Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Night's End ❯ Chapter One ( Chapter 1 )

Disclaimer: Weiß Kreuz and Weiß Kreuz Glühen belong to Project Weiß and whoever else has dibs on them now. I, certainly, am not one of those people, and do not claim to be. (Though it sure would warm up these cold winter nights! ^.~)

Chapter One

The sun was just emerging over the horizon in a riot of pink and orange as Omi stepped out the door of the little hut he shared with his grandfather Seiji and began the walk to the village well, his water jug balanced easily on the crown of his head. It was just coming down to early autumn, the faint scent of fruit harvest having replaced the smell of sun baked grass and a warning chill in the air and Omi thought contentedly about the two heavy fur cloaks that he had managed to procure following the summer hunting. Six skeins of his tightly-twisted wool those cloaks had cost him, but it would be worth it when he and his grandfather were warm in their beds during the heaviest part of the winter. Their old cloaks had been serviceable still, if a little worn, but it had become increasingly difficult to keep his grandfather warm and Omi would not have the old man suffer if he could help it.

The well was crowded as usual, and as Omi took his place at the end of the line one of the women ahead of him looked over her shoulder, calling out "Ah, and here is our little weaver!" The other women and girls, hearing the friendly salvo, briefly halted their conversations and turned to greet him as well, the only male in the line. At one point, just after his mother's death when he had come to live with his maternal grandfather and had first found himself standing in the group of women waiting for use of the well, he had been embarrassed at the attention, wanting nothing more than just to fill his ewer and hasten home. It had been the women's calm acceptance of him that had soothed that nervous embarrassment. Instead of jeering, scoffing at his hopeless naïveté, they had taken him under their collective wing and guided him along in those things he had never learned, teaching him the basics of cooking, cleaning and caring for the small garden behind the hut which provided food for he and his grandfather. They had also given him a market for both his wool yarn and the cloth that he wove from it, thereby ensuring that there would always be something to trade should the garden be poor one year.

Smiling, he returned the greeting. "And a good morn to you! How goes the harvest?"

The woman laughed, a contented sound that bespoke the good year the village had enjoyed. "Ah, well enough, though my husband swears that if he never sees another grain of rice it will be too soon. But he will be glad enough for it when the snows come. Good hot rice balls on a cold day!" Those near enough to hear nodded enthusiastically and the conversation turned swiftly to recipes for the dish, advice on the best methods tossed back and forth, up and down the line.

****

It was several moments later, as the crowd was beginning to thin and Omi was nearly to the well, that it first became audible. A sound, at first just the barest tickle at the edge of the mind, easily ignored, that quickly grew to the unmistakable pounding of hoof beats. One of the older women who had come late that morning and so was still standing beside the well pointed in the direction of the fields and cried out "The men! Go warn the men that they come!" Three or four of the girls raced off, dropping their water jugs heedlessly and spilling the contents onto the dusty ground in their haste.

The rest, all joviality driven from them and terror plain in their suddenly pale faces, looked to the old woman. "Them?", one whispered, her voice husky with fear. "But they are nothing but a legend, a tale told to frighten children to their beds…"

"Nay, they are as real as you and I. My own brother was lost to them, years ago. Back to your homes, all of you, and hide your sons. Perhaps you can yet save them, perhaps not, but at least do not give them up easily."

Almost as one those women with sons turned and ran, many of them with their ewers still empty. Screams could be heard, names called desperately as they raced back to their homes in search of their children. The old woman, pity now clouding her eyes, turned and looked at Omi who stood frozen, still clutching the handle of his jug.

"Hurry, you, and find a place to hide yourself. They will not care for such as I, or such as Seiji your grandsire; they want only young ones. Young men, small and beautiful, like you and like my brother. Hide swiftly and cleverly, young one!" She made a shooing motion and the spell that seemed to have taken him broke abruptly, leaving him to turn and hasten back towards his hut.

His grandfather was standing at the door when he arrived, looking old and weary in a way that he never had before. "Hide, Omi, quickly! I will distract them for as long as I can when they get here, but they will not be deterred forever. Find a good spot; perhaps they will miss you." There was desperation, creeping and ugly, in his voice and Omi found himself suddenly wanting to scream, to simply cry out to the heavens to make the madness stop. Surely this was not happening! He had overslept and this terrifying dream was the gods' punishment on him for his laziness…

Hastily, not daring to test his luck by standing and waiting for whatever was coming, he made his way to the small kitchen and pulled back the trapdoor in the floor. The smell was reassuringly earthy as he dropped down into the storage cellar, and it calmed his nerves enough for him to realize that if he curled up among the pile of potatoes and pulled the scrap of rough sackcloth over himself he might be passed over without a second thought. Quickly he did just that, half-burying himself so that the lumps under the cloth wouldn't be obviously human in shape and then taking the covering by one corner and tugging it up over all.

However, it soon became apparent that the plan wasn't as perfect as it had looked at first. Within minutes of lying down he was fighting sneezes and the itching watering of his eyes from the dust. If he moved to rub his eyes or if he sneezed he could bring the soldiers down upon him in an instant, good hiding place or not. Furious with himself for not thinking of the possibilities earlier, he blinked and wriggled his nose in hopeless apprehension, listening intently for the sound of his grandfather's voice above him.

It came several minutes later - the pounding of rough, boot clad feet on the floor, the sound of harsh raised voices calling back and forth to one another as Seiji protested that there was no one but him in the hut. The soldiers seemed to ignore him entirely, continuing on in their search without even responding to his passionate assertion. Footsteps resounded through the main living area, the bedroom, and finally the kitchen where they halted for the briefest moment. A shout rang out, and then the trapdoor was torn back carelessly and daylight seeped through the uneven weave of the sackcloth.

A set of booted feet thudded meatily onto the earthen floor of the cellar and the sounds of destructive rummaging filled the tight little space, working their way steadily closer to the pile of potatoes. Things were flung off shelves, earthenware pots that had cost much time and expense shattered, carefully stored food meant for the long winter months was trampled carelessly underfoot. Omi shut his eyes, praying that the movements caused by his breathing wouldn't be noticeable in the semi-dark, but in a moment it didn't matter. Just as he was beginning to believe that it would never end, that he would finally be forced to sneeze and practically offer himself up to these crude soldiers, the feet made their way around the last set of shelves to the heap in the corner. There was no warning, simply the sound of tearing cloth as the soldier flung the flimsy cover back and uncovered his quarry.

With a wild cry of triumph, the soldier reached down and fisted a hand in his hair, pulling him inexorably to his feet. There was strength, a raw wiry sort of strength, in the soldier's grip and Omi hung limply in it and allowed himself to be lifted up through the trapdoor into the arms of another soldier. He had hid for as long as he could, but he would not risk his life or his grandfather's in a hopeless fight for a freedom that was already lost to him. But when he was carried out through the living area and past his weakly weeping grandfather he turned and sent a small smile over his captor's shoulder, hoping to ease the pain that he knew would eat at the old man for the remainder of his life. Then he was beyond the door, borne away from a life that he had learned to be comfortable in and towards a life filled with glaring uncertainties. And it was then, as the soldier carrying him joined the stream of others with their similar armfuls walking towards the outskirts of town, that he looked up and noticed the large fox ears that graced the head of each for the first time. *They are nothing but a legend* the woman had said earlier that morning as they all stood about the well, and so they were to all but the very oldest of the villagers. Legend with a grain of truth it seemed. Kitsune was the old name for them, men with fox ears and fox tails who would leave their strongholds only to raid nearby villages for young male captives. No one knew what was done with those unfortunates when they reached the Kitsune strongholds, but it was certain that none were ever seen by kith or kin again.