The Gray Day
What does it mean to be dead? There are lots of definitions. But only the dead truly know. All I can do for you is to show you the day when the dead conversed about being dead. The day when the dead talked about dying, the feeling of dying, the emptiness in their soul, and the way they thought about themselves.
It was a gray day, that morning. Obviously, it was because the seven mercenaries were revived. These mercenaries were a terror when they were alive—they literally lived and swam in their bloody ocean. When they were killed with a single arrow that tore off their heads, everyone rejoiced, for that ocean would never come again. But it did—that day. That morning. And now, the terror would begin again.
The leader, the youngest and most bloodthirsty, deadliest of them all, was walking down the forest path with his sword swung over his shoulder. He had a smirk on his face and was in a jovial mood after stealing fifteen more lives an hour earlier. Heading right into his path was a priestess, just as dead as he was.
It took about a minute before they came into each others' view. The priestess noticed first, because she always alert. But instead of stopping and hiding behind a bush with her bow armed with her arrows, her body kept on moving. Her clay limbs wouldn't let her instincts take over.
When the priestess was a little closer to the mercenary, the mercenary became aware of her and smiled even wider. Not because she was a woman, not because he had a fondness for priestesses, but because she was a walking dead, just like him. And it was only polite etiquette to smile at a fellow dead person.
They passed each other; shoulders not even an inch close to brush against. They didn't exchange a word neither a breath. It was just a simple, silent passing. There was no need to say anything. Their aura of death was wordy enough.
But the priestess couldn't help but think about something that had been bothering her ever since she was dragged out of her rest. Death. Yes, the word, the subject, the abstract idea of death was one thing that she could not put down and cast aside into the abyss of forgotten memory. It was like her second mother. No, it was her second mother—the mother that had given her life again… through another dimension and way.
She had often tried to bring this topic up with the living, but they never had the patience or knowledge to keep up with her. And the ones who died and came back could barely look at themselves, let alone speak with her. Her eyes shone with desperation. This was her chance. Even if this man was her enemy, it was her chance to say something about this matter that couldn't be tossed away!
"Bankotsu, was your name, wasn't it? You're also Naraku's lackey, aren't you?" It was a horrible way to start talking, but she had to know what he thought about Death. Perhaps, she knew instinctively that if she said anything else, anything softer or kinder, she would be dead… again. And if she died without knowing what the word "Death" meant to others, then everything was meaningless! But then again…
Her goals that had been created when she came back swirled around in her mind, like an annoying fly that just won't go away.
The mercenary, who she had addressed as Bankotsu turned around. He seemed surprised that he had been called out to.
"What about it?" The mercenary blinked and added with slight, playful malevolence, "Kikyo-san."
The priestess who had so bravely called out licked her clay lips. What else could she say that would link her question? Then she took a step forward. "Nothing, I just wanted to know your opinion on Death. It has crossed your mind before, hasn't it?" She frowned, trying to show the young man that she meant serious business.
"I'm not smart enough to think about something so complicated like Death." He stabbed his giant sword into the ground and leaned on it. "And why in the world are you asking me? I thought Naraku and you were enemies."
"That's true, but surely you're not going to bend to his will entirely."
"No, I'm not. As soon as I'm done killing this Inuyasha of his, his neck will be next."
The priestess lowered her gaze toward the floor at the thought of Inuyasha. "I see. What a brilliant goal. At least, it's not vengeance like my goal. Vengeance is a strong will that won't be broken by the slightest whim, but if broken, the life you are granted will be nothing. Vengeance is the only thing keeping me going."
Bankotsu caught a butterfly wandering his way. Instead of crushing it as he could have done easily, he opened his fist and there it was, lively as it had before it was held captive. "I already got my vengeance. Though it wasn't much of one, because the guy I took down wasn't strong… at all."
"Then why are you still walking upon this earth?"
"Because I want to continue living."
"You're dead. You have no reason to keep living. And you're not planning on changing your ways either, are you?" She took another risky step and locked her eyes with his. "Admit it. You are simply imitating your past life. You and I… we are just imitations of life. We will never be "life"," she said.
"I know," he replied, crushing the insect with his fingers. He dropped the remains of the living being onto the floor. "That's why I kill. Because I can never be this "life". Because I'm not warm and full of blood like everyone else."
He looked up to the sky. The blue was driven away by the incoming dark clouds. It was taking away that warm light that the sun cast down. The only source of warmth for their cold, fake skin.
"I might not be warm, but you should be. After all, your life is hanging by a thread tied to the Shikon no Kakera in your neck. That object should imitate everything perfectly. You should bleed, hear, smell, touch, and be everything that all the living are."
"But in the end, I'm just an imitation. We'll never be living. Isn't that what you just said? The way I laugh, the way I talk, and everything else isn't natural. Everything the dead does is based on what we did when we were alive. Our actions are never new…"
All of a sudden, the clouds rumbled. A distant sound resembling a roar echoed over the lands. The wind blew by, drawing lines in the lakes and pools, so cold to the fingers of the living. But when this wind struck the two, they felt nothing. They were already too cold to be cold.
And then, at this signal, Bankotsu pulled his sword out of the dirt and swung it over his shoulder again. The conversation was over. Death was now going to be a topic that the dead could only talk about to themselves.
Without a goodbye, Bankotsu continued his trek down the path Kikyo had come from, just as quiet as he was before.
Kikyo herself, went along her way, calling her Shinidamachu from places only she knew, absorbing souls of the living. Even the way she kept "alive" was all because she needed the "living". The dead were truly nothing… without life. The life could be dead… but dead will never be life.
She started to hum a tune. It was a sweet 20 noted tune that repeated itself over and over, never growing tired, or old. Just like the dead...