✰♡✰ Beautiful Boy ✰♡✰

LEOSAGI BOOK PROMOTION AGAIN

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-͟͟͞☆

"What comes after death?"

The small turtle boy asked, tracing his finger along the two beautiful red stripes on his face, one on each side. The man standing over him leaned across the bed, reaching for a blue mask that the boy had tossed over the edge that morning. "Why do you ask, Blue?"

"Because. The songs and stories aren't enough. I want someone to tell me." He murmured. This was his answer every time. His legs were tangled in the sheets. Yoshi didn't say anything for a few moments. He pulled out the covers from underneath the little one, then laying it over him once more, this time neatly. A cool breeze from the whoosh of the blanket was replaced as quickly as it came by warmth.

"No one knows for sure. Not one man or woman can know every little thing about what happens."

His voice was a bit gravelly from the long day, but honestly did his best to remain light in front of the child. "Our creator, or creators, know where you will end up. It's up to you to decide how you want to live." Of course they didn't think to ask the many soldiers and widowed women underneath the dirt, listening to the wind that pushed the blades of grass this way and that, right above their graves.

The boy hummed in acknowledgement, but didn't quite understand. He laid on his back and stared up at the ceiling until he found the room flooded in a warm darkness. His father had turned the light off, yet he could still make out the concaves of the gold rims along his own chandelier.

"Not one man or woman can know..." He repeated soflty, sighing. A deep wave of tiredness washed over him, and the sound of waves crashing against the shore outside of Gōrudo Palace.

The sound was not of any comfort to him. In fact, it only reminded him of a dark part of his life. One that he could not be rid of, for it was embedded in his blood.

Leo turned away from the window.

_______________________________________________________________________

USAGI YUICHI

My father was the jito, and a son of many clan leaders. He was a short man, as most of us were, for our creator made us with tall ears, and very little length everywhere else. He married my mother when they were in their twenties and sworn by the priestess to be fruitful. It was a goodmatch: she was an only child, and her father's fortune would go to her husband.

The family did not find out until the wedding that she was simple.

Her father had been scrupulous about keeping her veiled until the ceremony, and my father had humored him. If she was ugly, there were always slave girls and serving boys.

When at last they pulled off the veil, they say my mother smiled. That is how they knew she was quite stupid. Brides did not smile.

When I was delivered, a boy, he plucked me from her arms and handed me to a nurse. In pity, the midwife gave my mother a pillow to hold instead of me. My mother hugged it. She did not seem to notice a change had been made.

Quickly, I became a disappointment: small, slight. I was not fast, at first. I wasn ot strong enough. I could not sing as well as the others. The best that could be said of me was that I was not sickly. The colds and cramps that seized my peers left me untouched. This only made my grandparents suspicious. Was I a changeling, inhuman? They scowled at me, watching. My hand shook, feeling their gaze, my father just patted my back affectionately. And there was my mother, dribbling sake on herself.

__

It was the day of the games, and the bull had finally been drenched of it's blood. As it went quietly to its death, the whole stadium seemed to melt into a vibe of ease. A good omen.

The runners are gathered before the dais where my father and I sit,surrounded by prizes we will give to the winners. There are golden mixingbowls for wine, beaten bronze tripods, ash-wood spears tipped withprecious iron.
But the real prize is in my hands: a wreath of dusty-greenleaves, freshly clipped, rubbed to a shine by my thumb. My father has givenit to me, quite casually. He reassures my grandfather: all I have to do is hold it. The faith he had in me was like birdsong.

The youngest boys are running first, and they wait, shuffling their feet in the sand for the nod from the priest. They're in their first flush of growth, bones sharp and spindly, poking against taut skin, some fur, and some scales. My eye catches on a strange head among dozens of dark, tousled crowns. I lean forward to see. A sharp green shade of a turtle's head, and then...the glint of red could have nearly blinded me.

He looked delicate as a rose.

He is shorter than the others, and still plump with childhood in a way they are not. His mask long and tied back with leather; it burns against the dark, decorated sturdiness of his shell. His face, when he turns, is serious as a man's. When the priest strikes the ground, he slips past the thickened bodies ofthe older boys. He moves easily, his heels flashing green as palm tree leaves. He wins.

I stare as my father gently lifts the garland from my lap and crowns him; the leaves seem almost black against the brightness of his green head and red markings. His father, Lou Jitsu, comes to claim him, smiling and proud. Yoshi Hamato's empire is smaller than ours, but his wife is rumored to be a goddess, and his people love him. My grandfather watches with envy. His son's wife is stupid and his grandson too slow to race in even the youngest group. He turns to me. "That is what a son should be." My father furrows his brow and pulls him close to me. I cling to his leg.

My hands feel empty without the garland. I watch Lord Jitsu embracehis son, or at least, I assume the rat man to be his father. I see the boy toss the garland in the air and catch it again. He islaughing, and his face is bright with victory.

Aside from this, I remember little more than scattered images from my life then: my father frowning on his throne in deep thought, his face quickly spreading into a delighted smile when I walk in, a cunning toy horse I loved, mymother on the beach, her eyes turned towards the Okhotsk. In this last memory, I am skipping stones for her, plink, plink, plink, across the skin ofthe sea. She seems to like the way the ripples look, dispersing back to glass.

Or perhaps it is the sea itself she likes.

At her temple a starburst of white gleams like bone, the scar from the time her father hit her with the hilt of asword. Her paws poke up from the sand where she has buried them, and I amcareful not to disturb them as I search for rocks.

I choose one and fling itout, glad to be good at this. It is the only memory I have of my mother andso golden that I am almost sure I have made it up. After all, it was unlikely for my grandfather to have allowed us to be alone together, his simple grandson and simpler daughter. And where are we? I do not recognize the beach, the view of the coastline. So much has passed since then.

·:*¨༺ The Song ★Of Leonardo ༻¨*:·.

(A Song of Achilles AU)