Haibane Renmei Fan Fiction ❯ Severed Wings ❯ The Coming of the Cold ( Chapter 1 )
[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
By: Clinesterton Beademung 
They say the walls are weakest in the wintertime...
Anime/Manga: Haibane Renmei Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama / Angst | Type: Continuation | Uploaded On: 07.27.2009 | Pages: 2 | Words: 2.4K | Visits: 739 | Status: Work In Progress
They say the walls are weakest in the wintertime...
Anime/Manga: Haibane Renmei Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama / Angst | Type: Continuation | Uploaded On: 07.27.2009 | Pages: 2 | Words: 2.4K | Visits: 739 | Status: Work In Progress
Severed Wings
By “Clinesterton Beademung”, with all of love.
Disclaimer: “Haibane Renmei” © its respective creators and owners. I do this for fun, not profit. So there.
Comments and criticism welcome.
Chapter One – The Coming of the Cold
---
The old farmer kept a tight grip on the steering wheel of his weather-beaten tractor. The south road was rough and rutted after the most recent autumn cloudburst, overused in the scramble to sell the last of the grain and produce at market and, because of the terrible cold, left unrepaired. The two-cycle engine thumped and burped along, hitching in protest—whether of the rapid change in season or of inevitable obsolescence, he didn’t know. The sky above was indigo clear and speckled with early stars, but clouds gray and ominous as tombstones gathered in the east. The sun, a mere sliver of dull bronze, lingered between the clouds and the city walls.
The old farmer coughed into his glove. Something slimy and sour came up from his aching lungs, and the palm of his hand glistened in the fading sunlight. He wiped his soiled glove on the edge of his leather seat and left a snail’s trail of frozen mucus. Winter in Glie caught everyone by surprise, but not even the Renmei Almanac had prepared him or anyone else for this descent into such bone-freezing temperatures as had never been known before in the protected city. He inhaled through his nose. His nostrils tingled. Snow tonight, maybe a blizzard, sure as God made little brown bell nuts. That young whippersnapper of a doctor had kept him waiting for an hour past his scheduled time, just to tell him what his body had known two months ago. He was too old for strenuous labor. He needed to get some rest. Sure. Someday.
The important thing now was to beat the snow home. Within the walls the air was calm, but the winds aloft were fast and fierce, shredding and reforming the snow-bearing clouds that already covered a quarter of the sky.
The old farmer came to the river, now a sheet of thick ice. In summertime he liked to linger here, inhale, and separate the scents of his tiny world from the strange and unknown smells the water carried from the world beyond.
The last splinter of sun vanished, lost beyond the implacable stone of the mysterious wall. The Hill of Winds lay ahead, but here the south road turned southeast, until he came to the river road, and stopped. A left turn would take him north again, until he found the cart path that wove through the farming district and led him home. A right turn would take him to the abandoned school, what the Haibane called Old Home. Beyond Old Home lay the Western Woods.
The old farmer shivered. The last light of day, the sound of his dyspeptic engine, even the very warmth of his blood, all seemed to drift away and disappear into the Wood’s impenetrable shadows. Only the Haibane and the Toga who protected them dared to venture there, through the trees and beyond, to their sacred places.
How could the Haibane endure it? he wondered. How could they watch their friends go, and without a word like the legends say, and still smile and work so hard as if nothing had happened? Must be nice to be so happy and carefree.
The old farmer turned left, flicked on the tractor’s headlamp, advanced the throttle as much as he dared. The engine whined in protest, and the tractor lurched forward. His neighbor, Widow Marsten, spoke well of the two Haibane girls who helped around her place. Patient, hardworking, and quiet, except to ask what needed to be done. His wife made a point of visiting the widow every other day, to bring over a pot of stew or a plate of cookies or to make sure the widow had clean bedding, but the girls did the greater share, and without complaint. The widow was slowing down herself, and would be joining Mr. Marsten soon. Perhaps this winter.
A burst of wind shook him and the tractor. Air cold as a frozen harrow blade swirled through a gap in his scarf and across his neck. This would be the last winter for some of the older folks. Nothing the Haibane or young know-it-all doctors could do about that.
The road turned southeast. He was on his way home. He released a sigh of relief that died when he turned his gaze heavenward. The clouds covered half the sky, and all he could hope for now was to reach home before the snow started to fall. In silence he urged his tractor to make it home. Come on, baby, you can make it…you can make it…
The engine sputtered once, then died.
Damn. He passed his hands over the tractor’s controls, feeling for the choke knob. He’d bumped it, loosened it, let the mixture get too lean. Damn, and damn again. How many times had he meant to fix the knob now? Ten, twenty, a hundred?
The headlight cut a yellow oval out of the darkness. He moved the choke to full rich, applied the parking brake, shifted into first, and worked himself down from his seat, hoping he hadn’t left the starter crank on his workbench. He limped to the rear of his vehicle, reached over the wooden rail and felt around the bed. On the crest of the next hill the living room lamp his mother had given him and his new bride fifty-nine years ago as a wedding present beckoned to him. Or did it? So hard to see so far anymore. His wife had tried to talk him out of driving, but there were errands to run, bills to pay, and even if he managed to wreck the beat-up old piece of junk, he’d crash at no faster than five miles per hour, the vehicle’s top speed. He doubted he could inflict much damage on himself or anyone else. Still, it would not do to be stranded out here, or have to walk home on aged knees and feet through this evil frost.
“Stiff-necked old fool,” he could hear his wife say, as she often did these days. “Why don’t you see if you can get a sturdy Haibane boy or two to help you, before you cripple yourself?”
“Well, best beloved,” he would say in reply, “why don’t you find a couple of Haibane girls to help you around the house, like Widow Marsten? Couldn’t you use an extra pair of hands or two?”
“Nonsense. I’m not the one who needs help, you are.”
“That, honey pot, is what I’m trying to tell you.” Around and around it went, five times before dinner, five times after, and once before bed. And she said he was a stiff-necked old fool. Still, the old girl wasn’t getting around as well as she had last year, and it pained him to see her struggle so. Maybe she was right. She always was.
The old farmer found the crank on the other side of the tractor bed. He fed the business end into the engine and leaned hard on the handle. Good thing the oil was still warm. Starting the damned thing this morning had almost cost him a pulled muscle. One turn, two, three…
The engine caught. He threw the crank back into the bed, climbed back into the seat, shifted into low gear, and released the brake. He opened the throttle, prayed the engine wouldn’t seize up, and eased up on the clutch. He turned the wheel straight—and almost flipped himself over the front wheels when he stomped on the brake. Someone was in the middle of the road, and walking toward him.
A girl, wrapped in a thick jacket and wearing a plain blue dress. A halo floated over her head. Her feet were bare.
Of course. One of the Haibane, maybe one of the two girls who worked for the Widow Marsten, but it was late for anyone, Haibane or human, to be out on the road alone, ahead of an oncoming snowstorm. He shifted the tractor into neutral and pulled on the parking brake. He stepped to the ground.
“Evening, young miss,” the old farmer said. The girl walked on, as if unaware of him, or of the noise and smell of the tractor motor. Her hair looked dirty and matted, and hung down in front of her face. Strange. He didn’t think Widow Marsten would ask the girls to take on any task too strenuous or dangerous. Besides, Haibane were always so happy and cheerful—and there was something different about her, something he couldn’t quite figure out…
“Young miss,” he said, and stood in her way. “Where are your shoes?”
The girl stopped. “I lost them,” she said in a weak and thready voice. “Lost them. Lost them.”
“Well…don’t you think you’d better let me give you a lift somewhere?”
“No, thank you.”
“You sure? My wife has dinner waiting, and you sure look like you could use—”
“No. Thank you.” The Haibane stepped forward. The old farmer leaned on his knees, tried to look past her filthy hair at her face, caught a frigid whiff of hay and manure—and something else, something that reminded him of Mr. Drommund, who lived near the wall and who raised and butchered pigs.
“Really now, miss, I can’t let you walk all the way into town by yourself.” He reached for her arm.
“Don’t touch me!” Her strength surprised him and she wriggled out of his grasp. She lost her balance, and slipped into the shallow drainage ditch at the side of the road. Her foot broke through the scum of ice at the bottom. She whimpered in pain, stepped out of the ditch, and walked on, the slow trudge of a laborer bearing a crushing burden.
“Here now, girl,” said the old farmer. “This is silly. The Toga would nail my hide to my own barn door if I left you like this. Now you come with me, or you’ll catch your death of cold.” He reached for her arm again.
“No, leave me…leave me…” The girl pulled her arm away, but stood where she was, and swayed. Her knees buckled. She fell backward. The old farmer reached to catch her. Pain from an old accident with a reluctant hay baler lanced through his back. He gritted his teeth and lowered her to his knee.
“Stop,” the girl said, and struggled to get up. The old farmer held her fast until she relaxed against him.
“Look, I’m not trying to hurt you, I’m trying to help you.” Ice had formed around her wet foot. Her golden hair had fallen aside, revealing a face that, despite the smears of mud and the dark circles under her eyes, despite her pallid skin and blue lips, bore a beauty so angelic it stole his breath, even as her dreadful condition broke his heart.
“No. Let me go…must find…find…before they…before…” The Haibane’s eyes lost focus and closed. The old farmer’s arm went low around her shoulders—and felt what wasn’t there that should be. How…how in the world…have to call the community watch, first thing…
Ignoring the pain in his back he picked up the girl, laid her face down in the back of the tractor. He spread a rat-eaten blanket and a fold of a canvas tarp over her body. He tried to climb back into his seat but could only lean against it, his heart thumping in time with the revived engine.
Snow fluttered through the headlight. The old farmer thrust a shaking hand into the beam. A snowflake touched the palm of his glove and dissolved in the warm, red moisture there.
---
Afterword
Yes, at long last, I have returned to fanfiction. It’s good to be back, and I’m looking forward to hearing your comments and criticism. I know it’s been a while, but I hope I can reestablish that all-important bond of trust with you, the readers, and I’m quite certain you’re all the forgiving type, and that you won’t hold my long absence against me. Right? Am I right?
*crickets chirping*
Well, um…anyway, I thought I would begin my comeback with the first chapter of a Haibane Renmei fic I’ve been thinking about for a while now. Those of you waiting for the next chapter of my Trigun fic, ‘Children of the Pebble’, you won’t have to wait long. For real, this time. Really. Honest.
*ducks rotten tomato*
Uh…okay, to those who are still following my work, I offer my gratitude for (and my utter amazement at) your patience. To those who have given up, and have moved on to more worthy pursuits (or who are silently plotting my violent, painful death), I offer my hope that if you see this message you will reconsider, and rediscover the enjoyment you derived from my work, before the Dark Times…before the Empire…
Anyway, next time, in chapter two of ‘Severed Wings’: Rakka and the Haibane of Old Home receive an unexpected guest. See you then!
By “Clinesterton Beademung”, with all of love.
Disclaimer: “Haibane Renmei” © its respective creators and owners. I do this for fun, not profit. So there.
Comments and criticism welcome.
Chapter One – The Coming of the Cold
---
The old farmer kept a tight grip on the steering wheel of his weather-beaten tractor. The south road was rough and rutted after the most recent autumn cloudburst, overused in the scramble to sell the last of the grain and produce at market and, because of the terrible cold, left unrepaired. The two-cycle engine thumped and burped along, hitching in protest—whether of the rapid change in season or of inevitable obsolescence, he didn’t know. The sky above was indigo clear and speckled with early stars, but clouds gray and ominous as tombstones gathered in the east. The sun, a mere sliver of dull bronze, lingered between the clouds and the city walls.
The old farmer coughed into his glove. Something slimy and sour came up from his aching lungs, and the palm of his hand glistened in the fading sunlight. He wiped his soiled glove on the edge of his leather seat and left a snail’s trail of frozen mucus. Winter in Glie caught everyone by surprise, but not even the Renmei Almanac had prepared him or anyone else for this descent into such bone-freezing temperatures as had never been known before in the protected city. He inhaled through his nose. His nostrils tingled. Snow tonight, maybe a blizzard, sure as God made little brown bell nuts. That young whippersnapper of a doctor had kept him waiting for an hour past his scheduled time, just to tell him what his body had known two months ago. He was too old for strenuous labor. He needed to get some rest. Sure. Someday.
The important thing now was to beat the snow home. Within the walls the air was calm, but the winds aloft were fast and fierce, shredding and reforming the snow-bearing clouds that already covered a quarter of the sky.
The old farmer came to the river, now a sheet of thick ice. In summertime he liked to linger here, inhale, and separate the scents of his tiny world from the strange and unknown smells the water carried from the world beyond.
The last splinter of sun vanished, lost beyond the implacable stone of the mysterious wall. The Hill of Winds lay ahead, but here the south road turned southeast, until he came to the river road, and stopped. A left turn would take him north again, until he found the cart path that wove through the farming district and led him home. A right turn would take him to the abandoned school, what the Haibane called Old Home. Beyond Old Home lay the Western Woods.
The old farmer shivered. The last light of day, the sound of his dyspeptic engine, even the very warmth of his blood, all seemed to drift away and disappear into the Wood’s impenetrable shadows. Only the Haibane and the Toga who protected them dared to venture there, through the trees and beyond, to their sacred places.
How could the Haibane endure it? he wondered. How could they watch their friends go, and without a word like the legends say, and still smile and work so hard as if nothing had happened? Must be nice to be so happy and carefree.
The old farmer turned left, flicked on the tractor’s headlamp, advanced the throttle as much as he dared. The engine whined in protest, and the tractor lurched forward. His neighbor, Widow Marsten, spoke well of the two Haibane girls who helped around her place. Patient, hardworking, and quiet, except to ask what needed to be done. His wife made a point of visiting the widow every other day, to bring over a pot of stew or a plate of cookies or to make sure the widow had clean bedding, but the girls did the greater share, and without complaint. The widow was slowing down herself, and would be joining Mr. Marsten soon. Perhaps this winter.
A burst of wind shook him and the tractor. Air cold as a frozen harrow blade swirled through a gap in his scarf and across his neck. This would be the last winter for some of the older folks. Nothing the Haibane or young know-it-all doctors could do about that.
The road turned southeast. He was on his way home. He released a sigh of relief that died when he turned his gaze heavenward. The clouds covered half the sky, and all he could hope for now was to reach home before the snow started to fall. In silence he urged his tractor to make it home. Come on, baby, you can make it…you can make it…
The engine sputtered once, then died.
Damn. He passed his hands over the tractor’s controls, feeling for the choke knob. He’d bumped it, loosened it, let the mixture get too lean. Damn, and damn again. How many times had he meant to fix the knob now? Ten, twenty, a hundred?
The headlight cut a yellow oval out of the darkness. He moved the choke to full rich, applied the parking brake, shifted into first, and worked himself down from his seat, hoping he hadn’t left the starter crank on his workbench. He limped to the rear of his vehicle, reached over the wooden rail and felt around the bed. On the crest of the next hill the living room lamp his mother had given him and his new bride fifty-nine years ago as a wedding present beckoned to him. Or did it? So hard to see so far anymore. His wife had tried to talk him out of driving, but there were errands to run, bills to pay, and even if he managed to wreck the beat-up old piece of junk, he’d crash at no faster than five miles per hour, the vehicle’s top speed. He doubted he could inflict much damage on himself or anyone else. Still, it would not do to be stranded out here, or have to walk home on aged knees and feet through this evil frost.
“Stiff-necked old fool,” he could hear his wife say, as she often did these days. “Why don’t you see if you can get a sturdy Haibane boy or two to help you, before you cripple yourself?”
“Well, best beloved,” he would say in reply, “why don’t you find a couple of Haibane girls to help you around the house, like Widow Marsten? Couldn’t you use an extra pair of hands or two?”
“Nonsense. I’m not the one who needs help, you are.”
“That, honey pot, is what I’m trying to tell you.” Around and around it went, five times before dinner, five times after, and once before bed. And she said he was a stiff-necked old fool. Still, the old girl wasn’t getting around as well as she had last year, and it pained him to see her struggle so. Maybe she was right. She always was.
The old farmer found the crank on the other side of the tractor bed. He fed the business end into the engine and leaned hard on the handle. Good thing the oil was still warm. Starting the damned thing this morning had almost cost him a pulled muscle. One turn, two, three…
The engine caught. He threw the crank back into the bed, climbed back into the seat, shifted into low gear, and released the brake. He opened the throttle, prayed the engine wouldn’t seize up, and eased up on the clutch. He turned the wheel straight—and almost flipped himself over the front wheels when he stomped on the brake. Someone was in the middle of the road, and walking toward him.
A girl, wrapped in a thick jacket and wearing a plain blue dress. A halo floated over her head. Her feet were bare.
Of course. One of the Haibane, maybe one of the two girls who worked for the Widow Marsten, but it was late for anyone, Haibane or human, to be out on the road alone, ahead of an oncoming snowstorm. He shifted the tractor into neutral and pulled on the parking brake. He stepped to the ground.
“Evening, young miss,” the old farmer said. The girl walked on, as if unaware of him, or of the noise and smell of the tractor motor. Her hair looked dirty and matted, and hung down in front of her face. Strange. He didn’t think Widow Marsten would ask the girls to take on any task too strenuous or dangerous. Besides, Haibane were always so happy and cheerful—and there was something different about her, something he couldn’t quite figure out…
“Young miss,” he said, and stood in her way. “Where are your shoes?”
The girl stopped. “I lost them,” she said in a weak and thready voice. “Lost them. Lost them.”
“Well…don’t you think you’d better let me give you a lift somewhere?”
“No, thank you.”
“You sure? My wife has dinner waiting, and you sure look like you could use—”
“No. Thank you.” The Haibane stepped forward. The old farmer leaned on his knees, tried to look past her filthy hair at her face, caught a frigid whiff of hay and manure—and something else, something that reminded him of Mr. Drommund, who lived near the wall and who raised and butchered pigs.
“Really now, miss, I can’t let you walk all the way into town by yourself.” He reached for her arm.
“Don’t touch me!” Her strength surprised him and she wriggled out of his grasp. She lost her balance, and slipped into the shallow drainage ditch at the side of the road. Her foot broke through the scum of ice at the bottom. She whimpered in pain, stepped out of the ditch, and walked on, the slow trudge of a laborer bearing a crushing burden.
“Here now, girl,” said the old farmer. “This is silly. The Toga would nail my hide to my own barn door if I left you like this. Now you come with me, or you’ll catch your death of cold.” He reached for her arm again.
“No, leave me…leave me…” The girl pulled her arm away, but stood where she was, and swayed. Her knees buckled. She fell backward. The old farmer reached to catch her. Pain from an old accident with a reluctant hay baler lanced through his back. He gritted his teeth and lowered her to his knee.
“Stop,” the girl said, and struggled to get up. The old farmer held her fast until she relaxed against him.
“Look, I’m not trying to hurt you, I’m trying to help you.” Ice had formed around her wet foot. Her golden hair had fallen aside, revealing a face that, despite the smears of mud and the dark circles under her eyes, despite her pallid skin and blue lips, bore a beauty so angelic it stole his breath, even as her dreadful condition broke his heart.
“No. Let me go…must find…find…before they…before…” The Haibane’s eyes lost focus and closed. The old farmer’s arm went low around her shoulders—and felt what wasn’t there that should be. How…how in the world…have to call the community watch, first thing…
Ignoring the pain in his back he picked up the girl, laid her face down in the back of the tractor. He spread a rat-eaten blanket and a fold of a canvas tarp over her body. He tried to climb back into his seat but could only lean against it, his heart thumping in time with the revived engine.
Snow fluttered through the headlight. The old farmer thrust a shaking hand into the beam. A snowflake touched the palm of his glove and dissolved in the warm, red moisture there.
---
Afterword
Yes, at long last, I have returned to fanfiction. It’s good to be back, and I’m looking forward to hearing your comments and criticism. I know it’s been a while, but I hope I can reestablish that all-important bond of trust with you, the readers, and I’m quite certain you’re all the forgiving type, and that you won’t hold my long absence against me. Right? Am I right?
*crickets chirping*
Well, um…anyway, I thought I would begin my comeback with the first chapter of a Haibane Renmei fic I’ve been thinking about for a while now. Those of you waiting for the next chapter of my Trigun fic, ‘Children of the Pebble’, you won’t have to wait long. For real, this time. Really. Honest.
*ducks rotten tomato*
Uh…okay, to those who are still following my work, I offer my gratitude for (and my utter amazement at) your patience. To those who have given up, and have moved on to more worthy pursuits (or who are silently plotting my violent, painful death), I offer my hope that if you see this message you will reconsider, and rediscover the enjoyment you derived from my work, before the Dark Times…before the Empire…
Anyway, next time, in chapter two of ‘Severed Wings’: Rakka and the Haibane of Old Home receive an unexpected guest. See you then!