Disclaimer: I do not own SC, nor do I claim rights to any of the affiliated characters.
Warnings/Notes: A series of drabbles on the characters of Samurai Champloo. Please Note: Any themes that may be construed as sensitive of offensive will be mentioned in this section at the beginning of the chapter. This story's rating is set for the sake of future installments, thank you.
She lives life in small, insignificant details. In dark, skeletal faces with eroded noses and eyes that have rotted out.
She indulges silly whims to drown out the lingering floral scent of a summer that had been channeling tragedy, all along.
She carries a small, straying animal atop her shoulder from time to time, because its voice is tiny and shrill, and reminds her of long-gone laughter.
At her side, she keeps two men.
One is a calm, and soldiers on without complaint, born in benevolence and raised by duty.
The other is wild, and tears through streets with an overwhelming ego, enabled by a willingness to endure.
Despite their striking impact on her character, she supposes that they too, started out as just another whim to mask the hurt of a far-off summer.
Yet, she sees now, that the calm man prepares her, with the smooth, even voice of a father she can distantly remember.
And perhaps the wild one keeps her nerve, because the only thing more instrumental than reaching Nagasaki, is facing now, what she could not then.
There is purpose in everything she keeps. In the token of the protector she should have had as a small child, and in the living, breathing proof that one can fuel survival with spite, which she hopes can buy a man.
She lives life in a small skeleton whose nose has eroded, and whose eyes have rotted out.
AN: A huge thank you for everyone who has read this.