Kendo no Go
In the Language of Kendo:
A Fanfic in 100 Chapters
by Akai Kitsune
11: Shades
~*~
The colour of hell isn't really a colour at all. It is
actually no more than a shade, an amaranthine darkness tempered by torches that
give no warmth - physical or simply comforting to the heart - to those who find
themselves there, but serve only to present to them a picture of their
surroundings. It shows those unfortunate souls what awaits them when the
darkness recedes; the pain, the longing, the emptiness of eternity.
Or perhaps hell is lighter; pure as white-washed bones,
excluding the dark, gaping holes for the mouths and eyes of the skulls that
litter the ground. A carpet of bones, piles and piles of the dead, hands
stretching out to grasp those above, reaching forever for a wisp of the life
they once had.
Maybe it is red; burning fires of crimson exploding from
the stained rivers that flowed across the endless plains, reaching up towards
the scarlet-tinged skies and the ember sun, made of flames stronger than any
other. The air is foggy and blurred with violent stormclouds, and as the wind
blows, the rains fall, acidic and the dark, heavy colour of blood. The rain
washes over everything, staining the lost souls until all they can see, all they
can smell, is the overwhelming, intoxicating scent of the dead -
He came awake with a start, a terrified scream on his tongue
and eyes wide as sake cups, body shooting forward to a sitting position. The
shout died at his lips, but he couldn't restrain the short, gasping breaths as
he tried to recover from the dreams that left him shaken.
It had been worse than usual, that night. He sent a quick glance to the woman
lying beside him, and was comforted a little when he saw that she was still
sleeping. He would never have forgiven himself for allowing his troubles to
disturb her rest, especially after a long day of teaching.
Slowly, he eased himself back, resting his weight on one palm and brushing
the other hand across his sweat-slick forehead. After a long moment he pulled
away, gazing down at his damp fingers, and gathered his feet below him, resting
on his knees to regain his balance before standing, legs shaky and hesitant. He
had only taken one step before Kaoru called back to him, her voice sleepy and
concerned.
"Kenshin?"
He closed his eyes, pained and unwilling to turn back and show her a smile he
knew to be false. "It's all right, Kaoru. Go back to sleep; I'll return soon."
He disappeared from the room, shoji sliding shut behind him, hoping against
hope that she would not follow. He waited outside their bedroom until he was
certain she was not going to rise, then headed for the kitchen.
It was spring, a year after his arrival at the Kamiya dojo,
and the flowers were blooming. Kaoru loved spring; she would dance and laugh as
blossoms fell around her like feathery white rain, her sparkling blue eyes
shining with delight. He watched her, a soft smile on his own face, and he
gratefully accepted the fistful of flowers she sometimes placed in his hand,
whispering for him to hold onto them. After a while, she would tire of it, and
she would take his hand to go home, not even noticing as he carelessly discarded
the petals, nor noticing the deeply etched pain he hid in his eyes as the scent
of those flowers swirled around him. She never noticed how he buried his hands
into the laundry as soon as they arrived home, washing the clothes, the dirt,
and the smell of her from his skin.
Kaoru watched him from the doorway, her eyes unsure and filled with tears, as
his hands went down, up, down again, rubbing together, the water clear and
flawless in the bucket below them. He stared into the water as he washed, his
own eyes glazed and unfocused, empty of any emotions. The water sloshed noisily
when he thrust his hands into it yet again, scratching the wrinkling skin
against the wood. His hands were raw and burning red, but the colour only seemed
to make his motion all the more concentrated, all the more desperate. The
movements were calm, almost robotic, and it seemed as if he had done it hundreds
of times before.
Hundreds of times. Hundreds of deaths. Washing, always washing.
Steeling herself, she brushed a hand across her eyes and approached him,
tiptoeing across the floor to avoid startling him. He must have known she was
there - he always did - but he didn't even look up.
"Come to bed," she urged, touching his hand. He hesitated,
memories filling his mind. Tomoe called to him, once.
"Are you going to go on killing people forever?"
"Come to bed."
Slowly, he loosened his white-knuckled grip around the bucket, and allowed
her to lead him back to their room, where she wrapped her arms around him,
holding his hands close to her heart.
Perhaps heaven is not a colour either, but the scent of jasmine, and white
plums in springtime.
~*~
|