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 Momomiya Chikara

Chikara Momomiya


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Jan 4 2018, 10:36 PM   LINK Quote
040118

Name: Chikara Momomiya
Age: 17
Year: Seventh
Bloodline: Half

Appearance: He looks sad and cold about 500% of the time (because he is)… likes scarves and mugs.

Personality:

[c/w: some imagery might be a little graphic near the end; implied depression]


They say spirits live in shrines. Momo feels untethered like an uprooted god, like washi paper coming loose from its bamboo frame. He looks for a home that escapes him, because he’s here: in a secluded castle in Scotland where nothing seems to make sense and magic becomes manufactured gestures and painstakingly learned incantations, and he needs to be there. A quiet wood. Komorebi da yo. He misses the richest green of the forest and the towering torii gates, one upon one upon one. He misses the slow drag of sunlight across the ground, the shine of it on stone dust. Momo is quiet because he only has himself now: stillness entombed in a living body, surrounded by something (is it weariness? or loneliness) that makes his head ache.

Momo feels like the palest shade of blue, or a snowdrift, or the leftmost edge of the crescent moon. You have to get up close to figure him out, really, because he’s the kind of silence that comes down heavier than a curtain, and he stays that way.

It’s rare for Momo to talk, and when he does his voice falters in the way clouds wisp into blank sky. He takes his time: with words, he is slow, his brain searching for the right inflections, sometimes futilely, sometimes with a straining success. He prefers to listen, not to the beats of life and magic and the grind of emotion and earthy disarray, but to the stillness in between. He’s caught in the moments before you take a breath, or the hesitation before you take a step, or the weightless waking before a dream comes to an end, and it’s something in how sunlight likes to soften the strands of his existence until he almost flows into the air.

Maybe people can catch it, the inhuman in Momo, the same way people catch stars in their eyes but only from the side.

But then:

He is only human, and it comes to him in pockets of lightning storms and heat. He’s human enough to experience feelings, and it engulfs him all at once, merciless. He knows the thrum of anger, the itch of irritation, the dullest press of helplessness. Everyone has those. But Momo is not, maybe, human enough to act on them, or he’s not, maybe, alive enough to care, and he doesn’t want to drag up the rotting guilt out of his chest and sift through the slick mess and bile to parse out what he should do. Sometimes he feels like he’s hosting evil, the way it folds its tar-stained hands relentlessly over every thought that comes to mind. Sometimes he feels like a dead person shut up in a living one, ticking on until everything inevitably slows to a permanent stop.

Momo keeps secrets the way a grave does, and he spends time counting them over in his head, through his fingers and the way they settle loosely around a pen. I killed my parents. I left my best friend. I know a secret place where time goes out of order and I want to get lost in it forever. I think I’m not alive anymore. He ebbs and flows through his classes with little to no interest, picking and choosing at random and resorting to rote memorization. And that’s all there is to it, isn’t it? It isn’t like Momo thinks classes are hard, not when he categorizes and connects parts into wholes and goes through the motions and doesn’t care, in the end.

He should, he feels. Care. Act.

But he doesn’t.

Character Background:

Chikara was born into a thick summer night. Crickets strummed damply in the balmy dusk, where red sun lined the last of the horizon and the sky melted away into indigo and pelting white clouds and invisible stars. Chikara was born in an English countryside, and then stolen out of it into a small village in the Hida Mountains of Japan.

Chikara remembers almost nothing of England from then. He remembers, however vaguely, the whirl of Portkey traveling, the way it jerked him out of the air and plopped him back down somewhere strange.

He started school in the village of Shirakawa while his parents were there to set up wards around the outskirts against beasts that were rumored to be terrorizing the people. It was supposed to be a two-year operation that stretched, unnoticed, into a three, and then five-year operation, and then ultimately became a failed effort eight years later with four casualties and two orphaned twelve year old kids. But first, before then: there was Chikara, who dropped his given name in elementary school and became Momo instead, and there was Sayu, the other half-blood girl in the village who dragged him behind the club buildings after school to show him how to make flowers grow. Sayu’s parents were botanists, but of course now they weren’t anything anymore.

Momo eventually went to day school at Mahoutokoro. He thought it was okay, but he spent most of his days thinking about the hazy blur of trees that he could see at night through his window. Sayu was louder, so she made friends. Momo clung to her until he tired of the pointless fights that broke out during lunch time, and that was the first time he snuck by himself off school grounds.

It happened because he was sure he’d seen something hopeful and golden beckoning at him off in the distance, like these stories often started, and he had to follow. He thought it was magic, perhaps, but whatever it was wrapped around his wrist and pulled him to his feet from where he’d been sitting watching the shishi-odoshi nod off into the pond. He ended up in a patch of forest, tearing his robe on a wayward branch, and got lost in something that disrupted time.

Later, Sayu asked him about it.

Momo couldn’t figure out how to explain how he’d found a place in the forest that made time feel circular, so he said nothing at all. When he went home later, he asked his mother about it.

That was when the two year operation became three, but he didn’t know at the time. Momo still had things to look forward to then, like the trip to Tokyo that his parents promised him once they were all done with this mission, or the morning walk to the pickup location with Sayu where she was too sleepy to have conversations. He can remember one winter morning still, when the sky felt like snow was forthcoming but it never came, watching Sayu’s backpack strap slip further and further down the arm of her thick winter coat and thinking about how by the time spring came around he’d be boarding at school instead. That was when Momo still thought it would be good to spend time away from home.

His first year at Mahoutokoro went by quickly. Uneventfully. He looked again for the golden haze in the forest, but got in trouble twice for it and never went back.

In the middle of his second year, his parents vanished along with Sayu’s.

Everything turned into chaos: he and Sayu were ripped out of school back to Shirakawa, where an unfamiliar Ministry ambassador tried to explain the situation to them. We thought it would be a success. We’re sorry. They were good people.

And then:

Your living relatives in England will send for you.

And then:

Hogwarts. The rush of legality and paperwork. A restless wait.

Momo ended up in a house with his cousins when he arrived back in England. There were four of them and they were named after the four winds, but he never paid attention to which was which. Boreas was maybe the oldest, an architect who was twenty-four and twelve years his senior, and Notus was sixteen at the time, a Hufflepuff. Momo didn’t want to touch them, but he ate dinner with whoever was at home in the dead space between terms, because they were family, right? He shared a room with Notus for two years, and then Notus left for Hong Kong, and he was alone again. The window in his bedroom faced east so that he could spend most of his waking time restlessly straining his eyes towards the rising sun, like he’d be able to find his parents again.

He didn’t, though.

Chikara Momomiya


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Jan 14 2018, 12:27 AM   LINK Quote
130118 -- appearance 更新 --

Appearance:

In the early evening, Saturn materializes over the horizon as a solemn bright star over a stretch of indigo satin. The sky dims. The stars flicker on. One moment, the snow on the ground reflects the orange and deeply bashful blush of a winter sunset. The next, colors vanish in a blue-grey rush of shadows. It is the same way Momo seems to be: imperceptible, but with great change; unnoticed, but striking.

Shhh.

The grass sleeps under a thick coating of snow. Somewhere underground, a hidden river froths and skips with new life. At magic hour, moonlight ripples over Momo’s curly black hair in glosses of silver. The night plucks forth a sharpening in the distant focus of his dark eyes, even as the cold forces the point of his chin and the thin paleness of his lips back behind the protection of a thick woolen scarf. His fingers, long and pale as the stretch of distant sunlight, fumble in the cold against the pocket flaps on either side of his coat before ducking inside. He is a tall and immobile shape in the twilight, six feet even of potential movement, but the air around him accepts his unspoken request for camouflage, and he does not stand out. Instead, he is a tranquil presence, harmonious with his surroundings, whether he stands alone in the middle of a starlit field or rests intermittently against the slowly smoothening bark of a tall cedar.

Through the night, he is undisturbed in sleep. At dawn, his eyes open slowly while light creeps up the walls and tucks itself into dusty round window sills. His hair fluffs over his forehead and the back of his neck in thick, curving strands when he sits up. He does not look very closely into the mirror, but a pale figure always gazes calmly back at him over the sink. Cold fingers pull carelessly dropped uniform pieces off the floor and drag them securely over long limbs. A thick, pale scar tears down the palm of his right hand, punishing. Momo tries not to look at that, too. The light in his room is a pale, imitative yellow, the picture of sunlight without the right scents or warmth, and it falls across several freckles gathered sparsely across his nose. When he squints his eyes against the coming brightness, his lips press together and dimples appear on either side of his face.

Up close (come closer), Momo is just a boy, and the grace of distance falls away in the subtly tense lines of his shoulders that are growing broader, the perennial tilt of his body against the closest vertical surface, the triangle of moles that begin on the sharp corner of his left jaw and end a finger’s width from the jagged rise of his collarbone. He smiles like sunlight in its transience and speaks in snowflake dotted words that melt too quickly away to be held. An unused pair of glasses rest on his nightstand while he blinks uncertainly at the chalkboard in class. Ink finds a way towards the hems of his sleeves when they fall past his wrists. On the weekends, a dreary wardrobe of blue jeans and greyscale jumpers drape loosely over him. His feet tread over the heels of once-white sneakers for several steps before fitting inside; in a while, the laces unravel for want of attention.

It takes him some time, as always, but he gives it.

Chikara Momomiya


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Today at 12:59 am   LINK Quote
200118 -- full revision -- content warnings: depression, death, slightly graphic imagery near the end of personality, alluded corporal punishment

name. momomiya chikara
jp. 桃宮 力
age. 17, b. 23 july
house. hufflepuff
bloodline. half

appearance.

In the early evening, Saturn materializes over the horizon as a solemn bright star over a stretch of indigo satin. The sky dims. The stars flicker on. One moment, the snow on the ground reflects the orange and deeply bashful blush of a winter sunset. The next, colors vanish in a blue-grey rush of shadows. It is the same way Momo seems to be: imperceptible, but with great change; unnoticed, but striking.

Shhh.

The grass sleeps under a thick coating of snow. Somewhere underground, a hidden river froths and skips with new life. At magic hour, moonlight ripples over Momo’s curly black hair in glosses of silver. The night plucks forth a sharpening in the distant focus of his dark eyes, even as the cold forces the point of his chin and the thin paleness of his lips back behind the protection of a thick woolen scarf. His fingers, long and pale as the stretch of distant sunlight, fumble in the cold against the pocket flaps on either side of his coat before ducking inside. He is a tall and immobile shape in the twilight, six feet even of potential movement, but the air around him accepts his unspoken request for camouflage, and he does not stand out. Instead, he is a tranquil presence, harmonious with his surroundings, whether he stands alone in the middle of a starlit field or rests intermittently against the slowly smoothening bark of a tall cedar.

Through the night, he is undisturbed in sleep. At dawn, his eyes open slowly while light creeps up the walls and tucks itself into dusty round window sills. His hair fluffs over his forehead and the back of his neck in thick, curving strands when he sits up. He does not look very closely into the mirror, but a pale figure always gazes calmly back at him over the sink. Cold fingers pull carelessly dropped uniform pieces off the floor and drags them securely over long limbs. A thick, white scar tears down the palm of his right hand, punishing. Momo tries not to look at that, too, but his thoughts move faster than his physical surroundings, and the hum of long-ago pain echoes briefly through his head in the form of a child’s cry. It is a slow morning nevertheless, when the light in his room is a pale, imitative yellow, the picture of sunlight without the right scents or warmth, and it falls across several freckles gathered sparsely across his nose. When he squints his eyes against the coming brightness, his lips press together and dimples appear on either side of his face.

Up close (come closer), Momo is just a boy, and the grace of distance falls away in the subtly tense lines of his shoulders that are growing broader, the perennial tilt of his body against the closest vertical surface, the triangle of moles that begin on the sharp corner of his left jaw and end a finger’s width from the jagged rise of his collarbone. He smiles like sunlight in its transience and speaks in snowflake dotted words that melt too quickly away to be held, but most of the time, Momo’s face is as blank and untended to as the serene well of his mind.

The same follows with his possessions. An unused pair of glasses rest on his nightstand while he blinks uncertainly at the chalkboard in class. Ink finds a way towards the hems of his sleeves when they fall past his wrists. On the weekends, a dreary wardrobe of blue jeans and greyscale jumpers drape loosely over him so as to suggest the illusion of warmth over his pale skin. A thick scarf muffles his throat as the only security against winter cold. His feet tread over the heels of once-white sneakers for several steps before fitting snugly inside; in a while, the laces unravel for want of attention.

It takes him some time, as most things do, but he gives it.

personality.

They say spirits live in shrines. Momo feels untethered like an uprooted god, like washi paper coming loose from its bamboo frame. He looks for a home that escapes him, because he’s here: in a secluded castle in Scotland where nothing seems to make sense and magic becomes manufactured gestures and painstakingly learned incantations, and he needs to be there. A quiet wood. An empty road. He misses the richest green of the forest and the towering torii gates, one upon one upon one. He misses the scrape of sunlight across the ground, the shine of it on stone dust. Momo is quiet because he only has himself now: stillness entombed in a living body, surrounded by something (is it weariness? or loneliness) that makes his head ache.

Momo feels like the palest shade of blue, or a snowdrift, or the leftmost edge of the crescent moon. You have to get up close to figure him out, really, because he’s the kind of silence that comes down heavier than a curtain, and he stays that way. It’s rare for Momo to talk, and when he does his voice falters in the way clouds wisp into blank sky. He takes his time: with words, he is slow, his brain searching for the right inflections, sometimes futilely, sometimes with a straining success. He prefers to listen, not to the beats of life and magic and the grind of emotion and earthy disarray, but to the stillness in between. He’s caught in the moments before you take a breath, or the hesitation before you take a step, or the weightless waking before a dream comes to an end, and it’s something in how sunlight likes to soften the strands of his existence until he almost flows into the air.

Maybe people can catch it, the inhuman in Momo, the same way people catch stars in their eyes but only from the side.

But then:

He is only human, and it comes to him in pockets of lightning storms and heat. He’s human enough to experience feelings, and it engulfs him all at once, merciless. He knows the thrum of anger, the itch of irritation, the dullest press of helplessness. Everyone has those. But Momo is not, maybe, human enough to act on them, or he’s not, maybe, alive enough to care, and he doesn’t want to drag up the rotting guilt out of his chest and sift through the slick mess and bile to parse out what he should do. Sometimes he feels like he’s hosting evil, the way it folds its tar-stained hands relentlessly over every thought that comes to mind. Sometimes he feels like a dead person shut up in a living one, ticking on until everything inevitably slows to a permanent stop.

Momo keeps secrets the way a grave does, piling cold earth over turbulence and guilt and regrets, but he still spends time counting them over in his head, through his fingers and the way they settle loosely around a pen. I killed my parents. I left my best friend. I know a secret place where time goes out of order and I want to get lost in it forever. I think I’m not alive anymore. The way Momo is certain his story will end is when he exhausts himself by dwelling endlessly over his secrets, when the distance he feels between his mind and his body finally pulls so taut that the two snap away from each other, like pieces of a broken rubber band flung apart hard enough to hurt. He has another secret in the way he doesn’t care.

He ebbs and flows through his classes with little to no interest, picking and choosing at random, leaving what he can’t understand behind the way he neglects his own possessions. And that’s all there is to it, isn’t it? It isn’t like Momo thinks classes are hard, not when he categorizes and connects parts into wholes and goes through the motions and doesn’t care, in the end. The only subjects that hold his interest are Potions and Astronomy, where he can contemplate the turn of water in its copper confines or measure time in the infinite pull of planets through the stars without uttering a word.

He should, he feels. Care. Or act. Or do something.

But he doesn’t.

history.

Chikara was born into a thick summer night. Crickets strummed damply in the balmy dusk, where red sun lined the last of the horizon and the sky melted away into indigo and pelting white clouds and invisible stars. Chikara was born in an English countryside, and then stolen out of it into a small village in the Hida Mountains of Japan four years later.

Chikara remembers almost nothing of England from then. He remembers, however vaguely, the whirl of Portkey traveling, the way it jerked him out of the air and plopped him back down somewhere strange.

He started school in the village of Shirakawa while his parents were there to set up wards around the outskirts against beasts that were rumored to be terrorizing the people. It was supposed to be a two-year operation that stretched, unnoticed, into a three, and then five-year operation, and then ultimately became a failed effort eight years later with four casualties and two orphaned twelve year old kids. But first, before then: there was Chikara, who dropped his given name in elementary school and became Momo to his classmates instead, and there was Sayu, the other half-blood girl in the village who dragged him behind the club buildings after school to show him how to make flowers grow. Sayu’s parents were botanists, but of course now they weren’t anything anymore.

You have to promise not to tell, Sayu used to whisper in his ear. When they were six years old, Momo was not so tall. They sat for hours and hours just under the window of the art club room, waiting for seeds to bloom in fascinated silence. Sayu was a talkative girl, the kind that issued all her own opinions upfront and then demanded the opinions of everyone else, but for this, she could stay quiet. At home, the Momomiyas kept their living room free from magic, and Momo’s parents had decided to wait, to let Mahoutokoro work its charms on him. Momo obediently refrained from trying any magic himself, even though he manifested signs early on. Wasn’t there enough in the world to look at?

Momo eventually went to day school at Mahoutokoro. He thought it was okay, but he spent most of his days thinking about the hazy blur of trees that he could see at night through his window while his parents worked through the forest. Sayu was louder, so she made friends; Momo clung to her until he tired of the pointless petty arguments that broke out during lunch time, and that was the first time he snuck by himself off school grounds.

It happened because he was sure he’d seen something hopeful and golden beckoning at him off in the distance, like these stories often started, and he had to follow. He thought it was magic, perhaps, but whatever it was wrapped around his wrist and pulled him to his feet from where he’d been sitting watching the shishi-odoshi nod off into the pond. He ended up in a patch of forest, tearing his robe on a wayward branch, and got lost in something that disrupted time.

Later, Sayu asked him about it.

Momo couldn’t figure out how to explain how he’d found a place in the forest that made time feel circular, so he said nothing at all. When he went home later, he asked his mother about it. She brushed his hair back with a calm, gentle hand, and told him he might be onto something. That was when the two year operation became three, but he didn’t know at the time. Momo still had things to look forward to then, like the trip to Tokyo that his parents promised him once they were all done with this mission, or the morning walk to the pickup location with Sayu where she was too sleepy to have conversations. He can remember one winter morning still, when the sky felt like snow was forthcoming but it never came, watching Sayu’s backpack strap slip further and further down the arm of her thick winter coat and thinking about how by the time spring came around he’d be boarding at school instead. That was when Momo still thought it would be good to spend time away from home.

His first year at Mahoutokoro was torn in two halves: the half that came before he was caught searching the woods again for the light that haunted him, and the half that came after. What happened in the middle was how he’d been missing for over a day, but stuck in a place that made him feel like only minutes had passed. And after, how he was pulled into a quiet room and taught with a stinging hex that he should never wander off school grounds again. Sometimes, six years later, Momo still feels the welt on his hand as a red burn, like he never stopped chasing after the past.

And in the middle of his second year, his parents vanished along with Sayu’s.

Everything turned into chaos before he could catch his breath: he and Sayu were ripped out of school back to Shirakawa, where an unfamiliar Ministry ambassador tried to explain the situation to them through practiced, impersonal sentences. We thought it would be a success. We’re sorry. They were good people.

And then:

Your living relatives in England will send for you.

And then:

The rush of legality and paperwork. A restless wait.

Momo ended up in a house in Salisbury with his cousins when he arrived back in England. It was a small, cramped townhouse that existed impossibly between two adjacent houses, made by magic. There were four of them and they were named after the four winds, but he never paid attention to which was which. It took Momo almost a month to pull himself out of his shock to get to know them: Boreas was maybe the oldest, an architect who was twenty-four and twelve years his senior, and Notus, the youngest, was sixteen at the time, a Hufflepuff. Momo didn’t want to touch them, but he ate dinner with whoever was at home in the dead space between terms, because they were family, right? He shared a room with Notus for two years, and then Notus left for Hong Kong, and he was alone again. The window in his bedroom faced east so that he could spend most of his waking time restlessly straining his eyes towards the rising sun, like he’d be able to find his parents again.

He didn’t. Instead he found the old castle in Scotland that he was hurried into after Easter. There was a ragged old hat that sentenced him to living underground for the duration of his time at Hogwarts, where the stone walls were cold to the touch, the ghosts colder, and the false sunlight a burn that made him numb to everything.

At first, it was manageable. He learned the ways of the castle the same way he threaded English together on parchment that cracked against his desk. The other boys in his dorm were friendly, but they were strangers, and they were loud. Momo never tried to talk to anyone except occasionally Notus, who was on his way out. At the start of his third year, the truth clicked about his parents.

The four wizards who had vanished along the edge of Shirakawa, later pronounced killed in action, were never recovered. Momo always wondered why. Surely, he thought. Surely, something was left behind. Sayu’s mother, whose hair was always adorned with wildflowers, had surely left something behind: a petal, a leaf, a trinket. But there was never anything, and soon Momo realized everything had changed after he told his mother about the light in the trees. They must have tried to conjure up the same closure in time. We thought it would be a success.

But it couldn’t be. He asked Boreas in a shaky letter, and received the following reply:

It does sound possible. But there is nothing to be done now. Hey, don’t blame yourself! You’re just a kid who dreams big. Hey, say hi to Notus for me ~

Momo put the letter down on the table next to his breakfast and came back a week later to find that his life had gone on without him. The autumn that had engulfed Hogwarts in brilliant swaths of red and gold and last bursts of green now lost its magic. Things that should have mattered: new classes, the Halloween feasts, visiting Hogsmeade for the first time, slowly growing up without realizing it, his voice cracking apart and coming back together lower, fell between his fingers like water. Before Momo knew it, he was dismissing his thirteenth year the way most people threw out a rotting fruit, and the only thing he kept was the guilt stuck between his teeth like bitterness and the bad memory softening under his fingers.

The next couple of years greyed out around him between rare flashes of colors. The first and last time he sat in the stands during a Quidditch game, completely out of his depth in the waves of cheering. The first time the potion in his cauldron flickered into the right color along with the smallest spark of happiness flickering inside his chest. The first time he fell into bed with someone, the numb blur that followed. The first OWL exam he took, Charms, where he had to repeat his practical assessment because he was speaking so quietly. Momo’s list of firsts felt like they happened to someone else, though: someone else sitting frozen in the Quidditch stands, someone else stirring a cauldron full of bubbling blue liquid, someone else struggling with Cheering Charms. But they happened to him, and changed him the same way he exists now: imperceptible, sudden, unnoticed, striking.
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