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The White Magic Key Chapter 2 ~ Shinjuiro no Ochikazuki (Grey Orientations) By Ladymage Samiko (ladymage@mailcity.com) Author's notes: Songs belong to the people who wrote them. The translations belong to the marvelous people who wrote them (i.e. not me). Oh, and just a note, what I've translated as 'orientations' is a word meaning 'making one's acquaintance.' Please forgive me for wanting to make a readable title as opposed to an accurate one. *bows* ~~~~~ The Chronicle ~~~~~ The roof of the Palace is a beautiful place on a sunny spring day such as this. In keeping with legislation that was passed at the turn of the millennium, it was fully landscaped as a "green" building, complete with exotic trees and shrubs. A small corner is in traditional style; Japan may be part of the Pacific Alliance and controlled in part by "gaijin," but they still tend to be sticklers about that sort of thing. And the gaijin like to pretend they're natives--though even the Toreadors with all their wealth and power haven't become so after six generations. It is a matter of opinion, I suppose, and something I've never quite understood. After all, mankind began in one place, so by their logic, they're strangers everywhere but there, are they not? Except for the fact that nobody remembers where "there" is, do they? But listen to me maundering on about semantics. I really shouldn't, but I suppose after all these years of writing this chronicle, I am entitled to an opinion, am I not? And that wonderful invention of italics, as well. In any event, it doesn't change the fact that Pasha is attempting to photograph Tor and is getting quite frustrated about the whole process. It seems that Tor doesn't understand the concept of "relaxing." Because, of course, he's never relaxed in his life. He wasn't allowed to.>> In the midst of that blue night, without feeling a thing ~~~~~ End Entry ~~~~~ If I didn't have any patience, I think I would have strangled Tor by now. To do him justice, he's been a fairly good model up to now: compliant and desirous (if not eager--is he ever eager?) to please. But nothing can shake him out of this preternatural calm. It's beautiful, yes. And oddly melancholy. I can't seem to get anything more out of him than the vaguest of smiles. And forget any pose less than formal. I suppose the formal portraits are all I really need; that's what the Toreadors commissioned after all and there are more than enough shots to make a significant contribution to my next book. But I want something more than that. I want a full record of the White Magic Key, a full record of the boy's beauty before it vanishes into yesterday. And if twenty-odd years of life in Tokyo have taught me anything, it's how to get what I want. I've been standing several feet away to regain my composure. Now I approach the boy slowly; he watches me with no more than polite curiosity. Neither of us say anything, not even when I stand toe to toe with him. I look him in the eye and he remains unmoved. I raised my hand very slowly, caressing the air just over Tor's head. It traces down the boy's cheek, across his chest, never quite touching him. When my hand reaches the centre of Tor's chest, I let it rest there, palm flat against the luxurious cloth. The moments slip by. Nothing moves as I gaze into his eyes. And then I shove. He goes reeling backwards, heels catching at the low stone border of the grassy area. As instinct overrides his dignity, Tor's arms flail in a desperate attempt to regain his balance. And it turns out there's a seventeen-year-old boy in there after all. It doesn't last for much more than a minute, probably less, but it's so very satisfying. And all on film. Heh. I help him up and we head back to the elevators. He's silent, and I wonder if I've bruised his dignity; he's seventeen after all, and it doesn't take much to offend them. But there is nothing to betray his inner workings. So I shrug and enjoy the silence. Back home, there's never a lot of silence. When we return to the suite, I'm pleased to find that the other clothes I ordered have been delivered. I'll save those for tomorrow, though. We have more than enough to do already. Without going into the gory details, we spend a good portion of the evening photographing him in various areas of the suite. Dinner follows (I have to admit, I forgot about it until around ten. Whoops.) and then a nice, long session on the couch in front of the TV. I'm not really tired, but looking at Tor through the lens, I can see he's starting to wilt, ever so slightly. "Why don't you go to bed?" I say, glancing at the boy sitting beside me. "We have a lot to do tomorrow and you're looking a bit tired." He looks at me in surprise. "Are you sure, Master? There is nothing else I can do for you this evening?" "Not a thing, Tor," I assure him. "Just get a good night's sleep. There's more to be done tomorrow." "Very well." He rises; I admire the lines of his clothing as they move in and away from his body. He bows. "If you need anything at all, please do not hesitate to awaken me," he continues. "I am here to serve." A corner of my mouth quirks up. "Just go to sleep, kid." He bows again and leaves the front room for the welcoming darkness of the bedroom. Many hours later, I bed down on the couch. I ain't used to such a big bed. And I don't like sharing, neither. yaburisuterareta Magazine ~~~~~ The Chronicle ~~~~~
<< The unfortunate thing about writing a chronicle is that you really
can't write laughter. Not well, anyway. So, dear reader, you will just
have to imagine me rolling on the floor with laughter as Pasha pushed Tor
over. Don't get me wrong, Tor's a sweet boy. But it's a good thing to get
a small kick to the psyche every now and again.
He's preparing for bed now, more than slightly confused at his Master's
behavior. He's used to certain patterns and Pasha doesn't fit any of them.
The man doesn't want sex, doesn't want pampering, doesn't even want to talk.
And they all want to talk. Well, perhaps he will open up tomorrow. Maybe
he wants to and it's just difficult for him.
Reassured by that thought, Tor slips into black silk pyjamas and climbs
into bed. After a few moments, he pulls open the drawer of the bedside
table and pulls out a small bottle of oil, which he sets next to the small
lamp on top. One should be prepared for any eventuality.
He continues to think about why Pasha has chosen to photograph him.
After all, the thought that he is 'unsettling' is simply absurd. He is
exactly what he is supposed to be: a Palace Key. Perhaps Pasha just wants
someone beautiful. Perhaps it's an excuse to justify coming to the Palace;
he doesn't seem like he is accustomed to such surroundings. Perhaps...
Tor falls asleep creating more possibilities. Why are men so much more
creative when they try to avoid the truth?
He awakens at his accustomed hour of seven after a long, peaceful sleep.
He stretches luxuriously, enjoying the rich feel of the silk painting itself
over his skin. It is only once he rises that he realizes an important
point: he has a Master and there is no evidence of him anywhere in the room.
Not only is he not in the bed, that side is completely smooth with no
evidence that he was ever in it to begin with. Somewhat alarmed, Tor puts
on a dressing gown and slippers and goes out into the front room. His eyes
widen when he finds his Master curled up on the couch, without even a
pillow, much less a blanket. Without a sound, he turns around, back into
the bedroom, and fetches a thick cashmere blanket from a wardrobe. He
settles it carefully over the tightly knotted form, trying not to awaken his
Master. Tor feels oddly gratified when all Pasha does is settle further
under the blanket and murmur sleepily, "Domo, Sachi."
Assured that his Master is comfortable, Tor goes about his morning
routine. It is simple enough; he bathes and dresses, brushes his hair and
teeth. He debates for a few minutes as to whether his Master might be more
pleased to see him in one of the jewel-tone robes, but dismisses the idea.
Beyond the photography, what Tor wore didn't seem to matter one way or the
other. And he himself was well-pleased with the sweeping effect of the robe
he had chosen as it trailed behind him and the smooth feel of the shirt and
trousers. Smiling slightly, he turns to uncover Sock's cage and open its
door. The tiny bird bursts out in a flurry of movement, zooming around the
room before hovering just beyond Tor's reach. Oddly, the creature's
attitude seems to be one of reproach.
"I know," he murmurs. "The company was unexpected; I didn't mean to keep
you covered so long." He checks the feeder attached to the outside of the
cage to make sure it has enough.
A query follows. Tor shrugs. "I am honestly not sure."
Sock darts past Tor's head, just brushing his hair as he passes. With a
smile, Tor turns to follow the hummingbird's flight.
I don't know what is going on ~~~~~ End Entry ~~~~~
I had every intention of sleeping until noon. I really wanted to sleep until noon. I'm not used to early hours; most of my work is done at night. But that damned Key had to throw a blanket over me. Did he really expect me to not notice? True, I didn't initially. But I quickly realized I was not in my home ground and Sachiko was nowhere nearby. This brought me fully awake and ready to move. I listened carefully as the rest of my brain woke up and reminded me of where I was and why. The sounds in the next room told me that Tor was busy getting dressed. Then I heard him start talking. Okay. So is he a loon or am I missing something? Now I have to get up. How can I lie here while my Key's talking to himself? If I'm quick, I may get a few interesting pictures out of this, too. Quietly, I toss the blanket to one side and grab my camera. Thankfully, the bedroom door's open, so I don't have to worry about that. Light's pouring in from one side of the room, illuminating Tor as he stands in the middle of the room. He isn't laughing--I don't think he knows how--but there is a smile on his face as he watches a tiny bird fly around the room. As I point the camera in his direction, I realize how beautiful he truly is. And, as the bird darts in close to touch noses, how human. It's something that never really occurred to me, that this paragon of beauty isn't a living statue or a moving painting. Inside, underneath the clothes, the carefully trained movements, the perfectly groomed hair, there is a boy. He may be carefully hidden, but he's in there somewhere. "What's his name?" I ask. Tor turns wide grey eyes to me. "He's beautiful." "He is not perfect, Master," Tor replies apologetically. It's true; the bird's beak is deformed. "He doesn't have to be," I say back. "Though I'm surprised. Hummingbirds are supposed to be very colorful creatures, I thought." "Sock is a Lucifer hummingbird," he tells me, "Only the males have even this bit of color." The little bird's grey and white plumage is alleviated by only a thumb-sized spot of brilliant purple on his chin. "So his name is Sock, hmm?" I walk into the room to stand in front of the area where the bird is hovering. "A pleasure to meet such a beautiful creature. Good morning, Sock." There is a pause and I can swear the bird's staring at me. All of a sudden, he flies to Tor and back again. "Sock says 'Good morning,'" the boy says. "As do I." He bows. "Good morning, Master." "Good morning to you, too. Does he really talk to you?" Tor shrugs, looking vaguely uncomfortable, I think. "I could not say, Master. It may be that I imagine it. But sometimes we have extensive conversations. If it displeases you, I shall cease at once, of course." It is my turn to blink at him. "Why should I care?" I ask. "Real or imaginary, you're entitled to do whatever the hell you want on your own time. Like I said, I'm just here to work. "Speaking of which, we should get some grub and haul ass. Now that I'm awake, no sense in wasting the day." "'Grub,' Master?" I roll my eyes. "Food, boy. Food." Hoshi wa nemuru kyou mo mata ~~~~~ The Chronicle ~~~~~
Breakfast is short, but Pasha makes sure that Tor has enough to eat
before they begin shooting. While they eat, Sock hovers around Pasha until
he gives the bird a look and drawls, "I understand your concern, but surely
you can watch me from several feet away?" Sock immediately darts in about
half an inch from Pasha's nose, than away. Tor covers a smile with his
hand.
"You should smile more," Pasha remarks. "You're young, you're spoiled;
you ought to."
Tor reflects that he has never had so many moments for which he had
nothing to say.
Pasha finishes the eggs and bacon the Palace has provided and stands.
"Well, let's get started."
The rest of the day is much like the afternoon of the day before, though
today Tor seems more relaxed (such as it is) and certainly more sure of
himself. Except for that he keeps glancing at his Master, as if waiting for
another unexpected shove or some other form of embarrassment. The Master
is, thankfully, unobliging.
Lunch is a short affair (no, not that kind of affair) but Pasha is more
talkative now that he's fully woken up. He engages Tor in a conversation
about life at the Palace and some of the histories of the Keys they see in
the dining room around them. While Tor is pleased that he is able to
entertain his Master in some respect--he was becoming just a tiny bit
offended at the lack of attention of any sort--he notices an odd expression
on his Master's face. It is partly thoughtful and partly as though the man
does not know exactly how to react. As the rest of the day continues, Tor
continues to bring up that expression in his mind's eye and tries to puzzle
out the reaction.
At the end of the day, they finish with shots of Tor in various places in
his suite. He's allowed to return to his customary attire and he is much
more comfortable. Still, after perhaps twelve hours of solid work, he is
not sorry when Pasha calls a halt.
"You look dead," Pasha tells him bluntly. "Grab a couch and relax."
Tor takes a seat at one end of the couch. He watches his Master as the
man's lips thin in exasperation. "If I didn't know better," he growls, "I'd
swear you had no clue as to what that word meant. But then, maybe you
don't." He stalks over to the couch. "Now, when I think relax, I mean
something like this." With efficient hands, he grabs Tor's ankles and
pulls, rearranging him so that he is lying along the couch, then places a
pillow under his head. After a moment of disorientation, Tor lets his
Master pull him any way he wishes, falling back on his Key training.
However, his expectations are not met, for after shifting the boy to his own
satisfaction, Pasha simply smiles and retreats back to the window.
"Do you ever think of leaving this place?" he asks, looking out at the
city. It is not a common question, but not entirely unexpected. Some types
of men--Marius, for example--believe that freedom ought to be his ultimate
goal.
"No," Tor replies simply. "I belong here."
"I can see that." Pasha smiles to himself. "Freedom's overrated, you
know. Sure, the city's beautiful from here, at night, when the lights are
shining, but close up? It's not worth the trip. From what I can see,
you've got just about everything here. And your body and a few hours of
your time every so often ain't a high price to pay for that. Most whores I
know don't earn a fraction of what those clothes cost. 'Course, they ain't
as well trained, but men street-side don't ask for that."
Street-side? It is the poorest section of the city. Only the homeless
and the criminals live and work on the ground level of a city that has grown
upwards in the last several centuries. Except for a few historical areas,
such as the emperor's palace, Tokyo Tower, and Meiji Shrine. These remain
intact and in use. Still, street-side is a shadowed place of desperate
hopes and crushed dreams.
A place Tor could never comprehend. For him, it exists as a vague
impression of a long-forgotten nightmare: slightly unsettling but not
understood.
"What would you do," Pasha asks suddenly, turning to face him, "if you
had to leave the Palace? I mean, forced to leave. No coming back."
"That would never happen," Tor replies with utter certainty. "The Palace
has been here for centuries. With the Families behind it, it will continue
to be here long after I have died."
"Will it now?" Tor does not answer, for Pasha appears to be speaking to
himself. The Key stares up at the ceiling and so misses the odd, side-long
look that Pasha gives him. It looks suspiciously like pity.>>
kokoro no naka de nemuru kimi wa ~~~~~ End Entry ~~~~~
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