The East Is Burning With a Bad Fever
When blood and dirt mix, a sickening parody of mud is formed. Given the right circumstances, one won't even notice the red, sticky liquid of life pooling around their head and sinking into the earth. The boy, barely fourteen years old, didn't notice. All he knew, as his left hand twitched involuntarily and his right was crushed underneath his body, was the dull pain in his ribs and the burning sensation on his face. He didn't dare open eyes, for fear that if he did, all he would see would still be darkness. When one's face burns so badly that tears mingle with the blood made mud, you don't think logically. You don't think 'well, maybe everything will be all right if I only open my eyes. Only stand up.' You think 'maybe, if I lie still it will all go away.'
But it doesn't go away, it doesn't even fade. Rather, as dirt clogs the wound which still bleeds so profusely, the pain only intensifies. The tears stop though, as you realize you have nothing to cry about. It's only pain. You've been hurt before. You've survived before. You will now.
The boy, barely fourteen years old, thought these things until the pain was too much and all that existed was an unreal haze of murky, imagination-formed images and sounds. A rasping voice, scolding and angry, yet the disappointment and concern underlining it was worse. He tried to get up, thought he may have even managed, but aside from his spasming hand, he hadn't moved. Strong, warm arms lifted him up, one under his knees, one across his shoulders. Being held shouldn't hurt, but it did. Ached all over. Especially where the jagged rock had cut into his cheek straight to the bone. Now that it had been dislodged, fresh gouts of blood spurted, dribbling down his face and staining his clothes.
The boy, barely fourteen years old, didn't know. He was trapped in a murky haze of warmth and pain, afraid to lift his hand, afraid to open his eyes.
**********************
When Domon Kasshu awoke, not so much from sleep or unconsciousness, but as though a heavy, weighted veil had been lifted from smothering him and he was aware again, his hand flew to his cheek, cupping the stiff, taped gauze.
"Don't touch it," a harsh voice demanded.
"Yes, Master," he mumbled, drawing his hand away. He sat up, a bed of blankets beneath him and an unfamiliar red material covering him. Domon crossed his legs and set his hands in his lap, mindful not to touch the curious wrapping on his face. His shirt was open and Domon realized his skin was pale and he had lost a significant amount of weight. He hoped it was fat and not a decrease in muscle mass, as he had worked so hard in the past handful of years. To see his efforts disappear would be unbearable.
"Lie down," same authoritative voice commanded. Gingerly, Domon complied as he realized his back was quite sore. He pulled the red material up to his chin and rolled onto his side, so that he could see his master.
The old man was frowning at him. "Do you recall what a foolish and undisciplined child you have been?" he questioned. Domon gave no answer. "In a simple sparring exercise, one we have done many times, you failed to pay attention to your surroundings and fell a considerable distance. Several bones were cracked upon landing and the cut on your face was infected."
Domon's hand gently prodded the gauze again, until his master's slit-eyed gaze caused him to pull away again. "How long was I sick?" The boy asked, knowing from his shape that it must have been a long time.
"We spent several months in town for your medical treatment," Master Asia replied, his voice not softening a bit. The hard edge was most unwelcome and Domon felt himself growing more and more ashamed. The duo of master and apprentice ventured into the nearest South American town only when it was absolutely necessary, and even then, the visits were short. Provisions, clothes, sometimes a letter home.
Domon sat up again, pulling the red blanket around himself. "You're going to send me away, aren't you?!" he accused. "I failed! I'm weak!" He choked on a sob, even as he fiercely thought to himself that he was much too old to cry. "You told me you could train me, but that's a lie! I'm not good enough!"
"Domon," his master scolded, but the boy in questioned paid it no mind.
"That's what my parents did!" Domon screamed. "I wasn't good enough for them so they got rid of me! Now you're going to do the same thing, aren't you?! Aren't you?!" With this, Domon leapt to his feet. He swayed for a moment, clutching the blanket and collapsed. "I wasn't good enough for them," Domon whispered. "I'm not smart like Father and Brother, and I'm not strong like you, either."
"Domon," his master said again, voice still cold. "You know what makes a fighter strong. You also know there is a difference between weakness and foolishness. If you don't know these things, perhaps I am a worse teacher than I thought."
The boy lay still, his eyes half open and unfocused. Standing up had made him so dizzy… "A fighter is strong," Domon recited, "when he expressed his emotions through his fists. That is what you are teaching me to do." His master nodded, but it was too fine a gesture for Domon to follow. He smiled as well, but again, with his unfocused eyes, Domon couldn't see the grin beneath Master Asia's grey mustache. "But," Domon continued, his voice pounded in his own hears, though he thought maybe he was speaking softly. Softly and slowing. "Foolishness is a weakness."
"Only if you choose not to learn from it," Asia corrected. He knelt down on the warm, smooth cave floor by his student and tossed a few errant branches into the fire nearby. "Tell me, what have you learned from your foolishness?"
"There are no feelings in my punches," Domon answered. It was not the answer his mentor had expected, so the elder said nothing, waiting for his apprentice to continue. "I focus on my opponent, his movements and mine, but I'm not expressing any feeling, so I'm not strong. I don't know what I'm fighting for so I fail."
"Interesting," Master Asia said. "How can you correct this?"
"I need something to believe in, something to fight for," the boy answered. "Then I will never lose."
"And where was this confidence a moment ago?" his master asked.
"It was the same then," Domon answered. "I was weak and I still am, because I'm only fighting because I want to. There's no strength in fighting only for yourself. Why do you fight, Master?"
"Have you seen the glowing symbol on my hand?"
"Yes, Master. You are the King of Hearts."
"I fight for the world, Domon. Every living being and every blade of grass, for this earth and its people. Nature has given us life, Domon, and it is the responsibility of those who can fight to protect those lives. Protecting everyone is the only way we can thank this earth for what it has done for us." As his master spoke, Domon sat up. His vision cleared with a bit of effort and he looked at Master Asia with awe and respect. He had never thought of life and fighting in such a way, and now found himself ashamed that he hadn't, but proud of his master's insight.
"I want to protect everyone with you, Master," Domon said, this time he knew his voice was loud and booming and he wondered if he could put that desire into his punches.
Master Asia curled Domon's right hand into a fist and grasped it with both of his own hands. "Someday, you will protect them, Domon, though never with me."
"I don't want to leave you!" the boy yelped, opening his hand so that he could hold his master's. The old man laughed. Domon, confused, frowned him. "It's not funny," Domon pouted. He snorted and looked away, yanking his hand away with all of his strength.
"You laugh at me," his master reminded him, planting a large palm on Domon's head and turning it back to face him.
"Well," Domon defended poorly, "sometimes you are funny… But I was serious."
"I am serious as well, Domon. By becoming my student, you have allowed yourself to take on an immense responsibility, but you misunderstand me."
"Oh," Domon said with that shame creeping up on him again. "Maybe if you explain it better…"
"Another time, perhaps," Master Asia replied. "But you still need to rest."
"I feel fine!"
A smirk. Then, "When you're fever has gone down and the infection is cleared, we may begin your training again. Not before then."
"Yes, Master," Domon said and dutifully lay down again. He treaded his fingers together, making a pillow out of his hands and gnawed on his lower lip as he thought. This had been a lesson he would never forget. The stiff gauze on his cheek covered the notes.
Sore de wa…Gundam Fight! Ready? Go!!
Disclaimers: In fanfiction writing, DBC is, owner of nothing, a RAM wasting writer, look, Sunrise is burning with crimson anger!
Author Notes: Wishing this was longer…