Permanence
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The ground is baked into a hard plate, like clay out of the kiln. Fault lines begin cracking the soil, deep gouges like breaking ice, glacial runoff. Only, tectonic fault lines are nowhere near this place — tangibly, there is no reason for the ground to be breaking apart in sheets as it is. The dirt is black, scorched. The landscape is utterly barren, disquieting.
He scratches his fingernail in small circles over the area trying to dig in a little, break the surface. And intent as he is at accomplishing the task, he fails to notice the approach of his companion until the man settles himself beside him and speaks his name in a resonating monotone:
"Fox."
Although the word surprises him, as he had failed to notice the approach of the one who spoke his nickname so reverently, he raises his head steadily, hiding his embarrassment at being caught unaware with dignity. He turns to face the smaller man beside him.
"Hiei" comes the curt reply followed by a nod of acknowledgement.
"What are you doing?" The question is direct, unsurprisingly, and his eyes are following Kurama's finger, intent on its little spot of burnt soil, with dry curiosity.
It takes a moment for Kurama to answer. First, he pulls his hand from the earth and examines the minute divot his work has imprinted in the hard soil. Then, he stares blankly at his filth covered hands, his dirt encrusted nails.
He shakes his head slightly, letting tangled cords of crimson hair wave in discord around his face. A sigh falls from his lips and is carried away on the breeze. "Thinking, I suppose."
"Hmph." There is a disbelieving laugh in the syllable — Kurama knows the small raven-haired man beside him well enough to recognize the telltale lilt in the sound.
"Something troubling you, Hiei?" He asks, turning to gaze questioningly at his companion. The question is a rhetorical one as he knows the answer he will receive, but it is best to fill the silence.
"Hn." Black hair flies in far flung directions as he shakes his head with violent conviction. Arms cross protectively across his chest, hands burrowing into black cotton.
He is sheltering himself as though Kurama's question had been so intrusive. So personal.
Perhaps it had been.
Kurama laughs at the action; even after so many years of acquaintanceship the hiyoukai finds himself untrusting of his companions, must still act so defensively. Kurama thinks that, perhaps, if Hiei were anyone else, this constant sheltering and introversion would anger him. Or, perhaps, were the circumstances different, it would.
As it is, as things are, however, it does not.
A small shrug of shoulders prompts the return to his previously abandoned task. He moves a stiff arm and reaches into his pants' pocket — a difficult thing to do given his sitting position. He holds the seed he produces from within the folds of fabric with reverence between his thumb and index finger, studies the green-brown granule with knowing eyes. Slowly he lowers the seed to the ground, lays it into the divot he has painstakingly dug from the soil. He pats the dirt back into place covering the seed. His hand stays on the ground, palm down, fingers spread. A mess of eccentric aura splays from the prone extremity.
"Kurama, you should be using your Youki for more pressing concerns."
Hiei's tone is indifferent but it is the closest to concern Kurama has heard him sound all day. A small smile tics at the corner of his lips at this notion.
"It is no concern of yours, Hiei. I am a grown man. I can handle my own energy." He tries to make the words sound harsh; the aim is to make Hiei feel impudent. But there is no conviction to suggest such a thing in his tone. The words are a mere statement.
"Don't be an imbecile, Kurama," Hiei spits back, his own tone a bit more convincing, but still lacking a fair amount of its typical venom. "You're injured. You're still bleeding."
This sentiment springs another sigh from between Kurama's lips. The hand not splayed atop the dirt wanders slowly to his face; find the opening of the wound to which Hiei referred. A jagged gash runs from the outer corner of his right eye, down his cheek to taper into his jaw line and disappear down his throat. Dry blood has congealed around the jagged laceration and effectively slowed most of the blood flow, but he still feels the wet seep of it at his collar.
"What's a little more blood shed, Hiei?" He tries to make the question sound light as he pulls his hand back, laying it without purpose in his lap. "Any anyway, it is nothing fatal. I will survive…"
If he was intending to finish the sentiment, the cold glower Hiei shoots him at that moment stops it effectively in its tracks.
"The point is, Fox —" the words grind out through gritted teeth, "it still endangers you. Fix yourself before — what are you doing?"
Crimson eyes go wide as he watches Kurama concentrate on the aura flooding from his splayed hand. A soft green glow emanates from the pallid flesh of his hand, seeps into the earth. Suddenly the earth rumbles from between his spread fingers. The surface cracks and a small shoot sprouts through the soil. It looks far from healthy.
"Kurama — baka no Kitsune — fix yourself before you go springing plants, damn it. Have the humans addled the last of your brain cells?" Disgust seethes from the words and he stares at the redhead in complete disbelief, his mouth pressed into a thin, white line.
"I am not broken, Hiei," comes the sharp reply followed by a sharp glare of narrowed emerald eyes.
"You could die, fool." More gritted words and his voice sounds strangely strangled.
A bedraggled sigh; a showing of tired exasperation at his companion's demeanor. "So could you — we could all die, Hiei, if that has not been made clear al—"
"YOU are a sentient being, Kurama —" Hiei cuts across him, anger leaking into the words like a damn bursting. "What does a plant matter compared to that?"
"I have as much permanence on this vast planet as this plant does, fool."
That shuts him up.
Kurama watches his companion's mouth hang open for a moment as though he is going to reply, but he snaps his jaw shut immediately. For a moment the thin muscle at the corner of Hiei's mouth continues to twitch as though it is costing him some horrible self-restraint to remain quiet, but he says no more.
"Our world is no more permanent than a wave rising on the ocean." The words are pensive and jade eyes stare at the young seedling twitching with the slightest signs of life under the duress of his aura as they leave his lips; they hang heavily in the air between them.
Under the care of the life-giving energy flow, the seedling inches forward, upward towards the dim midday sunlight. It is a thin green sprig, like a leaf of young bamboo and holding less substance. Hiei finds himself watching the thing with great intent, despite himself. It inches up slowly, but with visible progress. Suddenly, a bloom springs from the shoot and a small flower buds to unfurl itself to the sun under Kurama's guiding aura.
The sudden whisper of sound that he registers as Kurama's voice drags him back to present thought as a tired stream of words play through the air:
"Whatever our struggles and triumphs, however we may suffer them, all too soon they bleed into a wash, just like watery ink on paper."
He pulls his hand from the ground and wipes his palm against his pant leg. The already stained fabric rubs traces of dirt off but leaves a dark cast on his skin. A thin pull of his lips indicates something passable for a wistful smile as he pulls his gaze back to the little bloom.
Instinct drags Hiei's gaze there as well.
Just as soon as the last residual pulse of aura is absorbed by the earth the bloom begins to fall into itself. The vibrant petals curl into themselves, brittle, and break. The stem withers, droops to rest against the blackened earth.
"As quickly as life had been given it, as surely it was taken away." The words are no more than a whisper, and Kurama clears his throat roughly.
"Regardless." Hiei shakes his head; a heavy motion like a dog trying to clear water from its ears. "You and I are still more permanent than a stupid flower." But even as he says the words there is doubt in his mind and he cannot belay the conviction he feels.
Kurama smirks and whether it is in pity for his companion, in grieving for his ignorance, or out of sheer impudence on his companion's behalf, he is not entirely sure. He brings a hand to the damp spot on his collar where the blood is still flowing and pulls back to stare at the red stain it leaves on his palm. Then he wipes it against the dirt, leaving a red smear in its place.
He watches the ground intently and he can feel Hiei's eyes marking the same progress. And at first, there is nothing. But the silence drags on for a few minutes and he is content to let it — he just sits, watching. Within minutes the damp blood thickens, congeals. And then, it is gone in the earth, absorbed, taken in, until no more than an unnaturally dark splotch lies in its place. A sudden, dry chuckle escapes from between his lips. It is a hoarse sound, utterly cynical.
"Permanence?" Another sharp, bark-like laugh follows the exclamation.
He hears Hiei's sharp intake of breath as realization hits him.
"So tell me, Hiei, do you really think so?"
Author's Ramblings:
Disclaimer: I do not own Yu Yu Hakusho. Copyright belongs to Togashi, Yoshihiro, VIZ, FUNimation, and whoever else holds claim to the plot and characters.
Beyond that: Let's Play A Game: Anyone who can find one of the two quotes I ganked for this story will have a oneshot of their choosing written by me, for them. I call it a game to be played; in actuality it's a writing exercize to get my muse going at a normal rate again. Help. A hint? Both quotes come from the same book. Good luck.
No real rhyme or reason for this beyond the above. And yes, I know I shouldn't be writing more stuff when I've still got so many other stories that need to see completion. Tell it to the muse, I can't help how things are going. Anyway, is there a point to this story? Maybe. I was hoping for some insight into what permanance really meant, but if you see it, you do. If you don't, you don't. Blame my poor prose, because I'm aware that the writing is rather poor. Leave a name at the door?
Blackrose