A Strategist's Flight Part I

[madimpossibledreamer]

Okay, this is what I was working on.  Until late, unfortunately, but it got done, and I'm really proud of it.  (I'll notice all the typos later, I'm sure.)  This idea has been rattling around my brain for a while, but it was only yesterday that I ended up writing it.  For whatever reason, this was brought on by reading Ukitake fanfic, including the lovely Meifu's Gate.  Really, I don't understand how my brain works.
This, like the earlier Patience, draws off of many sources, but I guess maybe first and foremost Red Cliff, since that's the only one where he's been depicted with a hawk's wing fan.  (Crane's wing is the usual.  I can't tell what the weapon is in Dynasty Warriors, and it's been a few days since I've played that, so I don't remember the name of his weapon.  Bad.  Okay, I'm gonna look this up.  Okay, it says swallow wing and raven wing, so the point still stands.)  It probably also draws a little off the Japanese Romance of the Three Kingdoms animated series, since I recently rediscovered that.  /grins
I actually had to do a little more research.  I usually go crazy with research whenever I find something new I like, but it's been a little while, and in any case I didn't know much about his family.  Or friends/schoolmates.
Poor Xu Shu.
If style names confuse you, look them up or take a peek at Patience, my Xiahou Dun character study.  This is kind of a character study, too, but it definitely has more action than Dun's.  Funny, huh?  The titles hint at that though.
Kongming = Sleeping Dragon = Zhuge Liang
Guangyuan = Shi Tao

Intrigued by this dialogue from Red Cliff:
"Why carry a fan on a cold day like this?" -Zhou Yu
"It helps me remain calm.  It's the one old habit I cannot give up." -Zhuge Liang
"You do not look like an anxious person." -Zhou Yu

Main Points:
Zhuge Liang fanfic, probably Red Cliff/Chibi movie based.
Summary: Zhuge Liang goes to 'school', but when he returns all is not well.
Word Count: 1870
Rating: T

Perhaps it was folly, to think that anyone could remain neutral in war.  That was one of the first lessons Zhuge Liang learned, returning from school.

In time, the Sleeping Dragon had come to have a reputation.  The Master’s praise and regard did nothing to help his place with his fellows.  Remarks were said in private, that he was indeed some type of bird rather than a man, far above and looking down on the other students.  After all, why else would anyone feel such kinship with a hawk and not his own kind?  Not all agreed with this perception.  Certainly Xu Shu and Meng Jian told off the rumormongers when they heard such tales.

They didn’t notice Zhuge Liang watching from behind a mostly-closed door.  It never hurt, after all, to know one’s enemies from one’s friends, and his footsteps could be silent when necessary.  He’d hide a slight smile at the back-and-forth nature of the words exchanged, pleased that not all were as close-minded as to find one considered more capable to be a threat.  It only made sense, after all, for academics to ally with each other.  How else but by exercising one’s intelligence could one hope to hone one’s abilities?  And how better than to do so with other intellectuals, particularly those considered greater than oneself?  Was that not, after all, why teachers were sought out and highly regarded, because they had a greater store of knowledge and wisdom gained from experience?

He would shake his head at those too full of folly to understand their own limitations and, with airy steps, cross the room to begin a private tea ceremony.  Sometimes he would be joined by those students who had defended him mere moments before; more often he would be left on his own (which hardly concerned him) to pour over ancient texts and make notes on various aspects of the works.  Most were either to ask the Master about later or were purely for his own sake.

Few would consider the young man sentimental, either now or later in his life, but later he would look back on these days, not with regret, but an amused sort of nostalgia.  Zhuge Liang is nothing if not practical, so longing for days past is alien to his nature.  Wishing that such days might come again, if not for himself then for others, is not so alien.  Not when he waits for his opening, certain that it will come, and is eventually granted one, as he gives his allegiance to one of the three warlords vying for a kingdom, giving his all to bring peace to the land, perhaps even brighter than the false calm in the dying days of the Han.  But that comes after this tale.

These days, alone or with what one who holds all at some distance could call friends, were utterly peaceful.  Many of those who would style themselves his enemies wished (and in the future continue to wish) to break his famous calm, with little success.  To the Sleeping Dragon, so practiced at seeing the big picture, it is the watching of pebbles thrown into a pond.  The ripples do disturb the surface for a time, but with the passage of time it is the pebbles which are insignificant, swallowed by the pond with no sign of their presence.  The ripples disappear, with no mark left to show that they had ever existed.  He cares nothing for their hatred.  Unless they can somehow make their mark on history, they are nothing more than pebbles.

His friends do a little better at breaking the calm.  They manage to earn a smile or, rarely, a laugh from him, and he does enjoy their conversations.  He shares some of his thoughts and feelings, but those closest to his heart remain there.  Few notice this, this early application of strategy, any more than they notice him listening in on every single complaint made against him.  Zhuge Liang is a hard man to read.

Many go and pledge themselves to one lord or another once they believe they have reached the height of their abilities.  Several, including Xu Shu, do not bother, and together, he and a small, slowly lessening group, remain unattached, hawks with no care searching for the next scrap of intelligence and improving their hunting skills and far-seeing thought.

Eventually, his Master regretfully informs him that he has learned all his Master has to teach, and he thanks the man with the respect he deserves.  It is the last time that he truly bows with any sense of subservience in his heart.  He will serve, but he has reached the point where he is the equal of most and does not hesitate to show it.

He travels home with the few who have also spent their years studying.  Slowly one or another takes their leave, thanking their fellow students.  Some were hostile with sharp tongue and bloodied words when he was not listening, but none, he notes, say such things to his face.  Some were true companions he will miss, but in the end, the description of aloof may, after all, be the best one.  Zhuge Liang is equally at home in a crowd and by himself.  He needs no one, is completely self-reliant, serene with his own thoughts and with conversation, and perhaps that is what they both hate and envy.

Eventually, he and Shi Tao are the only ones left, since their family’s fields are close together.  It’s still some distance to go, but suddenly, in a fit of rare youthful joy, he allows his hawk to fly.  It’s not the first time he’s done so, though it will be the last.  His hawk will seek out his brothers and sisters, cry aloud as an announcement of his coming.  Perhaps this is what those detractors miss.  Zhuge Liang is, after all, an unusual man, but he is still a man, not some kami made of smoke and starlight.  He has a brilliant mind, but it is human, not that of a magician.  He needs no one else in his life, but that does not mean that the presence of others does not make his life a better one, just as knowledge of so many different subjects, both practical and theoretical, enhances his intellect.  He does not cling to his family, no, not even after the deaths of their parents, but he still enjoys their company. 

They will meet him on the road.  His youngest sister, Chen, will meet him with a hundred questions about his newest schoolwork, despite the fact that it will take him much longer to answer any of her questions to her own understanding, and ask about the latest gifts he brings from the city.  Liqin will not be at the farm, not after her marriage.  Chen will probably be married, but he suspects his uncle waits for her to calm a little before foisting her off on some unsuspecting man.  Still, she is growing up fast.  Uncle Xuan will ask him about the newest farming problems, the ones that had no time to end up in the letters, seeking sage advice.  Jin will share the latest gossip, while Jun will act more befitting an eldest brother, greeting him with a nod and the hint of a smile.  Zhuge Jin would send letters with such news as well, but is still shy about his penmanship.

Rarely do events not play out as imagined.  This is one such occasion, and is the source of a lesson not contained within brush and ink.  It was certainly not his first, as he had to learn practical skills on the farm, even as he dreamed of grand words and thoughts not yet within his grasp.  Nor would it be his last—in a time of war, practical skills are invaluable.  Neither student notices, for a time, that their worlds have changed irrevocably while they speak unawares.

Zhuge Liang prides himself on his skills of observation, and he begins to notice signs that much is amiss.  The first is the smoke on the horizon.  The next is the cart hurtling down the road toward him, and he spots a small, darting shape heading back in the direction of himself and his companion.

He had hoped that they, as mere farmers, could remain neutral, that the Yellow Turbans would focus their anger on the ones provoking said anger.  His studies should have shown him that such hopes were vain.  At this point, their anger was like a cup that, while full, continued to be filled.  The overflowing rage was no longer directed into a single vessel, but instead spread outward to flood other unconnected areas.  Besides, if only practical considerations were taken into account, the rebels needed supplies, and unlike the fancy nobles and armies they did not have the money to pay for such things even if they were so inclined.

He quickly made a decision.  Jin and his uncle, as well as Shi Tao’s father, perhaps, could escape, though their horses were not fast but rather chosen for strength.  The cart was likely for his sister, Shi Tao’s sister, and Jun, and as slow as it was going, the rebels would catch up.  Unless, that was, a distraction could be arranged.

“Make sure our families make it to safety.  Guangyuan, I rely on you.”  Even now, a chill could be felt in the air, a sense of waiting.  If all the pieces would fall into place, then…

Shi Tao reacts with surprise.  So he has not yet noticed.  “What?  Kongming…”

A hand is held up to stop the questions.  “Yellow Turbans,” is his short answer.  This brings a silence impressive in its loquacity.  It’s not long before they meet the refugees, and Zhuge Liang’s heart rises into his throat as he sees his uncle missing and the wounds on stoic Jun’s side.

“Uncle is dead,” Jin states quietly, uncharacteristically somber and terse.

“Do you have his sword?” the Sleeping Dragon asks, holding out a waiting hand.  Now is no time for mourning.

Despite his sister’s wailing.  “Brother, surely you’re not going to challenge them?”

“Enough have died,” Shi Huifang speaks up, her low if gentle voice calming his sister a little.

He spares a smile.  “I am no warrior.  Nor am I one that seeks my own death.  A sword, no matter how old, is, however, an excellent trade for our lives, don’t you think?”

“They’ll just kill you and take it from you,” Jun shares his analysis bluntly.  Not that Kongming expected anything else.

Only Shi Tao sees in his eyes the sparking intelligence and gathers that he has a plan in place.  “Without a distraction, we cannot escape, and your brother is quite the genius.  Let him have his sword.”

Jin hands over the sword.  It’d almost be a vote of confidence if not for the look in the gentle eyes, as if his brother is attempting to memorize his face and store this sacrifice in his memory.

As Liang watches their families escape, he hopes that his own analysis is correct, that a sharply honed intellect is more than a match for any sword, no matter the lineage.