By Blood Connected

By Blood Connected
A Fanfiction by Vir M.
Chapter 7
“Peace”
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J. L. Tyler’s Academy was a non-religious school. Being as such, Halloween, a secular holiday, was a VERY big event. An annual masked dance was held for the students on Halloween night; the student committee raised funds, decorated, and provided refreshments. The students were expected to have their own costume and masks, be they hand made or store bought, and attendance was pretty much mandatory.

And I, being the total MORON that I am, just happened to land myself a session with Aeneid--

–right smack in the middle of the party.

I had mouthed off to him in class... rather explicitly. The subject of my skirt length had come up again, and I had gotten so royally pissed I was unable to see straight, and had yelled a rather nasty thought of mine aloud:

Something along the lines of “Fuck you, pervert,” to be exact.

I had watched his pale, high-boned cheeks turned a VERY delicate shade of pink and had realized I was in for it. I had never, not once, seen him blush. Not one time. Here he was, though, turning a colour quite unnatural for his disposition, and I was going to be on the receiving end of whatever it foreshadowed.

It had foreshadowed the words: “Don’t bother with a costume Friday night, Miss Jira. You’ll be spending the evening with me.” This statement had been accompanied by a scathing look meant to wither me where I stood... and it had nearly worked.

My stubborn nature had saved me my dignity, at the very least...

Ami, who had seemed to give up on lecturing me for the entire course of October, wasted no time getting her nagging equipment back in gear. I didn’t hear of anything other than “anger management this” and “stubborn streak that” until the day prior to the dance, when I had dually exploded in her face about being such a kill joy and making feel worse than I already did, which was bad enough to begin with.

I wasn’t getting any support from Karen, either. She and I had grown closer, but she and Ami had seemed to band together when it came to scolding me. I noticed, however, that Karen, at times, seemed to act as Ami’s voice of reason: she had, on several occasions, told Ami to lay off when she noticed my rising fury and discomfort. I was grateful to her for this, but still resented her scolds, though not nearly as much as Ami’s.

But if Ami and Karen did anything that bothered me, it was now completely over shadowed by Sarita. At first, she had found the rising amounts of disciplinary sessions comical. Now, however, she had begun to resent the fact that I was spending so much time with Aeneid, whom she had dubbed ‘The Sex God.’ She had begun to spread rumors; that he and I were secretly dating, that he gave me leniency on my grades. I laughed when they reached my ears: I had a ‘B’ in his class, the first non-A in a history course I had ever had. If anything, he graded me more difficultly than anyone.

Here’s an example: One day in class, he had given us a packet filled with worksheets to complete the following day, and, as an experiment, I had worked with Ami so our copies were exactly the same. When the grades were returned, mine was ten points less then hers: he had written in bold, liquid red letters the words “HANDWRITING, LANCASTER, HANDWRITING.”

“We’re not in a penmanship course!” I burst out when we had left the classroom. “He’s supposed to be grading on content!” He’d also never commented on my penmanship before, and that’s what had got me the most: those ten points had cost me a perfect score.

Despite the worry over grades, the dance was looming, and I had never felt worse. For the last two years I had spent living at J.L.Tyler’s, the Halloween Dance had been my favorite part, the part I had looked forward to the most.

And now I wasn’t allowed to attend.

The sessions with Aeneid were getting out of hand. When he tried to dominate me as a teacher, and my irascibility reared its ugly head, our personalities would clash, creating so much friction between our equally power-hungry psyches that twice I was nearly driven to hitting him; I have no idea how I refrained. His personality was quiet of voice, quick to think, and prone to random, seething outbursts accompanied by harsh, sibilant snarls of unadulterated rage. His quick temper was on-par with mine, and having two hot-heads in the room is something I’ve found to be a dangerous combination.

He would insult, so would I. He would dominate, I’d fight. He would push, I’d push back. There was never peace between us, except for those quiet, music filled car-rides home he refused to let me skip out on. He would, on those long rides home, talk to me about anything and everything: music, books, history, my home life; he acted decent. Even when the rainy season let up, he made me let him transport me home each day. His reply was that ‘The Slasher’ was still on the loose, and it was his responsibility as a teacher to see I remained safe. Funny how he didn't seem to care about the state of my MENTAL health very much...

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The night before the dance, I worked on finishing my costume: a long, red and black, Victorian inspired gothic dress with full sleeves, voluminous petticoats, low neckline, and a corset. I had dubbed it “The Gothic Courtesan” as a joke. The thing doubled as a project costume for my musical theater class, but I had been planning on wearing it at the dance so I wouldn’t have to make another costume just for the occasion. The only problem with it was that the colours clashed horribly with my eyes. I liked the dress so much, however, I was beyond caring.

I took it to school that cold, clear morning in a hanging bag. The sky was a washed-out grey, reflecting my empty, dejected mood. Upon arriving at school, I headed over to the theater building, where I stored my never-to-be-worn creation in a locker the department head let me use for the purpose.

I was really beginning to despise Aeneid. He’d taken everything enjoyable from me: afternoons with Ms. Saxen in the library, hanging out with Ami, the Halloween dance... even my love of HISTORY was being affected. I didn’t read about it for fun anymore; it only served remind me of him and our blasted sessions.

The day of the dance passed achingly slowly; all the students were in an uproar, discussing costumes and masks and dates while I just sat numbly and listened. I now had understanding for those dogs, teased by their owners, who dangled bits of bacon in front of their noses, but who were never allowed to eat the treat. Luckily though, Ami sensed my despair and left off with the scolding.

The day dragged on; the essay Aeneid had helped me correct was passed back to me after all these weeks, and I had received a perfect score.

//Only because he helped me.\ I thought. //Otherwise, I would’ve failed... damn him...\ I was now in his debt, and well as at his mercy. Could my existence get any worse?

The answer to THAT question, naturally, was a ‘yes.’

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When I reported to his office five minutes before the start of the masquerade, I found he had set up a typewriter on a desk he had dragged in, and a cardboard box of smallish size filled with old, mildewy papers sat next to the accompanying chair.

Aeneid was sitting behind his own desk, as always, and shot me a small, sadistic smile as I walked in.

“You are to re-type all of those.” He said slowly, gesturing at the box. “If you finish, I might let you out early.” His ultramarine eyes glittered. “You’ll be using that typewriter, so if you mis-type, you’ll have to start that page again.”

I kept my facial expression a carefully regulated neutral, but inwardly I cursed. I was a horribly slow typist, and was frequently hitting two keys at once, or the wrong key altogether.

I sat down, not saying a word, took a sheet from the container, and began to type.
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An hour later, I was growing frustrated. I had the tendency to type out everything perfectly, then, in my haste to complete that page, would rush the last sentence or so and mistype on the last word. As my frustration increased, so did the frequency of my errors. Soon, I was unable to complete the first three sentences without screwing up.

The worst part of the deal was Aeneid. Whenever I’d toss a paper into the reject pile, he’d make one remark or another about my slow progress and abundance of errors. The remarks were made with such infuriatingly casual ease, he could have been discussing the weather.

I tossed another crumpled paper away from me furiously, then began to impatiently feed another into the typewriter. Aeneid was watching.

“Failed again?” He asked. “We’re not getting a bit frustrated, are we?” Those eyes of his were maddening, they bored into me like an ice-chip drill. I ground me teeth, managed to type two words, screwed up typing the word ‘and,’ and ripped the paper out of the typewriter with such force the machine fell off the table.

I didn’t move to pick the thing up; I just sat there and stared at it, numb. Then Aeneid spoke:

“Clumsy, aren’t you?”

I bolted to my feet instantly, eyes blazing, teeth gnashing together with such force I felt the coppery, iron taste of blood seeping from my tortured gums.

“Stop goading me, you fucking JERK!” I yelled, voice raised an octave. “You act so superior, you asshole! Who died and gave YOU the right to act like a fucking KING?” The words began to flood out of me in a torrent of emotion; I couldn’t control them.

I began to describe how frustrated he made me, how unfair he was, how he always chose ME to pick on, how he had taken everything: history, the library, Ami, the Masquerade. I screamed about how confused he made me; he was so civil, intelligent, kind on those car rides home, so unjust, biased, and uncaring everywhere else.

When the words stopped and I was left standing in their wake, trembling with unfettered rage, the sight of his shocked, disbelieving face struck me like a forty pound weight to the solar plexus. I crumpled back into my chair, limbs turned to liquid. There was a moment of silence so prolonged I was sure it would never end, until he spoke:

“I fell similarly towards you.”

I jerked my head up to look him square in the eye, disbelief coursing through me. When had I acted as he had? His expression was neutral, but his eyes were troubled.

“You’re intelligent.” He said. “But headstrong. It will create problems for you in the future.” His eyes closed. “You are constantly trying to change the unchangeable, refusing to give in to those in charge. I noticed this the day I met you, and I ever since then I have been trying to help you.” I nearly began to rise to my feet again at this injustice, how in the world had he been HELPING me? Before I could say anything, he continued:

“The point of these sessions was not to break you, as I see I have done, but to gently–“

“I’m not broken–“ I started to say weakly but he continued, effectively silencing me by not recognizing that I had spoken.

“– but to gently persuade you, through trial and error, to bend instead of standing steadfast... and eventually breaking.” His eyes opened. “The rides home-- they were to show you that I could be decent if I wanted to be.” His gaze was steady. “I thought that if you could see me as a person– not just as your teacher, but as a person– you could see that playing by MY rules might one day pay off, and we could be something close to friends.”

“You...?” I stared at him, waiting for the catch, waiting for him to glare and condemn me for something, but he did not. Instead, he leaned forward, forcing me to meet his gaze on a more equal level.

“Let’s make a deal.” He said, his uncharacteristically pleading blue eyes causing his face to soften into an imploring expression. “If I, in future, am civil, and you, in future, are less stubborn, and at least TRY to make an effort to abide by my rules–“ he paused for breath, he’d never made a speech this long in my presence “–then can there be some semblance of peace between us?”

I sat there in shock, unmoving. He looked at me, for once uncertainty flitting across his handsome features.

“If you don’t want–“

“It’s a deal.”

His eyes flashed to mine, surprised by my ready acceptance.


“But we’ll have to have these sessions every other day.” I said firmly, though my voice still shook slightly. “So I can go to the library more often.”

He nodded: “As long as I am still allowed to take you home every day.”

“Of course.” I said.

“And the days we meet are to be the ones you don’t have class with me, so I can see you every day.” He said casually.

“And you have to grade fairly.” I blurted. “No more taking off for handwriting.” His eyes glittered with mirth.

“Handwriting, which, may I add, is abysmal.” I grinned uncertainly at that, sheepishly; he was right. I slowly leaned under the desk, and picked up the typewriter.

“I guess I’ll start again...” I said, picking up another piece of paper.

He stood, reached out a large, square-palmed, long-fingered hand, and gently took the paper away.


“I think we’re all done here.” He said, voice low. “Have fun at the party.”

I sat there, uncomprehending. I’m sure my face showed my shock, as he seemed to feel the need to repeat himself.

“You heard me– get out of here.”

I jumped up, elated.

“Really?!?!” I squealed. “Oh, thank you, Aeneid, thank you!”

I spun around once on my heel in joy in what I’m sure looked like the most idiotic fashion ever managed, grabbed my bag, then bolted for the door. I remembered our deal (as well as my manners) as I hit the hallway, so I spun around, reopened the door shouted another ‘thank you’ or two at the still-standing and staring Aeneid, then sprinted down the hallway to go get my costume.

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~~~~~AUTHOR TIME
Dude, remember what I said about chapter 5, titled “Dodgeball?” Well, this one takes its place as “most hated chapter.” And I also despise Sarita. Fun, eh?

NEXT CHAPTER: The Halloween Dance! Ooooh, fun! Stay tuned!

JIRA LANCASTER belongs to VIR M.
VERGIL belongs to CAPCOM.
Aeneid is MY name for him, though. MY IDEA!!!!! But Vergil himself, isn’t, unfortunately.