Another fan fiction written by me – because I'd rather not study for Social Studies.
This is a kind of alternative to my previous story, "Reconcile". I hope you like it, in spite of the fact that it may need some editing.
Sometimes – though, she never knew why herself – late at night, when the village slept in the quiet solace and one could hear only the crickets gently breaking the silence with their song; when she would walk alone to enjoy the cool breeze that caressed her, she would pass his hut and catch a glimpse of him on his futon, sleeping.
She could never put it into words, as such was this emotion, but somehow, she preferred watching him as he slept. During the day, when the sun was high above the clouds and the breeze was crisp and warm, he would usually be seen training himself with his weapon, usually in the shadier areas of the nearby forest. His body would always retain a grace she never thought him to have as he very fluidly handled his weapon; his slow movements were made steadily, and his sudden swings allowed it to sing briefly in the air. Despite his grace, however, his face was carved out of stone; his eyes were sharp and unseeing, and his lips were constantly drawn in a thin, unsmiling line.
At night, however, when he slept and only his quiet breathing was heard in par with the rise and fall of his chest, his features were more relaxed. The face chiseled out of granite was smoothened out and rounded, all signs of maturity gone. He almost looked like a child; small and vulnerable, in spite of his years.
Kirara stepped out of her own hone that night as she had many nights before, bathed in the cool air and the moon's light. She began to walk; where, she couldn't always tell, for she usually let her feet take her wherever they pleased. But, of course, not before fixing Komachi, who lay sprawled on her futon, her blanket kicked off. Kirara adjusted her sister in a more comfortable position, pulled her blanket up to her chin, and went on her way.
She was careful of her footing and used the moon's light as a guide to her path. She knew where she wanted to go – there was a small stream a bit of ways from where she was; immaculately clean, she remembered, and the thought of soaking her feet in the cold waters seduced her. She walked on, anticipating her journey, pausing every so often to ensure that she was on the right track.
"No…"
The soft moan had issued forth from a house just a few steps from where she stood, and stopped her from walking any further. She stood and listened silently, unmoving, as another groan sounded from the same area.
The house, she realized, belonged to Katsushiro.
She approached his home, alarmed, concerned, and worried for him. Cautiously, she peeked through the fully opened window; this was untypical of him, for he always left it open just a crack, enough for anyone to get only a glimpse of who was inside.
Beads of sweat dotted his forehead; his eyebrows were drawn together in worry. His face, usually calm in slumber, was now contorted in pain. He tossed and turned, restless, as though he were trying to fend an unseen force away.
"Please…no…" he moaned again, "Stop…"
"Katsushiro-sama?"
Kirara slid the paper screen open, ran inside, and knelt beside him. What could be the problem? She wondered, as she took a piece of white cloth and mopped his forehead dry.
"Please," she whispered. "Wake up." She held his shoulders, but he continued to move, restive. She put a hand to his cheek and brushed his moist face gently with her fingertips. "Katsushiro-sama, I'm here…" she continued, as calm as it was in her ability to be, despite the turbulent panic within. "Everything is fine now, please wake up…"
"No…" he choked. "I…I…"
She gasped as his eyes opened, and watched silently as a single tear rolled down his cheek.
He sat up abruptly, gasping, his eyes still wide in horror; slowly, he averted his wide-eyed gaze down to his two palms.
"I…" he spoke, in a pain-choked voice, "I…I killed…"
Another tear created a river down the side of his face, followed by another, and then another, until he covered his face with his hands and he shook as he sobbed, uncontrollably.
"Please…" he whispered, his voice hoarse, "just please…make it stop."
Kirara crept closer to him cautiously, and slowly, gently, she put her arm around his shoulders; carefully, she pulled him close, and cradled him in her arms.
"It's okay…" she spoke in hushed tones as she ran a hand through his hair; damp with sweat, she noticed, and matted to his face. "Please, don't cry…"
It was all she could do to help him; it was the only way she knew how.
He is still a child, after all… she thought, and she gazed around the room, helplessly, lost, as she rocked the young man in her arms back and forth.
Completed 17 August 2008
"Lullaby"–Emmy Rossum, Inside Out