faderift | ( OPEN ) it's empty in the valley of your heart

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( OPEN ) it's empty in the valley of your heart

WHO: Hanzo Shimada & open
WHAT: Catch-all for Hanzo related things
WHEN: Throughout the month
WHERE: Kirkwall, various places listed inside
NOTES: N/A other than shirtless Tevene

I. GALLOWS TRAINING

After a disappointing result in the Tourney, Hanzo has decided to dedicate himself to his training in a way he has neglected since he had left Tevinter. It might not be magically focussed anymore - those days are long behind him, even if he can still feel the burn of his power under his skin - but his dedication is much the same, to the point of it being almost ridiculous. He wakes up, he meditates, calms himself, strides out of the Gallows and makes his way to the archery targets, where he spends hours doing what he can to perfect his aim.

Day in, day out, Hanzo spends between three to five hours working on his archery. Most of the time he hits his targets on the mark, the arrow hitting the bullseye and sinking through into arrows that had been there previously, cutting through it.

When the days get warmer, Hanzo shrugs off what remains of his shirt, everything that isn't the left hand side of his body, and lets it hang around his hips. Shirtless, he continues to practice, drawing his arm back and shooting the targets, time and time and time again, before he goes and collects his arrows and repeats the process. It's almost disturbingly mechanical, practiced movements that are akin to routine more than anything else. The few arrows that Hanzo misses - because he hears something, because he's distracted, because something draws his attention - makes him curse quietly in Tevine, his teeth gritting tight.

II. GARDENS

When he's not training, Hanzo spends a great deal of his time sitting in the gardens in the Gallows, legs tucked under him in something that seems like it must be uncomfortable for extended periods of times. He doesn't look particularly put out by it, however, more comfortable like this - with something familiar, something almost like 'home' - than he is in any other way. He sits that way for long hours of the day, basking in the warmth of the sunlight, letting himself enjoy the peace and quiet and the solitude more than anything else, his head tilting this way and that to enjoy the sun.

It is rare that Hanzo Shimada allows himself this kind of peace or comfort, not with the things that he must atone for.

Other hours of the day are spent with him sitting with bits of paper and ink at his side, writing letters that will never be sent. They are all titled with a name, the curl of his lettering formal and practiced, clearly well taught and well educated. He writes and he writes, almost as if he is dictating his life in a diary entry, pieces of parchment building a pile at his side. When he's done, or it seems as though he's done, he puts the paper to one side and bows his head, overcome by something, his hands shaking a little before he begins to fold them all, meticulous and careful. When he is done folding them he turns, creating a small circle of rocks before he starts a small fire.

Then, one by one, he burns all the parchments until nothing remains.

The fire burns out as Hanzo sits, watching it.

III. GALLOWS ROOM

When he's not out training or in the gardens, Hanzo spends a great deal of time in his room reading any scouting reports he can get his hands on and doing his own studies and investigations. He's still investigating his own things, thanks to the confusing mess that Benedict had him dragged into, but he does what he can to keep himself quietly involved in whatever he can stick his nose in. It means that he's often surrounded by papers, making notes and adding to his own maps of Kirkwall and the areas beyond the city, as much as he can.

His door is open, if only because it's so warm, and when he settles in his chair there is a bottle of something that smells very, very alcoholic set at his desk as he works.

It takes him a little while to lift his head and respond to anyone calling for him, but he always does, in the end.

IV. OPEN / WILDCARD

( Feel free to wildcard your own prompt or message me at aziraphale for a prompt of your own! )

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Her grin is somewhere between bright and wicked. "Yes. Much vitality."

The way she moves is odd, a slight sway to her movements, a misleading sort of laxness to it that makes her seem softer and weaker than she is, and certainly less alert. Tossing the plastic wrapper of her rift-gifted peanut butter candy aside, Helena rolls her shoulders.

"We should fight. Training to be better against teammate will be... interesting."

He's not foolish enough to mistake her laxness for laziness or softness, at least, not when he has seen her perform already, has heard about her from her sister. Hanzo knows that their conversations have been short so far, but he finds himself more inclined to like this woman than he is to dislike her.

... He stares at the wrapper. What is that? It's nothing he's seen before, and for a moment it's the only thing that has his attention before he turns back to her, lips twitching just a little.

"Hand to hand?"

"Hand to hand," she agrees with a nod, drawing a dagger from where it was hidden away in the back of her trousers, and tosses it aside into the dirt, sliding, and the dust rising in a little cloud.

Helena settles, sinking lower, knees and elbows at angles, a sort of... spidery boxer, ready to strike.

"When I beat you I will make it up with candies. You can even get head start."

Hanzo watches her for a moment as she removes all her weapons and it takes him a second before he does the same. He puts Storm Bow to one side gently - almost reverent in the way he handles it - before he takes two daggers from his boots and places them down. A third from his belt is added to the pile before he turns back to look at her, almost amused.

"Hand to hand it is." He flexes his arms, cracks his knuckles, and looks at her with a grin. "What should I give you if I win, then?"

He adjusts his stance, watching her, eyes flicking over the shape of her stance, her movements, her body. He's ready for her strike, focussing on her face for now.

"We don't need to consider possibility."

Even, perhaps alarming so, before a smile hooks the corner of her mouth, something feral. He is not massively taller than her, only a few inches, but he has much muscle. Being smaller though, this has advantages.

She lunges, and rather than going for his core, she snatches for his right hand, seeking to twist his hand back and pull his wrist down and forward to the floor. If she is able to get a grip, of course.

That makes Hanzo laugh. It's been a long time since he faced anyone that was even remotely a challenge.

While he's not a tall man he knows he has muscle and is fast enough on his feet to make use of them too; he's used to scoping out areas and climbing around the side of buildings. He's build for speed and endurance rather than sheer brute force and that's what he holds onto here, watching Helena for a moment, judging to see if he can predict her first move. It's not always that simple, but he is going to do what he can.

She darts to the side and Hanzo shifts, pushing back on his feet and adjusting his stance. He expects her to go for his neck or his stomach but she goes for his arm instead so he pushes forward, twisting his left arm to try and wrap around her body, to pull and slam her down into the ground.

Not so big as to be slow. Good, better challenge.

As he lunges forward, Helena lifts her arms to keep them from bring pinned to her as her back hits the dirt of the training area. Not everyone she fights is trained; she has had many targets who were her size, age, identical to her in genetic sequence though their lives were vastly different. That was not fights so much as slaughter, a role she had believed was a calling from God. Fighting someone challenging is exhilarating, though fighting as training is certainly—

different. Violence has been punishment, has been the road to bringing others to their end. It is terrible and thrilling. She has no intention of killing Hanzo, nothing like, but she does love fighting. This is what she is.

With her arms up, down in the dirt, Helena swings both of her fists down to slam down into either side of Hanzo's head to punch both his ears with the sides of her fists, and then grasping his hair in her right hand to try and pull back his hair, so her right knuckles can thrust into his throat.

Friendly... fighting...

It's interesting to fight someone he has never encountered before.

Much of Hanzo's hand to hand training, when he had been younger, had been geared around last minute defence. When he had abandoned Tevinter and slipped into a world where magic hadn't been the forefront of his defence he'd been forced to learn something a little more physical. Archery was still his preferred method, if only because it was comfortable to be at a range, comfortable with Storm Bow and his spirits in hand, but he's more than capable of putting himself into the midst of it all when necessary.

This isn't life or death, however. This isn't a means of teaching him a lesson or saving himself from a dangerous situation. This is for pleasure, almost, to feel the strain on his muscles, to feel the edge of it. It's exciting, to feel as though he's facing that someone's a challenge, someone who can be equal. They're different in their weights, their balances, their skills, but Hanzo loves the thrill of it already, body and mind alert.

He manages to reach up and grab one of her fists, hovering over her with an awkwardness that betrays that she caught him off guard. He lets her take his hair - it wouldn't be the first time - so that he can shift and move his legs, adjusting his weight, attempting to move her with a grip on her hips with his knees. Then he can - if it works - throw her to one side and get himself back up to his feet.

She is thrown by the momentum, and goes with it to take the opportunity for distance. Sliding a short way across the dirt, Helena twists, crouching on the balls of her feet with her knees bent, fingers splayed as her hands hold her up. The sun in her pale hair might make her seem like something ethereal, even as her posture is feral.

This is what she was raised to be, the avenging angel, with scars cresting over the curve of her shoulders.

"You go very quick to retreat," she says, as her voice rasps over the words.

There are many ways for fight to go, for brutality and fighting dirty, but she thinks Sarah and Cosima will not approve if she destroys his kneecap with a driving kick. Categorising what they will or won't approve of does slow her down, drain away the instinctual side that she thrives on. With someone bigger, the answer is to finish them quickly, and that's why she goes from her crouch to leaping at him, one leg hooking around his waist and the other hooking into the back of his knee to force it to bend, and clenches her jaw before driving her forehead to try and headbutt him.

This, she reasons, Cosima and Sarah must approve of; noses are easier to fix than eyes.

Hanzo knows better than to get himself into a position where he's going to be in danger of being beaten down. He's strong enough to wrestle her down, he thinks, but not long term; she's smaller and could last out in a battle of will and endurance. When it comes to this fight Hanzo knows he's going to have to keep her at bay as best as he can until he can slide in and knock her out - or, at least, knock her into a daze enough for her to call mercy.

He does not think it will be easy to make her call mercy.

"I am careful." His lips twist into a smirk for a moment before he shifts and pushes himself up, equally ready.

It's easy to let her rush forward and take control, to let her lead the fight, if only because it makes him reactionary. He has to learn about her before he can charge forward himself - scope your enemy, learn their tricks, their tactics, then you can outdo them. You can best them when you know them. That's how Hanzo was taught, how he learned, and he adjusts his stance as he makes himself comfortable, eyes tight and intent.

Her leap shocks him and he's taken down, but as he stumbles a little he reaches for her. As he drops down he reaches to grab at her hair to pull her away from the headbutt, or at least push it off target, and he scoffs a noise before he twists his legs again to force her to the side. He goes to pull on her hair again and elbow her stomach as swiftly as he can.

She takes the hairpull, the strike to her stomach, and—

it's not that she doesn't react. She feels it, but Helena is trained to know hurts, absorb them. Pain is penance, knives over the skin bring her closer to God, a cutting away of sin. Pain is relief and absolution.

As his elbow strikes her abdomen, she slams her hand down on Hanzo's, grasping his thumb and twisting it outwards with a sharp wrench, and contorts herself so that instead of fighting in the hand in her hair, the way she's being diverted to the side, she can slam her foot down on the wrist of the hand that she's twisted outward.

It's an attempt to pin his arm down, while on the opposite side, the direction that her hair is being pulled in, she hooks her hand under his chin to force his head and neck upwards and away, using her whole strength to wrench and stretch Hanzo out.

"Careful cannot always save."

They tear into each other without hesitation and Hanzo breathes through it.

When you're taught from a young age that nothing is above you, that you are the best, that you are everything... Hanzo cannot give in nor can he pause. There is nothing he can do other than tough this out and fight back because he must prove himself - not necessarily to her, not to anyone watching, but to himself. He has to push through the pain (pain he deserves) to survive. To get stronger. To earn his redemption. To earn something.

With every death comes honour. With honour, redemption.

He doesn't flinch as she presses down on his wrist, coming close to snapping the bone. Even if it isn't broken it'll bruise and he can hear the dragons screaming in his ears, the spirits that yearn to reach out, to help him, tethered to a bow so far out of reach. He ignores it because this is a fight he must do alone even as a hand slips under his neck, pushing and pushing. He doesn't react more than to grin at her, eyes flicking over her features, her face.

"Not always. Sometimes."

He lets his head be stretched, lets her break his wrist, lets her do it before he shifts. He has enough upper body strength that he can push himself forward, practically throwing himself - in his entirety - to use the weight of his torso and legs to shock her into falling back, to push her away so that he can try and grab an arm with his good hand and pin her.

She does not break it, not quite. It was the first impulse, but for all that Helena seems entirely uncontrolled and impulsive, she is careful in some respects. Hanzo is ally, and an ally who needs his wrists strong for archery. She does not trust the magic healing; it is unholy, making promises with demons.

Healing quick could be miracle. She did not trust it to be miracle in this place with so many devils.

No, it is better not to break. Grinding her foot down, she stops short of dislocation, leaving him with a nasty sprain.

The surge of the push surprises her, and she stumbles back, one of her feet slipping away from under her as she lands on her back and feels the air pushed out of her with the impact.

For all that they're content to go all out on one another - there's no point doing anything less than their best - there's an understanding, Hanzo thinks, that they won't do anything to one another that will last longer than a handful of days. They're not here to seriously harm one another, not for something as simple and idle as a spar in the gallows, and he respects that. He could've snapped her neck if he truly wanted her dead - he does not.

He uses the momentum of the twist of their bodies to adjust his weight, ignoring the sharp pain of his wrist as he presses his heel into the ground.

The impact gives Hanzo enough time to move, adjusting his weight, pressing himself forward to almost straddle her before he leans in with his good arm to press his elbow into her neck. He uses his legs to grip onto her, tight, to stop her bucking him off and shoving him elsewhere, but with his smashed wrist he knows he is vulnerable to her arms. He hopes only that his weight and the winding might be enough to knock her confidence a touch.

"As I said. Sometimes."

Here is the danger. A bigger opponent, heavier, able to simply rest weight on her and leave it at that. In theory, the weight alone could keep the air pressed out of her. And he is clever, careful, pinning her with his legs the same way she so often did. It's hard for her to squirm and writhe free. The more she does, the more her legs protest.

Of course, she's not adverse to harming herself to get to her opponent, and she smacks her head back into the dirt, wrenches her back, as she snaps one of her knees upward out of the vice-grip he's made with his own knees and hits his groin. A momentarily loosening is all she needs, the window and the momentum of her initial twist to fling him onto his back and straddle him in turn. It's an echo, Helena straddling his chest with her knees pinning his arms to his sides, and her thumbs resting lightly over Hanzo's eyes. Only a touch to his eyelids, fleeting and with no pressure, just so he knows what she could have done.

"Sometimes," she agrees, breathing heavy and not really recovered from getting so badly winded, before patting his shoulder.

Edited 2018-06-28 20:19 (UTC)

It's not often that Hanzo can use his own weight as a kind of benefit for him in this kind of fight; he is strong, true, with most of his muscles developed in his arms due to carrying a staff and then a bow, but most warriors are faster or stronger than he is. He slinks, he's sly, he shoots from afar, a sniper more than anything else, relying on what he can do from a distance rather than up close, so being able to use his weight here is a benefit.

He doesn't expect the pressure to his groin, the shift of her body as she jerks up and hits him right where he is most vulnerable. It gives her the opening she needs, allows her space to move him, pushing him onto his back and taking over his position with ease as he winces from the ache and the soreness. It's not a weakness he can take advantage of on her, and he feels himself leaning back, cringing from the hurt, from the sting, from - all of it, really.

Eyes closing, Hanzo feels the sting of a loss as he does the knee between his thighs. He knows that she has bested him, but he's loathe to admit it, not wanting to let himself admit to giving up, to giving in, even in a practice fight.

Eventually, he laughs. Barely.

"Only sometimes, yes."

Gently, she tugs his beard at his chin. "You did well. Not all archers can cope in melee."

Helena pushes herself up, and as she stands, offers her hand to haul him up - on the side that isn't possibly sprained, even. There's dust in her hair, stuck to her body, and her brow is beaded with sweat, but she's smiling easily. More relaxed, less wild and dangerous.

"Next time you beat me. Come. We have candies now, and rest."

"Not all archers are trained." He almost smiles at the tug on his beard but resists the urge. She has had his laughter; she will not have his smiles and tenderness, not yet.

Slowly, Hanzo reaches and takes her hand, allowing himself to be pulled up. He's sore in his wrist, between his legs, in places she had hit and twisted, where she had struck him and where his body had hit the ground, but it's a good ache. It means a fight fought well, even if he hadn't come out the victor. If it had been a game of shooting... Well.

That would be another matter entirely.

"... What are 'candies'?"

"Candies are sugar food. Sometimes they are bright colours."

Once he's up, she moves towards the pile of crates she had been lurking on before. In the earlier hours of the day they were more fully cast in shadow, but as the sun had risen and bathed them in light, she'd sprawled out to watch the training and enjoy the sun like a cat, her candies carefully tucked into the shade.

Now she hauls herself up to sit on one of them, and retrieves the upside down bear-head hat that holds a number of treasures. Picking up another of the plastic wrappers from earlier, she holds out her hand expectantly for his, and rattles the candy inside the packet.

"These are sweet and cheering."

"I see."

So by candies she means things that are intensely sugary and probably not very good for you. Hanzo doesn't indulge much - other than alcohol, but that's less an indulgence and more of a coping slash punishment mechanism - but he supposes getting beaten in a spar is enough reason to allow himself something sweet. It's not something he does often and once won't hurt him, not with the rate he's been training at lately.

Slowly, he moves over and sits down on one of the crates beside her, leaning on his good wrist. Her kindness, at least, is appreciated, and he reaches out just as she expects (or demands?) that he do.

"Is this an apology for the kick?" His groin still hurts, thanks.

"No," she says, and smiles very brightly. "I do not apologise for any kickings. I do not expect you to apologise for our fighting, either."

Her right hand cups the underneath of his own, and carefully tips brightly coloured, sugar coated chocolate and peanut butter candies into the palm of Hanzo's hand.

"You see? Little sunshine pieces. Lots of light, and they make your body feel warm and happy."

Sugar, sweet things, all kinds of food have truthfully made her feel better. Food is sanctuary and comfort, was worth all manner of struggles and punishments. Food was a reliable comfort, where people were not. She offers Hanzo a slight smile. "We fight, and we celebrate being strong, and feed ourselves to get stronger."

All she gets in return for that is a vaguely gruff laugh, mostly because Hanzo is still in rather a lot of pain. It was a fair fight, there's no denying that, but the ache is still present and he can't quite shrug it off.

He doesn't pull his hand away, however, letting her drop the candies into his hand. They're bright and odd, something he might have seen in the midst of celebrations in Minrathous, and he's not sure what to make of them. Unique, certainly, but not something he would usually be willing to put in his mouth.

"Sunshine pieces." His eyebrows raise, just a little, and he watches Helena for a long, drawn out moment. His fingers from his other hand reach out to touch them, rolling them over his palm, and he ponders for a moment. Does he really want to try one of these from a woman who had just beaten him in a fight?

That, strangely, makes him more inclined. Carefully, watching her as she speaks, he puts one in his mouth.

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( OPEN ) it's empty in the valley of your heart

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cw ref to self harm

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