Kendo no Go
In the Language of Kendo:
A Fanfic in 100 Chapters
by Akai Kitsune
36: Akai
~*~
The colour of blood as your sword carves its
dark, wet path through a man's skull, stained for the first time.
Your first kill. The colour of the sky, despite the sun's bright
shining upon your face, as your heart clouds over with the
overwhelming scent and feel of the life-giving liquid, as it
spreads across your hands and forms a sticky bond that can never
be washed, never be cleaned.
The colour of blood that fills your vision, as a sword slashes
towards you, inches from your face. The same blood that, mere
moments later, streams down your face as you touch - there
- not focusing on the pain or the surprise that comes
hand-in-hand from the receival of your first wound, but instead,
the vehemence of the one who inflicts the wound, fiercely
refusing to die even as his own blood leaves his body, killing
him faster by the second. The blood that splashes upward as you
cause the final blow, ending his suffering as well as his chance
at life, however slim it may have been.
The colour of the sky as you smile into the
face of the woman you love, glowing and unafraid, and ask her to
be your wife. The colour of the blood, still on your hands, but
slowly fading, paling in the midst of her presence, which has
always been soothing, and piercing at the same time.
The colour of the blush which spreads across her cheeks, as
she whispers her consent.
The colour of the blood that streams down
your face, pulsing and screaming in your eardrums, louder than
the battle-cry of your opponent, louder even than your own
scream. The colour of the stains in the shawl you carry, once
pure and pristine violet - like your eyes, warm and soothing to
behold - now tainted with the foul infection of your blood,
poisoned as is everything you touch.
Save one. Save her.
The colour of blood that is loud, loud in your ears, louder
than everything, but not loud enough to drown out the scent of
white plums as you drive your sword through her body, your eyes
wide in horror and sudden understanding, loss and brokenness.
The colour of blood that falls from your cheek to hers,
mingling with your tears as she passes from the world. The colour
of pain, and anger, but above all, hatred for no one but
yourself.
The colour of the cheeks of your wife -
never, ever secondary - as she burns with her infuriated
temperament, arguing heatedly with her young student over
something inconsequential yet again. The colour of the bump on
his head he earns from the side of her bokken, which will later
develop into an admirable bruise.
The colour of the blood in your mind, as you recall how you
had delivered the same form of strike in the past, with a
completely different result. The feeling of annoyance, at your
own inability to keep such thoughts from your mind.
The colour of the long, tattered bandanna of an old friend,
whose casual comments and feckless, lounging nature were always
able to banish almost anything from your head, although it did
require a good punch or two which were berated at first, but
later appreciated in silence. The colour of the grudges of past
actions that lay between you and he, which were not coloured at
all, for such grudges were nonexistent, at least in your mind.
The colour of fear as you wonder, briefly and anxiously, if he
would not come home, could not come home because he was dead, and
such thoughts left you cold and empty.
The colour of the screaming, squirming
baby, swathed in clean, honey-scented cloth and pressed into your
arms, bloody and newly born. The colour of the blood that coats
him, no longer holding such dark, cold memories for you, but
instead the glow and glory of life, of love, of family. The
knowledge that this blood is natural, and will be gone soon
enough, and that its presence made the new life that much more
important, that much more real.
The colour of his hair, a simple scrap of auburn atop his tiny
head, revealed once the blood has been cleared. Darker than your
own, closer to hers, but not quite close enough to please
you completely. It would not spoil your joy, though; a son, your
son. What right did you have to complain?
Who would?
The colour of the face of your wife, flushed and tired, her
lips pursed against the pain, yet still curving into a smile as
she is given the child, her dark eyes glittering with pride and
newfound motherly love.
The colour of the blood on your hands, invisible and eternally
present, yet faded and no more than a distant memory as she takes
one in her own hand and presses it gently to his cheek,
the baby's cheek, and all you feel is the brilliant fire of a new
passion - the protection of life, his life, her life, renewed by
the sudden presence of a boy-child who, you know, will change your
life forever.
~*~
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