreal, to be talking to a boy the size of his hand, and Luca furrows his brow, inspecting the doll-sized Spada before he answers.
"Luca."
He carefully shakes the little boy's hand, feeling the solidness of wood beneath the soft, warm palm on his fingers, and blinks in surprise in Spada climbs onto his shoulder and looks out onto the floor - his battlefield.
"You wanna see somethin' cool?"
Without waiting for an answer, Spada does-- does something, Luca doesn't know what, but he feels himself begin to shrink and finds himself the same size as his shrinker and still clothed. He's relieved to find they've shrunk with him (what would he have done for clothing if not - worn a doll's dress?) and he only starts to wonder how he got this small when Spada takes his hand and slips down the blankets, onto the floor. It seems so much wider now, more expansive, and Spada gives him enough time to look around at everything in this new point of view before he pulls him along, out the door and down the stairs. They follow a faint golden light that flows up the stairs and through the house, and it gets brighter and brighter every step they go down; it's coming from the music box, he realizes, and in a morning-like glow dolls dance. They shine like polished porcelain but dance like trained actors, moving in as perfect a formation as they had stood in the night before and smiling, laughing as they waltz in time with the sound that tinkles out of the music box. The two of them watch the festivities (Luca swaying on his heels and pondering how warm and human Spada felt, Spada debating on joining a spectacle that hadn't been won yet) and, as if deciding that yeah, it was earned, Spada pulls him into the waltz and they dance to the slowing music.
Spada leads, of course; Luca can't dance and he was pulled into it, anyway, and he tries his best not to step on his partner's feet, watching the floor to make sure. They spin and turn with the crowd, matching them step-for-step despite being the last to join, and the crowd slowly clears to leave them the last two dancing - and the first two to be tackled by mice, running out from the shadows under the table and the chairs, from the counters and the sink to the furthest corners of the stairs. Spada struggles and manages to get away, but Luca's not so lucky; the mice's claws tighten around his waist and wrists and he shouts, trying to pull free, until they ones holding him scream and bolt. Spada stands over him, blood dripping down his blade, and he offers a hand to help him up. Luca takes it, shaking, and Spada switches his hand for another sword (picked up from the mouse that had attacked them), offering that instead.
"You're a guy, right? You know how to fight?"
"I-I don't--"
"What kind of man are you!? Even the girls know how to wring 'em!"
Luca winces and Spada sighs, nudging him behind a table leg and giving him the sword anyway.
"Just use it to protect yourself, all right?"
Luca licks his lips and nods to Spada's retreating back. The toy sword feels weighty in his hand, almost as if it, too, has come to life (as if it's metal instead of plastic, something to kill instead of uselessly pinch and prick) and he shakes as the sounds of battle begin as a quiet whisper and cultimate into a roar. He wonders how his parents don't hear it - surely it'd echo? - but neither stirs from their room and he crouches against the table leg as mice dart past him and fly onto the ground beside him, grasping for their last breath and squirming against his foot, brown fur darkening with sticky, maroon blood. He hears a yell and knows it's Spada; there's a second, more animalistic one, and he knows it's the rat king's. He can even pick them out when he peeks around the corner of the leg hesitantly; they're on top of a coffee table, battling above their impromptu armies, and the rat king totters at the edge, trying fruitlessly to parry the sword strikes.
And he falls. Luca closes his eyes and winces as the battlefield suddenly goes quiet; the sickenign crunch of the rat king against the floorechoes, and the mice beat a quick retreat. The dolls cheer (for a real victory, this time) and Spada raises his sword triumphantly. Luca smiles and slumps against the table leg, clutching the plastic sword in his arms and closing his eyes.
The first beams of sunlight sneak through the cracks in his blinds and he stretches, opening his eyes and taking in the scene around him. In his own bed, with nothing undisturbed or out of place, though the nutcracker is gone and there's a toy sword under his pillow, made of plastic and as useful as a toothpick in a sandwich.
Characters: Spada Belforma, Luca Milda
Rating: G
The Nutcracker and the Mouse King, with liberal artistic liberties.
Christmas is a day that Luca looks forward to every year, as all twelve-year-olds do; it's a day for normal kids to get the games they've been wishing for, and it's a day for Luca to get the books he's been wanting. He's excited to see the big box with his name on it, wrapped in red and gold foil and with the loveliest tinsel blue ribbon on it, and he expects to find the first three volumes of the History of the World, maybe, or a few books dedicated to the study of the human body.
He doesn't expect to find an old and worn nutcracker, with chips in the paint and dents in the wood, and maybe that's why he turns it over in his hands, marvelling at the little details and the faded colors and decides that maybe, this is just as good as a few books. He sets the little stalwart soldier beside him and finishes opening the rest of his presents (none as good as the first, in his mind; clothes, a new novella to pour over and become as worn as the rest he had, and a music box that played a little tinkling tune - one Luca can't quite place, but sounds familiar enough for him to hum with). He takes his gifts - sans the music box, which he keeps on the table - to his room, after thanking his parents for the presents (and especially his mother for the queer little nutcracker), and he sets all of them, save the book, aside. He reads it and rereads it and rereads it again, until he drifts to sleep with it slipping in his fingers.
He's awoken by a noise, and he knows it can't be from downstairs; it's too loud (too near), for one thing, and his parents were both out, on his mother's insistence that they go out caroling every year. Luca usually went, too, but this year his mother had let him sleep, and he wishes she had woken him up to bring him along, as much as he hated to sing in front of people like that. He immediately retracts those wishes, though, as soon as he sees the mice scrambling from the floorboards and an etheral, golden light pouring in from his doorway; dolls, rows upon rows of them, stand in formation, weapons clutched in their tiny porcelain and cotton hands. At the front - the general, Luca thinks, their leader - stands the nutcracker, but he doesn't look like the nutcracker he'd seen before; the only way Luca knows it's the same one is from the tears and rips in his uniform and the same determined, stalwart expression on his face. He raises his saber and yells a cry, and the dolls rush past him, shuffling and tinkling as their feet hit the wooden floor and their clothes ruffle against each other. Luca watches, amazed by the fluidity of their moments, as they duck and twist and turn, like a dance, between the mice and fight, with fists and feet and daggers and swords and guns and threads. It's both a horrific sight (one he can't tear his eyes from, even as the mice bleed and fall and suffocate from the threads looped tightly around their necks and released as soon as the last breath falls from their mouth) and an awesome one (to see good triumph over evil, in his own bedroom; to see the dance of battle as a twelve-year-old who had only read about dolls coming to life and moving in books and fairytales).
Luca's no expert in military tactics - he's read about them, certainly, but they're never explained in great detail in his stories - but he's sure the dolls are winning by the way they cheer and push the mice scrambling back, to the wall and to the holes in the floor they had come from. He almost wants to cheer, too, but he's afraid it'll break their concentration so he settles for smiling and scooting to the edge of his bed, fingers curling into the edge of the mattress and watching the battle go on. It almost seems as if the dolls have won, but the nutcracker still seems wary; the more his army cheers, the tighter his fist clenches around the hilt of his sword and the reason for his anxiousness becomes clear as a large rat climbs from the floor, ruthlessly batting its army aside and raising a sword to the sky. The nutcracker shouts and tears through the dolls, and Luca watches as they part and close up as the nutcracker charges for the rat. The rat isn't as stupid as its mice army; it parries the blows and strikes its own, and their dance is more dangerous and more fleet-footed than any of the separates battles that had gone on before. It goes on for longer too; the nutcracker refuses to give in, even as the tears and cuts become more and more numerous, and the rat king grins and continues his relentless tirade, wearing his opponent down. Luca gasps as the sword is knocked from the nutcracker's hand, and as the rat king raises his own sword to stab the soldier through the gut Luca chucks his novella at him, breathing a sigh of relief as it hits the rat square in the face and it turns tail, scrampering (with its mice army) back where it came from. The glow that had filled the room before fades as the dolls begin to leave, and it's only after they've all escaped out the doorway and back into their places that Luca kneels on the floor and scoops up the nutcracker, made of wood and plastic once more.
He delicately paints over the scratches, both old and new, and sets it aside to dry, and as he begins t odoze off, he can hear the quiet creak of limbs moving and peeks open an eye to see the nutcracker stretching his limbs and admiring his clothes, now without wear or tear. He catches Luca watching him and grins, saluting him; Luca's response is to close his eyes and feign sleep, even as he feels his pillow shift with the slight weight of the tiny figure. When all's still he shyly opens his eyes again and bites his tongue to keep from yelling; the nutcracker's now not two inches from his nose, inspecting him closely. The nutcracker laughs and raises his hands, palms flat.
"Hey, hey, I ain't tryin' to scare you here. You're the guy who patched me up, huh?"
"Uh..."
Luca gulps and nods, and the nutcracker pats his nose comfortingly.
"Thanks, in that case. You the one who threw the book at that fat rat?"
Another nod, and the nutcracker smacks his nose this time. It stings, as if smacked with a small, flat piece of wood.
"I coulda taken him!"
"You were about to get stabbed, sir."
"I coulda taken him! And who're you callin' 'sir'?"
"W-Well I... I don't know your name, so--"
"Well, it ain't sir. The name's Spada. What about you?"
"Huh? Oh..."
It was a little surreal, to be talking to a boy the size of his hand, and Luca furrows his brow, inspecting the doll-sized Spada before he answers.
"Luca."
He carefully shakes the little boy's hand, feeling the solidness of wood beneath the soft, warm palm on his fingers, and blinks in surprise in Spada climbs onto his shoulder and looks out onto the floor - his battlefield.
"You wanna see somethin' cool?"
Without waiting for an answer, Spada does-- does something, Luca doesn't know what, but he feels himself begin to shrink and finds himself the same size as his shrinker and still clothed. He's relieved to find they've shrunk with him (what would he have done for clothing if not - worn a doll's dress?) and he only starts to wonder how he got this small when Spada takes his hand and slips down the blankets, onto the floor. It seems so much wider now, more expansive, and Spada gives him enough time to look around at everything in this new point of view before he pulls him along, out the door and down the stairs. They follow a faint golden light that flows up the stairs and through the house, and it gets brighter and brighter every step they go down; it's coming from the music box, he realizes, and in a morning-like glow dolls dance. They shine like polished porcelain but dance like trained actors, moving in as perfect a formation as they had stood in the night before and smiling, laughing as they waltz in time with the sound that tinkles out of the music box. The two of them watch the festivities (Luca swaying on his heels and pondering how warm and human Spada felt, Spada debating on joining a spectacle that hadn't been won yet) and, as if deciding that yeah, it was earned, Spada pulls him into the waltz and they dance to the slowing music.
Spada leads, of course; Luca can't dance and he was pulled into it, anyway, and he tries his best not to step on his partner's feet, watching the floor to make sure. They spin and turn with the crowd, matching them step-for-step despite being the last to join, and the crowd slowly clears to leave them the last two dancing - and the first two to be tackled by mice, running out from the shadows under the table and the chairs, from the counters and the sink to the furthest corners of the stairs. Spada struggles and manages to get away, but Luca's not so lucky; the mice's claws tighten around his waist and wrists and he shouts, trying to pull free, until they ones holding him scream and bolt. Spada stands over him, blood dripping down his blade, and he offers a hand to help him up. Luca takes it, shaking, and Spada switches his hand for another sword (picked up from the mouse that had attacked them), offering that instead.
"You're a guy, right? You know how to fight?"
"I-I don't--"
"What kind of man are you!? Even the girls know how to wring 'em!"
Luca winces and Spada sighs, nudging him behind a table leg and giving him the sword anyway.
"Just use it to protect yourself, all right?"
Luca licks his lips and nods to Spada's retreating back. The toy sword feels weighty in his hand, almost as if it, too, has come to life (as if it's metal instead of plastic, something to kill instead of uselessly pinch and prick) and he shakes as the sounds of battle begin as a quiet whisper and cultimate into a roar. He wonders how his parents don't hear it - surely it'd echo? - but neither stirs from their room and he crouches against the table leg as mice dart past him and fly onto the ground beside him, grasping for their last breath and squirming against his foot, brown fur darkening with sticky, maroon blood. He hears a yell and knows it's Spada; there's a second, more animalistic one, and he knows it's the rat king's. He can even pick them out when he peeks around the corner of the leg hesitantly; they're on top of a coffee table, battling above their impromptu armies, and the rat king totters at the edge, trying fruitlessly to parry the sword strikes.
And he falls. Luca closes his eyes and winces as the battlefield suddenly goes quiet; the sickenign crunch of the rat king against the floorechoes, and the mice beat a quick retreat. The dolls cheer (for a real victory, this time) and Spada raises his sword triumphantly. Luca smiles and slumps against the table leg, clutching the plastic sword in his arms and closing his eyes.
The first beams of sunlight sneak through the cracks in his blinds and he stretches, opening his eyes and taking in the scene around him. In his own bed, with nothing undisturbed or out of place, though the nutcracker is gone and there's a toy sword under his pillow, made of plastic and as useful as a toothpick in a sandwich.