By Blood Connected

By Blood Connected

A Fanfiction by Vir M.

Chapter 4:

“Session”

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As I walked up the stairs towards Aeneid’s second floor office, I thought back on the day.

I had dreaded the session. Dreaded the very thought. Before packing off for school that morning(luckily, it was A block today, so I didn’t have class with him), I had willed the day to crawl along, hoping to postpone the inevitable.

And, since I had wished it to slow down, it naturally sped up.

So now here I was, trudging up the stairs to my doom, loathing every step. I entered the upper hall, and began to walk, looking for the right door. I got to the far end of the wood-paneled wall; the door was on my left. It had a gold, engraved plate that read:

V.R. Aeneid
History Department Deputy Head
Fencing Instructor


I placed my hand on the door, steeled myself, and stepped inside.

The place was a complete and utter foil to his classroom. Where the teaching area had been bare, his office was luxurious. There walls were cherry oak, rich and glowing, and the floor was covered by a lush crimson carpet. The walls were lined with tall bookcases, all but one were completely filled, and tasteful paintings of scenes of history were hung at regular intervals between the shelves. There was a fireplace, empty, on the right wall, and a long sword of eastern design was mounted above it, unsheathed and shining. An ornate, strange looking horned helmet that appeared to be a piece of armor was lying on display on the mantel beneath it. A small table was set next to the door, and a glowing lamp had been placed on it, casting warm light over the room. Several more were lit on a huge mahogany desk in the back of the room. The place exuded coziness and warmth; it made me sleepy just to look at it. I could imagine it in the dead of winter: fire crackling in the hearth, me curled up in one of the comfy looking chairs scattered about, book in hand...
I made myself stop thinking about it before I got too comfortable; this was supposed to be a punishment, after all.

“You’re here. Good.”

I jumped as the voice addressed me. Aeneid had stepped out of a door I hadn’t noticed on the left wall; it had been shoved between two bookcases, and I presumed it to lead to his sleeping quarters. He was holding a large cardboard box under each arm. He turned, closed the door with his foot, then set the boxes on the desk. He began to open them as he spoke.

“I want you to put these in order of the time periods they cover. Start on the top shelf of that–“ he pointed “– case over there, the earliest on the left, running to the latest on the right.” Blue eyes flashed my way. “Do you understand the instructions?”

“Yeah.” I said.

“‘Yeah?’” he repeated. “Is that it?”

He wanted me to say ‘yes sir,’ of that I was sure. To comply would be to ‘stay out of trouble,’ like I had promised myself I would. But if I did, it would be submissive, weak.

And weak was the one thing I hated being.

“Yup.” I answered. I promptly strode past him, plunked myself down into a chair, and began pulling books from boxes, pointedly ignoring Aeneid. I heard him shift behind me.

“Jira...” His voice was closer than I’d expected it to be, and it startled me. I spun around in my chair to find him leaning over me, looking down, a hand on the chair back, and a hand on the desk in front of me, creating a cage, preventing escape. Despite how uncomfortable that made me, and the uncomfortable position it made me assume in order to look him in the eye, it didn’t seem to faze him in the slightest.

“Jira...” he repeated. “This is only going to work if you respect me.” His eyes were less cold, more determined than anything, and the transition was unnerving. “Fighting me isn’t going to help matters.” I did my best to glare up at him, despite the uncomfortable way I had to crane my neck to do so.

“Aeneid–“ I started to say, but he cut me off.

“Call me that again and I’ll be forced to give you another session.” He snapped, eyes growing hard again. He was trying to intimidate me, but that wouldn’t work. I wouldn’t let him win, my stubborn side was screaming for control.

“May I get started, Mr. Aeneid?”

I had used his name.

He regarded me quietly, then pushed himself away from the chair. Running his hand through his hair, he turned away.

“Another session it is, then.”

He walked towards the exit, placed his hand on the knob, then paused. He craned his head over his shoulder to look at me, still twisted around in my seat.

“I’ll be back in forty minutes to check on your progress.”

I didn’t say a word, simply watched him leave. Then I heard the lock click on the door as I slumped into my seat.

//He’s locking me in. I thought. //That bastard.

I looked at the daunting task in front of me, then pulled glanced at one of the larger books. It was an unusually weighty tome, and the title was familiar. With a start, I realized that I actually own a copy of it. I set the thing down, then stood and peered into the box.

I grinned.

I owned practically everything in the cardboard container; I wouldn’t even have to open them to see which order they should go in.

//Peace of cake. I thought. //Won’t he be surprised...

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I heard the key click in the lock almost exactly forty minutes later.

“What are you doing?” He growled. I was currently curled up in the chair he had left me in, book cradled on my lap, legs tucked under me.

“I finished.” I said simply. He quirked a finely arched brow at me, taking in the sight of the empty boxes and filled shelves. He said nothing; simply strode over to the shelf and ran his fingers over the books’ spines, checking my work. Then he turned to me.

“Fast worker.”

“Not really.” I said. “I own practically all of them.” He looked surprised at this.

“You mean you like history?” Ha asked. I bristled.

“Why does everyone find it so hard to believe that a girl can like it? Stereotypes...” I said in disgust.. “History is–“

“There’s nothing wrong with a girl liking history.” He said quietly. “I actually had thought you might have, seeing as how you were able to so readily connect the significance of my names.” I laughed at that.

“We learned that in seventh grade geography! I was surprised no one else remembered.” I smiled, joking.

He said nothing, just walked around the desk to sit in the large leather swivel-chair behind it. He laced his fingers together, elbows on the desk, and rested his chin on his thumbs, regarding me over the entwined digits.

“I did not think to prepare any more tasks for you to complete.” He said. I shrugged.

“If they’re history related, I’ll get them done so fast you’ll have to give me three a session.” I said, proud of my mental prowess.

“Hn...” he murmured, thinking. Then, finally:

“What music do you like?” I blanched at the question.

“What? Why?”

“I’m trying to fill the silence here.” He said impatiently. “Remember, you have two sets of sessions: that’s four weeks.” He smirked. “That’s a rather long time to spend with someone you know nothing about.”

“True...” I relented. “I like rock.” He nodded.

“Me, too.”

“Really? I figured you for opera or something; y’know, really artsy.” I said truthfully. He looked amused.

“Now who’s making stereotypes?” I felt anger bubble.

“I was being honest.” I snapped.

“I know.”

I gnashed my teeth; this guy was getting on my nerves with that imperious attitude of his. Those blue eyes of his were maddening.

“Ya’ sure stare and awful lot, dont’cha, Aeneid?” I snarled. He regarded me for a long moment, then looked away. I was surprised that he had; I would’ve thought he would have kept right on staring just to anger me further.

“You used my name again.” Was all he said, eyes averted. “Looks like you now have three sessions.”

“Right.” I conceded. “You are correct... Aeneid, sir.” His gaze snapped back to me quickly as he slammed his hands down upon the desk and leapt to his feet.

“That’s four.” He snarled, cold eyes blazing with sudden fury. “You’re only going to make this harder by being so difficult!” I jumped to my own feet, and though my height was nothing compared to his, I tried to loom over him a bit.

“Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re gonna say! I’m stubborn, and so what? And it’s not like YOU haven’t got a stubborn streak yourself; why can’t you just let me call you Aeneid?” I didn’t want to have to call a teacher by a false name; it just didn’t seem right. “Names are important to me!”

He looked at me incredulously:

“What do you mean?”

“Names are important.” I repeated flatly. “My parents taught me that.” He thought on that for a moment. Then he said:

“I believe our time is up.” I glanced at my watch and saw that he was right. I raised my eyes from my wrist to look at him.

“You’re dismissed.” He said coldly. “Same time tomorrow.” Then he turned back to his desk.

“Now get out.”

I fled the room and ran down the hallway, and didn’t stop running until I had gotten back to my house. Dark was only just beginning to fall. My lungs burned from the exertion; every breath felt like a knife shoved deep between my ribs. Gasping, I rummaged around for my key, stepped inside, and got myself a drink of water. When I had recovered sufficiently, I picked up the phone and dialed Ami.

“Hello?”

“Ami, it’s me.” I said.

“Jira!” she cried. “How’d it go?”

I filled her in on everything: the way his office looked, the task I had been given, and then made the mistake of telling her about my other issued sessions. She greeted this news with a resounding “WHAAAAAT?!?” and then proceeded to chew me out for being so pig-headed. I held the phone about a foot away from my ear until her exasperated bitchings quieted.

“What on earth possessed you to make you act that way?” she asked for what seemed like the umteenth time.

“He won’t let me call him by his name.” I said flatly.

“...Oh.” was all she managed to get out. I went on:

“You know me, Ami. I can’t call people by anything other than their name, and that’s that.” I had good reason, too, but was loathe to bring up old, hurtful subjects such as it. “I won’t tell him because I just don’t think it’ll help matters. You’ve seen the looks people give me when I tell them about the incident.” I heard her sigh, then heard something shrill and loud in the background on her end. Ami must’ve covered the phone with her hand then, because her reply to that sound was muffled.

“Mom calling you?” I asked.

“Yeah.” She sighed, sounding frazzled. “I’ve got to go.”

“See you tomorrow, then.” I said, and hung up.

I realized I was tried. So tired, in fact, that I skipped reading the paper, skipped dinner; simply showered and fell into bed, exhausted.
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AUTHOR TIME
Well, howdy, ya’ll, how goes it? I hate this chapter, am not satisfied with any of it, but hope you enjoy it anyway. I just wanted to get it over with.

Why does Jira not like calling people by anything other than their real name? What incident did she refer to there at the end? Find out next chapter!

VERGIL copyright CAPCOM

JIRA&Co. copyright Vir M.