Genre

Rating

Spoiler Level

Kendo no Go
In the Language of Kendo:
A Fanfic in 100 Chapters

by Akai Kitsune

28: Shiroi

~*~

The colour of snow; cold, unfeeling snow that blocks out the sound of your feet as you step through it, silent and full of calm resolve, approaching your targets with the cold efficiency of a trained assassin.

Which is precisely what you are.

Snow, in which your victims fall, lifeless and setting free their final breath, eyes wide in surprise as if they cannot believe they were beaten so easily. Afterwards, you stare at the skies from which it falls and question, as you wait for the observers to come and leave the warning of heavenly justice on the mutilated bodies, how long you will survive in this bloody town, how long until you will be just another corpse on the ground, empty and nameless, without a person to speak for him, only the confident, gloating words of the man who managed to kill you, and the murmurs of how such a small stripling of a boy could have been the deadly hitokiri.

Snow, which you catch upon impulse, watching the pure white ice crystals dissolve in your hands, as you wonder with a bleak frown if everything pure you hold onto will disappear, lingering in your thoughts like a lost fragrance, merging with the eternal stains of blood that will never go away, however many times you wash your hands, however many snowflakes you capture from the sky.

The colour of snow; beautiful snow that you walk through with your wife, your conversation as silent as the flecks of white surrounding you. Snow that falls outside your home - a home, for the first time in your life, truly - as you hold her in your arms, drawing her warmth as she draws yours, loving her with all your heart and wishing to whatever you happen to believe in that things will never change, that the war will never return, and that you both could remain, warm and loved, until winter ends and spring sends a new life into your marriage, no longer spurred by impulse and political suggestion, but by emotion and strength. You wish you could remain, but you do not, and the snow feels cold against your skin when you awaken alone.

The colour of snow; the empty, numbing ice against your skin as you travel forward, a katana in your hands and fury fueling your soul, slashing through any man or weapon that acts as a boundary between you and your goal. She is waiting for you, your warmth in the winter, and you will not allow her to freeze, not alone, not any longer.

Snow, which is no more than a continuous cloud in your misted vision, a chill on your exposed skin, a soothing wash of purity for the blood staining your body.

Snow, falling all around you, as you raise your sword in a final attempt to win her back, to set her free, to die that she might live.

Snow, white as her kimono, and suddenly it is her kimono, right in front of you, in front of your sword, and then nothing is white, everything is red, dark red, blood red -

Snow, falling towards you, resting on her face as she touches yours, as a drop of blood falls on her cheek, mingling with her smiling tears, and it, too, melts beneath your fingers as you hold onto her, like a snowflake, like a lost fragrance that you do not want to let go of, never, ever, even though she is dead and you are not.

Snow, in which your wife - a second love, but never secondary in your heart - dances and twirls, her young, child-like face bright and full of life, a broad smile and beautiful laughter echoing through your mind like a mantra of awe and wonder, of how such a man could win her heart. You watch her, smiling with her, not even realizing that you are staring until she stops and looks at you, questioning you for a moment. As you stammer through an answer, she gives up and takes your hand, pulling you into her intricate, invented dance, until her student - the boy who is your son, however unattached your lineage - tosses snowballs at you and calls you lovebirds, calls her that silly name that could never be truly attached to her, even when she grows old. The moment is broken, except when she smiles back at you, and you realize that the moment will never truly be broken, and that it, like bloodstains, like lost fragrances, can never truly disappear from your soul.

~*~