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“What are you doing?”
Far be it from a scholar to be ignorant, but the Wanderer’s face was already sour when he asked the dragonling the question, having not even looked properly at the contents in the paper before him. Durin did not take offense to this aspect of him; he’d gotten a little too used to the Wanderer’s antics to his liking, a fact that only disadvantaged him. The dragonling only smiled cheekily, pushing the paper even closer to his view.
“I’m writing… well, it’s a letter of sorts, but really, it’s my diary entry.”
It was a roundabout statement, but reading it cleared half the confusion; the letter was addressed to his “mother”, who was no more.
“Klee does this often, when she does not get to see Aunt Alice for a while. Of course, my case is a little different and I might not see my mother ever again, but…” He did not look particularly saddened by that fact, smiling like he was keeping a little secret up his sleeves. Not that the Wanderer really cared.
“I won’t pretend to understand or empathize. You do whatever it is that pleases you.”
“It’s just a way of keeping my story going, as was my mother’s dying wish,” Durin explained anyway. “Doing it this way motivates me, in the sense that, if there’s one person I want to bear witness to my story, it’s her. I’ll just have to imagine she’s reading it from somewhere, somehow, even if I can’t see her anymore.”
Not surprising for a kid out of a fairytale to be prone to a vivid imagination. “Sure.”
“… I know there’s much you can’t tell me about, Hat Guy. But isn’t there at least one person in this world to whom you can tell your story? Maybe you can write to them—or, at least, imagine that you are, just so you can leave your story in this world.”
The Wanderer scoffed. “Leaving a footprint in this world is the last thing I want, if there’s anything you must know about me.”
“I would have to disagree. Otherwise, you would have looked away when you saw me,” the dragonling deftly argued. “You would not have stuck with me, and planted your mark in my story.”
It was really just a moment of pity and self-reflection, thought the Wanderer, but he wasn’t going to say that to the child. He simply sighed. “There’s no need for any of that. I already have the wisest storyteller and the most influential audience to record my story.”
Durin looked like he wanted to inquire further, but knew enough that this was not the time.
For all his grumbling, the Wanderer gave his words some thought nevertheless. Not that he found any pragmatic value in the practice—but it was worth a thought.
Beelzebul, did you know? Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, you had a child. A little boy who looked just like you did—pale, pensive, and pitiable.
Let’s call him the little kitten.
…
Beelzebul, did you know? The kitten came upon a sickly child in the grief-stricken island, just by the ledge where your blade of mighty lightning split the land into two. So little life was to be found in there, but the kid, who knew nothing but his own existence and the desire to live it, lived on undeterred. He was lonely, but he shone bright as the sun, inviting the kitten to his meager house, sharing him half his lavender melons even though he had little to spare.
Once the child passed, the kitten thought that was all humans could ever be. Hopeful, foolish, weak, dead.
Did you know? He once again came upon a sickly child, in a world where no one seemed to be sick. Everyone was living happily, but it was precisely why he could not join in with everyone else. Cursed by a bad fate, as they would say. The little child was confined into a corner of the world out of fear, left to rot in loneliness. All he ever wanted was a friend.
It was a miserable thing to want, something you might call a weakness. But like that child struck by thunder, the kitten saw himself in the kid. He was young, and simply wanted to live. Again, the kitten took his hand.
Countless of times he wondered whether it was a mistake. Countless of nightmares has he had where his new friend would be once again consumed by the curse, forever chained by his preordained fate. But the kid is fighting, with the help of his friends. The kid listens to him, for all his callous warnings.
The child takes the pen, a gift from his late mother, and with it, rewrites his fate. He is alive, and he is loved by many.
Did you know? The child hasn’t yet left, despite the kitten’s expectations.
And he makes the kitten want to keep it that way.
…
Beelzebul, did you know? When the kitten first left his crib and wandered, the first to find him was a clan of smiths, professional sword-makers. It was a crowded village with people of different personalities, but they were all nice and patient with the kitten—so he was led to believe.
It had been not long after his birth, and they were the first people he had really interacted with. They taught him human skills and human customs, which he picked up fairly quickly. But he did not understand the nuances of human relationships, nor did he understand what goals people had for themselves. None of that really mattered if he could keep his friends close—that was, the maple-haired boy, who taught him how to forge blades, how to sing, how to live life enjoying the little island of Thunderbale.
He eventually betrayed the kitten—so he was led to believe. Not that any of it mattered anymore now, knowing it wasn’t true. But at the time, he was sure, this thing called ‘humanity’ must be a sham, a species of inherent weakness, of cowardice, and full of lies.
Did you know? Many generations later, the descendants of his old friend, he the kitten once thought traitor, became unrecognizable by the Shogunate themselves. The kitten had severed whatever honor their clan had left, and they were forced to suffer the fall, admit to a crime they did not commit.
But funny how things turned out, you know. It was no legendary Musou Isshin that saved them in the calamity that followed, nor was it some powerful clan with words that can sway even the most stubborn of dictators.
It was merely a child of that same clan, with the same old innocence and virtue, brave enough to pick up a blade against you to protect a friend’s genuine ambition.
Just like the maple-haired boy, he was no coward who sought only to save his own skin. He fought for humanity, challenged a god despite his humanity, and it was that courage itself that inspired humanity to do the same, and win the war against you.
Did you know? The boy never let despair and tragedy consume him. He took matters—took fate—into his own two hands, and challenged whatever god tried to rob that of him.
Never did he once forsake who he cared for. Thanks to that, your nation was saved.
…
When the kitten became the sacrifice for the furnace’s failure, he questioned everything he’d known. Whether all that kindness was merely a curtain, to utilize him as the weapon he was always meant to be. Whether at the end of the day, it came down to favors and debts. Whether it was possible at all for the kitten to truly be human—whether it was worth trying at all.
You meant for him to become a god, after all. It only made sense that he needed a god’s heart, a god’s power.
So he joined the group of rebels, of heathens who aimed to topple the regime of the mighty. He laid on the operating table and let himself be dismantled, your divine creation to be studied by the lunatic with too much hubris. It was all just a means to an end; never did the kitten particularly care for the people he calls his colleagues. It was exactly the world as he believed to be correct: everybody with their own goals, doing their own things, using each other where they can as stepping stones to get there.
But you know? He was only seeing what he wanted to see. Even underneath the business and the insanity, the uncanny bunch respected each other, valued each other as individuals. Between gods, ancients, children and machines alike, the banner of their leader unites them, weaves an underlying sense of trust like that of indispensable soldiers.
That those superficial tea parties, containing only of gossip and derisive mocking of each others’ lesser moments, should one day save a fading god. That in the end, no matter how much power you bear, with empty hands, they have no choice but to fall back to each other.
The kitten would never imagine himself having to hold their hands again. But here they are, once again ‘round the tea table, banding against the monster who poisoned his life.
Though they will never remember the kitten as he was, he will fight with them all the same—all to put his demons back in the grave.
…
Beelzebul, did you know? When you left the kitten the first time, you said you couldn’t bear to chain him to a terrible fate.
He was abandoned, betrayed, used, defeated, and once more forsaken. It was truly a fate worse than death.
He might as well have not been born at all.
Did you know, then, that he tried to make it so? To eliminate all trace of his existence, that no one—himself included—should have to suffer from the terrible fate of one child. And here we are, with no one to know of him. But here we are, and he is still alive.
You wouldn’t know, then, that it was a kind-hearted god who showed him the full truth. Who gave the kitten the choice to continue, or to give up on his cursed life. Who returned to him the fate he forsaken, and believed him to fight fate himself.
She took the foreign seed, and did not try to fix it in any way. She put it in soil full of nutrients, watered it with unyielding patience, nurturing what had never been grown. All to see the seedling grow into a flower of its own, an admirable new existence in the world full of flowers.
In the end, it’s just as you wished—despite the odds, the kitten overcame fate. He’s become a person of his own, free of his origin, nature, identity, free of family.
And yet none of this would have been possible, were it not for you bringing him to life, at that very first instance.
Mother, did you know? Today is the day of my birth—the day I woke up at the Shakkei Pavillion, many years ago.
Thank you for everything.
…I hope you’ve been well, too.
“I see you’ve warmed up to your kitten avatar,” chirped the sage godling, “and to telling your story. Are you going to show this to your new friend?”
“Say something that makes sense. This was little but a means to venting,” the Wanderer grumbled, shifting his body to shield the letter out of her view. “And you started the kitten affair. Take some responsibility.”
“Mmm, I should. What do you think about changing your signature from ‘Hat Guy’ to ‘Cat Guy’?”
“Let us please leave the naming to the Traveler.”
“Are you going to send that?” Buer pointed to the paper innocently. “She is alive, after all—unlike Durin’s own mother. Though we know not if she is well.”
The Wanderer scoffed loudly. “Does it make sense for the God of Wisdom to be this senseless?”
The godling only shrugged. “I cannot claim to understand the relationship sons have with their mothers. I’ve never had one, after all.”
“Nor do you need one. See how we’ve managed without one?” Each other is all we need, he thought, but did not add. He was sure Buer heard it, even without having read his mind.
For all his confidence and dismissiveness, he gave her suggestion some thought nevertheless. Ridiculous though it may be—it was worth a thought.