Léonys of Rohan Part 6
Part 1 | Part 5
So if you saw me complaining about writing in the past -- *consults calendar* -- month and a half, it was about this. Despite everything, I’m reasonably pleased with how it came out. I have provided myself with a sufficient amount of vague-metaphor-enrichment, which is what I live for.
This is a Boromir Lives fic too now, and the reason for that is this scene and this scene alone. I tried to sketch it out with Éowyn and I just ran the risk of changing canon in a way that I didn’t want to change it. Also with most Boromir Lives fanfics I’ve read they tend to take the position that Boromir would be more or less over Amon Hen by this point, and I’m not about that. I had a half-finished Boromir Lives fanfic years ago where Aragorn wouldn’t let him go on the Paths of the Dead because it’s not a place to be while you’re dealing with that kind of mental weight and I borrowed that idea and expanded on it. Mind you, Léonys has no clue what kind of crisis he’s dealing with, so that’s pretty irrelevant, but I wanted to say so anyway.
This is how it is to be Léonys of Rohan:
Dunharrow is cold in the early dawn air. You have been sitting in the same place for long enough that the earth beneath you has gained some of your body heat, but the stone pillar at your back is still chill as death. Your bow lies across your lap, half-strung, and at your side lies one of your knives, unsheathed. There are tales of orcs and worse things in the Harrowdale, but you have seen nothing, not for hours, not since the Grey Company departed into the dim slot that they say leads to the Paths of the Dead, and your fingers are tangled in the wet grass before you, slowly teasing the roots loose.
It is not the same bow that you once used to bring food home to your family. That bow was broken in an accident, in Angmar, when you had fallen into a ravine and it had shattered against the rocks below you. You had replaced it with a war bow from a fallen man of Angmar, and your forearms had bled until someone had taught you how to wield it. You bear that bow now, and it serves its purpose. You wonder, idly, if it could be used for hunting. Your hunting bow had been turned to war easily enough, though with nothing near the harsh efficiency of this weapon.
Unease tickles the back of your spine, and you know its source is the narrow path before you, barely visible as a deeper shadow in the wall of rock on the far side of the Fireinfield, but you remain there, knowing you will not find rest this day.
You are aware of the Man approaching long before he comes up behind you, but you do not acknowledge him, hoping he is simply passing by, patrolling, perhaps, or gathering weapons and food, or tending to one of the many other tasks that a war camp such as this needs to maintain itself. No such luck. When he speaks he is close behind you, much closer than you anticipated, and one hand strays to the hilt of the bare knife at your side before you recognize the voice.
“Has sleep escaped you as well?” Boromir of Gondor asks, stepping alongside you and shielding his eyes as he gazes down the road, though the sun has not yet climbed high enough to peek over the walls of the dale.
“I haven’t tried,” you respond, not offering him more than a glance.
A long, silent, uncomfortable moment passes. You wrap your cloak around yourself a little tighter and lean forward, finally repulsed by the chill of the stone you had set your back to. There is little comfort in the Man’s presence, but he does not speak again, and you are unwilling to disturb the relative stillness of the morning with your voice. Even the sounds of the camp behind you are muted under slowly melting fog.
You wonder why he was excluded from the ride of the Grey Company. It was not by choice, that much was made clear by the stony look on his face after Aragorn finished speaking to him during a lull in your swift ride here. You do not press. This is only your fifth, or perhaps sixth conversation with the Man, if conversation it can be called, and though your previous interactions have been amicable, you do not consider him a friend.
And yet he is here, a bleak darkness draped across every line of his body like a mantle; something weighs heavily upon him as it does upon you, and he must see it as clearly as you do. And you are here, watching an evil road like one of the statues on the path climbing the valley behind, emptiness behind lifeless eyes.
You do not press.
For yourself, you believed you would have followed Aragorn and the Dúnedain to any end, as you have so many times already, but a sliver of doubt curls in your chest, that perhaps you would not have. Perhaps, at the end of that dark road before you, lies something that you would have fled, by any means necessary. You had fled, during the battle at Helm’s Deep, staggered away from the body of Lheu Brenin, lying facedown in a pool of water in the caves beneath the keep, one of your knives still buried in his back. He may lie there still if no one has bothered to move him. Your running feet had taken you only to more battle, inescapable battle, to a tall lord of the Rohirrim who had taken command at once, who had made snap decisions and executed them with easy confidence, calling someone to inspect Gimli’s injury, directing you and Golodir and a small posse of men first to plug up the caves that had let the Dunlendings into the refuge and then to the entrance of the cave, where your bow sang as you picked off every orc and Dunlending who dared come within your range.
The evil presence from the road is dimly familiar. A cavern in the Enedwaith had borne the same stink of undeath, albeit quieter. You have struggled not to think too hard of that dark street, or what happened on it, or what almost happened on it, but the memory comes uninvited in the shadow of its older sibling, and once you open your mind to it, the horror of watching a ghostly blade slice across Candaith’s back as he turned to face you, and the petrifying chill in the space between the moments for those few minutes when you truly believed he was dead, you can’t seem to retreat out of it into the cool dawn air of Rohan.
You had dragged Candaith’s bleeding body from the cave, you do not quite remember how, and you cannot recall why at all, for you had been entirely certain he was gone until Elrohir had caught the near indistinguishable rise and fall of his chest, a great distance outside the cavern where you had finally collapsed under the weight of your grief, and of Candaith’s body.
That same Candaith who now follows his chieftain down that road unafraid, knowing full well the fate he risks in such an evil place. Your shoulders tremble at the thought of the road ahead, cold and evil; and of the camp behind, slowly waking to further war; and the king that rides toward it, who does not even remember banishing you from the lands you were born in; of the fields of Rohan, wide, and open, and empty; and of the long road back to the North.
Aragorn had bid you remain in Dunharrow with gentle words, but firm, brooking no argument. “There is nothing for you on that road, Léonys of Rohan,” he had said, “and much that lies behind.”
Hathellang, when he saw Aragorn urge his steed forward and you direct Wídethym to the side, slowing her to a walk, had also left the group to ride alongside you, but before he could speak you had reached out and grabbed his hand. “Watch their backs,” you had whispered. “They’re -- they’re not very good at watching their own backs, you know.”
He had paused for a long moment, and part of you had wished he would say no, insist upon staying with you, that someone at least would stay with you, but Hathellang has not made a particular habit of saying no to you for many years, and when the moment passed he had leaned in, kissed you gently on the cheek, and then turned his horse and followed after the company without a word. You are glad, for if he had spoken you would surely have begged him to stay.
Boromir shifts, stirring as if pulling himself free from some invisible bonds. “I have consulted with the Lady Éowyn,” he says abruptly. “Théoden King will come to Dunharrow tomorrow, if all goes well. The armies of Rohan will ride on the following morning. I shall ride among the King’s men, and so shall you.”
You look up then, and look at him though he is not looking at you. “Am I wanted there?” you ask, trying to hold back the bitterness out of habit alone.
He looks at you for just a moment. “We will have need of every sword and bow that can be trusted,” he says, and then he nods and turns away, turning his back on the dark road ahead, facing his own path.
After Hathellang left you, Golodir had passed close by, and he had not spoken, but as he urged his horse past yours, his hand had caught yours and you had felt something pressed into your palm. He had met your eyes, and there was soft understanding there, and pity, and then he was gone, fading into the mist with the rest of the Grey Company. You had watched them go until the sounds of their passing faded into the shadows that lay across the field, and then you had looked down and discovered that in your hand lay the knife you had left buried in Lheu Brenin’s back, catching what light was to be found and reflecting it back, bright, and clean, and deadly.
You stand, and sheathe your knife, and turn to follow Boromir.
Part 1 | Part 5
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Rohan Kishibe x JosukeSister!Reader
Trigger Warning: inappropriate stand use, mild suggestive themes
Rohan thought this to be the perfect opportunity to get back at that imbecile with the hair of a 60’s delinquent, but instead found something more fulfilling than revenge.
It was your first time meeting the famous mangaka, but Koichi insisted that you introduce yourself to the newly found stand user as a formality.
“It’s better to make friends than enemies, y/n! So please do this for me.” He begged, clasping his hands tightly together as he bowed.
“Koichi-chan, he ripped out pages from your face and tried to do the same to Okuyasu and Josuke. I don’t know if I trust this guy.” You sighed, nervous and even a little scared.
“It’ll be fine, when you tell him you’re related to Josuke, he won’t even think about trying anything!” Koichi’s eyes glistened, still silently begging you to go.
“Fine, but if I don’t show up back home in an hour, call Josuke please.” Koichi nodded enthusiastically, shouting thank yous while he ran off to find your brother.
Thanks to the written address Koichi had given you, it was easy to find the large Victorian mansion that belonged to the isolated artist.
“Come on, y/n. You can do this. Just a quick hello and you’re done.” You tried to psych yourself up, taking one last deep breath before approaching the walkway that led up to the door.
You waited, your heart rate a bit too quick for your liking.
You could hear the steps on the other side slowly approaching and suddenly stopping, only to find the door creak by.
“Now who would be disrupting the Great Rohan Kishibe?” The man spoke in a sinister tone, swinging the door open.
Rohan Kishibe looked nothing like how you expected him to. He was built slim but still toned, his green hair neatly styled and face slim and sharp with a cute dolphin bandage placed on the bridge of his nose. His green eyes stared at you intently, as if he was trying to analyze your face as well.
“I-I’m really sorry I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble. My friend Koichi wanted me to introduce myself. I’m Y/N Higashikata. I’m a stand user and I go to school with the rest of the boys.” You stammer out, guilt hitting you for interrupting the presumably busy manga artist.
The man eyed you with a devilish smirk, clapping his hands together like he had discovered something amusing.
“You’re Josuke’s little sister! Oh how fun! You know, you’re too cute to be related to that boy. Now please come in, I’ll make you some tea and we can talk.”
“I’m actually the same age as him, and I’d love to join you but I got... study plans with K-Koichi!” You tried to avoid his stare but as he made eye contact, you knew you had lost.
“Nonsense! I’ll give him a call and let him know you’ll be studying with me, now please come in already.” His smile grew while he pulled you into his abode by your wrists.
The house was lightly decorated with manga related memorabilia on the wood carved shelves and many original panels from famous mangas hung framed on the soft toned walls, but the home still held a grand Victorian feeling to it.
Your original unease disappeared as you took in the grandeur of the mansion and the interesting items that adorned it so carefully. Rohan smirked at the curiosity in your eyes and the quick movements they made while you focused on specific areas of his home.
“Would you like a personal tour of the property before we study? I will warn you though, not all the rooms have been styled by yours truly yet. It’s a work in progress at the moment.” The smile he bared had you suspicious again, but you didn’t want to be rude to the owner of such a magnificent estate.
“As much as I would love to, your home is absolutely stunning, I sadly only have an hour to study. My mom would kill me if I got home late again.” A hefty sigh escaped your lips and you gave him your best upset expression you could muster.
You hoped he wouldn’t key in on your lying, remembering the warning Koichi had given you about his ability to discern genuine emotions from fake ones.
The mangaka squinted his eyes for a moment, causing your heartbeat to speed up substantially, but his face returned to its usual smile that you swore held a bit of deviousness underneath.
“Oh! it’s alright, dear. I understand. I’ll save it for your next visit. Let’s get to your work now, follow me to the kitchen. I’ll prepare us something and you can take a seat by the window.” He gently took your hand, guiding you to the kitchen and carefully pulling out a seat for you at his dining room table.
A beautiful bouquet set in a hand sculpted vase caught your interest on the table as Rohan busied himself with brewing a fresh pot of tea. The flowers were bright in color compared to the muted ones of the vase, but the contrast made both appear unique and appealing to the eye.
“I see you even appreciate the smaller details of a home. Though I am a mangaka, I do dabble in other forms of artistic expression. Take pottery for example, I glazed this vase in a muted color pallet so it could stand out on its own when beautifully bright flowers were placed in it. The two compliment each other nicely, don’t they?” He set down two tea cups and began to pour.
“Yes! And I especially love the bright purples in the lillies you picked here.” You gently touched a petal, Rohan now lightly tapping his cheek, pulling out a chair for himself to sit right beside you.
His closeness and unwavering gaze brought a heaviness to your chest, making you stumble over your words.
“Um-m thank you for treating me so well and letting me study in your home, Rohan-sensei.” You began to unpack your notes and textbook, Rohan scooting closer to analyze what you had written.
“No need to thank me, my dear. Now let’s get to your studies. What is it you need to work on today?” The smile he shares with you is comforting, but you can’t help but feel like he was plotting something.
You set your pencil bag down and prepare your notebook, trying to make yourself busy by setting up.
“Biology. I’ve only just recently started going to school in person, but I tested well enough to be placed in the highest class. Today we’re supposed to label all the organs in this frog drawing.” Your tone comes off as annoyed and Rohan picks up on it, tilting his head to the side while he reads your frog diagram.
“You aren’t a fan of biology? I’ve got a few anatomy sketches of animals you could use instead of this photocopied worksheet. Maybe that will help peak your interest?” He stands and saunters out to find his sketches, leaving you alone in the kitchen.
When Rohan returns, the two of you work on your Biology homework for about an hour, finishing the entire pot of tea in the process. You found out that Rohan was quite skilled at anatomy, having an entire sketchbook dedicated to the anatomy of many living things, including the likes of frogs and flowers. He was extremely helpful and fun to talk with.
As you packed up your bag, Rohan remained seated in his chair, playing with one of the lilies from the bouquet. You weren’t sure if you should head towards the door and leave Rohan or wait for him to stand and lead you out. You were about to speak when the mangaka interrupted with a swish of his pen in your direction.
You felt a sharp shove of air to your midsection, sending you onto the floor. Every movement you attempted was futile as the grinning artist looked down at you. A deep chuckle haunted you while he leaned in closer to your face. His hands gently caressed your cheek, opening it up like a book.
“I’m sorry, y/n. You’re interesting and I’d love to learn more about you, but I’m impatient. It’ll be far easier for me to just read you. Don’t fret, my dear. I’ll make sure you don’t remember this.” He flipped through your pages, ignoring the tears that ran down onto the very paper he was trying to read.
“Now let’s just read the juicy bits today. You were hospitalized along with your brother when you were only four, a strange parasite made up of Dio’s cells attacked your immune system at age twelve and had you bedridden until fairly recently.” The curiosity he held for your story excited him, the pen he held in one hand quickly wrote onto the notepad he placed on the floor beside your head.
You felt like sinking into yourself, ignoring his quips and teases as the embarrassment of the mangaka reading your thoughts and feelings enveloped you. It wasn’t fair. Why did he have to be this way? He was so kind before and just like a flick of a switch, he changed.
“Oh, now how did you escape that? Here we are, thanks to Mr.Joestar’s Hamon lessons, you not only came back from your illness, but gained a proper stand and the ability to wield Hamon just like your father and great grandfather! Wait, what’s this new paragraph about?” He squinted closely, reading your page out loud again.
“I have to visit Rohan Kishibe today because Koichi told me to. He practically begged. Even though I’m scared, Koichi gave me his word that nothing bad would happen. Rohan Kishibe looks very different from what I imagined a mangaka to look. Well, what did you expect me to look like?” His smirk grows as he continues on.
“Ah, another new bit is here! Rohan Kishibe is very good at anatomy, he’s been kind and helpful, I’d like to get to know him better. I think Josuke was just overreacting when he called Rohan Kishibe pure evil. I could see us being friends.”
His smile disappears skimming the next sentence, his usual tone of voice changed as he starts to read. He sounded upset, hurt even.
You were the one being wronged here! Why would he get upset? He doesn’t have the right.
“Josuke was right. Rohan Kishibe is not nice, he is terribly mean. He’s using me for his entertainment. He doesn’t care. Rohan Kishibe is not kind, he is not helpful, he is cruel, I don’t want to get to know him. I want to forget him.”
“I hate Rohan Kishibe. I hope to never see him again.”
Rohan paused, looking away from your pages, trying to focus on anything else for the moment.
“W-well, I’ll just fix this last paragraph and erase it from your mind. You’re being dramatic, I’m not as terrible as you describe me.” Chuckling to himself, he tries to laugh off his obvious pain and attempts to regain his composure.
“No! I won’t let you erase my emotions!” You shouted, a wave of Hamon spreading through his arm as his pen touched your page, his attempt to rewrite your memory foiled.
The mangaka was sent flying back, his right arm dropping the pen and your face finally shutting closed, returning your ability to move. Although you were upset at the betrayal of trust you gave the man, you felt a twinge of guilt in your heart when you spotted his still form draped across the wood floor, cradling the arm you had burned with your Hamon.
Running to his side, all thoughts of malice left your body while you attempted to get a better look at his injury. His arm was still intact thankfully, but it was badly burned and needed to be set correctly and quickly if he ever wanted it to heal properly. You took a deep breath and turned Rohan over to see if he was still conscious.
“Oh god, Rohan I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened.” Your eyes fill with tears again as you see the artist weakly rest himself against the wall, still holding his arm close to his chest.
“No, no it’s alright. I brought this on myself. I accept that.” He grimaced, trying to take a peek at his injuries but too frightened to actually check.
“You read my thoughts and history, it wasn’t right but you didn’t physically hurt me. I don’t know how that happened, but I promise you I’ll fix it.” You swore to the manga writer, now searching through your backpack.
When you found your pair of scissors, you went into full first aid mode, removing the sleeve from his right arm by carefully cutting the loose cloth off. After tossing the short sleeve to the side, you cut the bottom of the skirt you were wearing off into a long bandage-like shape of clothing and ran it under the cold tap water from the kitchen sink, returning to the injured Rohan.
“I’m going to wrap your arm with this, it won’t be painful if you let me use my stand, but I’m going to ask you first before I use her on you.” The man nodded, accepting your offer to erase the pain.
“Under Pressure. She’s a stand that has the ability to manipulate emotions. She can change them within a radius or focus on only one individual. When she focuses on a single person, she is only able to change their emotion to the opposite of what is being felt.” You began to wrap his arm, nervous about what he might feel when you placed the wet fabric loosely around it.
All Rohan could do was bite back his lip to avoid making any embarrassing sounds. Instead of the immeasurable pain he imagined to come with dressing a freshly burned wound, he felt a wave of euphoria. He now understood what you meant by the “opposite” emotion would be felt.
The artist never knew wrapping his burned arm would feel so good, every touch caused his breath to hitch in his throat and his eyes to water. It confused him, even though he understood that the opposite of pain was pleasure, it still startled him every time you did one more pass of the homemade bandage.
He tried his hardest not to be flustered, but when you finished off his arm by tieing the last bit with a knot, he let a small whimper escape his lips. His hand shot up to cover his face, it’s hue now a bright crimson.
Your cheeks turned bright pink as well. You turned away swiftly, to avoid eye contact.
“U-Um just stay put. I’m gonna borrow your phone for a second and let you catch your breath.” Scratching the side of your cheek, you stand up and make a b-line for the phone, dialing your home and hoping that Josuke would pick up. You glanced at the clock set on the wall, it read 8:15.
As soon as the phone line rang once, you spotted the front door to Rohan’s manor fly across the main hall. Peeking your head out from the kitchen, you see a furious Josuke with Koichi in pursuit.
“ROHAN-SENSEI! WHERE IS MY SISTER YOU CREEP?! SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE HOME 15 MINUTES AGO!” He yells out, his voice echoing throughout the home.
“Josuke! I’m here! I was just about to call you. Listen, I messed up bad and hurt Rohan. He’s in the kitchen bandaged up but I need you to heal him all the way.” You run to Josuke, giving him a tight hug while trying not to cry from the stress of the situation.
Josuke squeezes you once and let’s you go, looking you over from head to toe so he could make sure you weren’t injured as well. When he spots your torn skirt, his aura radiates a dark malice you’d never seen him show before.
“Wait Josuke! I did this to myself, we didn’t have bandages so I cut some cloth.”
He looks you over again and sighs heavily, the purple hue that was full of rage, leaving him.
“Ok, fine. Where’s that jerk? I’ll fix him up real quick so we can go home.” He grumbled, following you into the kitchen.
Even though Rohan wanted to refuse any treatment from Josuke, he finally accepted the help when you threatened to cry on the spot. His arm had returned to its previous state, unburned and fully functional, thanks to Josuke and Shining Diamond.
Josuke picked up your backpack and held the now fixed front door open for you, while Rohan stood and waved goodbye. You awkwardly returned the wave and made your way back home, your thoughts chaotic and confused.
On the one hand you felt guilty for putting Rohan through such an immense amount of pain, but you were also upset at the humiliation he put you through by reading your life with Heaven’s Door. These thoughts plagued your mind as you laid your head to rest for the night.
It was roughly two in the afternoon when Rohan Kishibe knocked on your front door. A short but older woman answered, complaining about the loudness of the knocks when she looked over the artist.
“Oh, my apologies. You’re that Rohan Kishibe my kids talk about. How may I help you, Mr. Kishibe?” She asked with a warm tone to her voice, leaning against her door frame and smiling up at him.
“Is y/n in? I’d like to deliver this to her personally.” He spoke softly, shaking the box he held in his hands.
Your mother couldn’t help but chuckle to herself. He appeared to be anxious and uncomfortable, most likely it was his first time gifting something like this.
“She’s not home yet, but give her five minutes. Why don’t you come in? You can wait for her up in her room, just don’t go raiding her drawers or anything.” She joked, Rohan’s cheeks turning vivid scarlet.
“I’m only pulling your leg, sweety. I know you’re better than that. Now come on! Have a seat at her desk and I’ll bring you up some lemonade.” Rohan followed her inside.
When they reached your room, Mrs.Higashikata opened the door and waved her hand to your desk seat.
“Pull up that chair there and I’ll be back with some refreshments.” Her smile gleamed at him. She walked off to the kitchen, leaving the artist alone in your room.
Rohan browsed around your room, taking in the personality that was apparent by the many bits of decor that gave your little private space a peculiar style. Your walls held photos printed on Polaroid film, sketches presumably drawn by you, and posters of your favorite video games and shows.
When he glanced around your room, he was immediately caught off guard when he spotted two volumes of his very own manga, propped up and on display in your bookcase. To say he was flattered was an understatement, he was completely floored. You were a fan of his?
His heart was heavy all of a sudden, he felt a dreadful pain in his chest while he held the book in his hands. He turned his head toward the doorway when he heard your voice greet your mother. To regain himself, he quickly skimmed through the pages of the manga he was holding, hearing your distant conversation come to an end.
You entered the room. Dropping your bag at the corner of the closet, your eyes never leaving Rohan while you take a seat on your bed. The mangaka gently placed your copy of Pink Dark Boy back in its original position, turning around now to face you.
“I’d like to humbly apologize for my abhorrent behavior and actions yesterday. I was terrible. I know it might be asking too much of you, but I brought you a gift as a way of asking if we could start over. I’d like to get to know you the right way.” He passes you the box he was carrying with him, nudging you to open it.
Casually unknotting the bow and removing the lid from the bottom, you slowly lift what appears to be a white sundress out of the box. It was beautifully made and looked to be just your size.
“I know it’s not the skirt you tore, but I felt like you deserved something a little more unique.” He averts your gaze quickly when you attempt to gauge his reaction.
The mangaka appears to be flustered, apparently not very used to apologizing. His eyes held a fear of rejection but also a glimmer of hope. A breath you never knew you were holding was released with a quiet hum.
“It’s beautiful, thank you, but do know that buying me things isn’t going to repair my trust in you. We can at the very least start over though.”
Rohan smiled to himself, thankful for your empathetic nature, and nodded a quick yes.
“Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, how about we take that dress and enjoy some tea at the cafe? My treat.”
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