DISCLAIMERS: Rurouni Kenshin (c) Nobuhiro Watsuki, Jump
Comics, Shueisha, Fuji TV and Sony Entertainment. This
is a nonprofit work of fanfiction written only for online
entertainment purposes. No copyright infringement intended.
*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*
THE DOMINANT PRIMORDIAL BEAST
by: Chibi-Chiriko
*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*
The hands that so skilfully shape grainy lumps of clay
into beautifully designed pots and flower vases now
grasp the hilt of a blade poised to kill. Gleaming in
the mirroring silver of the naked stretch of metal are
a menacing pair of hazel eyes, the brazen color of dull
gold, burning with primal wrath. The air is heavy with
tension, nerves taut to the point of cracking, moments
quickly departing as the combatants eye each other warily.
A shout slices into the stillness of the night; instincts
leap to life. Feet take off the ground, sparks fly into
the air as the din of clashing swords and crashing bones
destroys the night. Blood speckles the ground then soaks it as
it settles, and a body drops without so much as a single
cry of terror, everything spoken in the face's dull,
lifeless expression. The stench of death diffuses into
the air.
The minted light of the moon casts a silent, melancholy
glow on the lone figure that slowly walks down the hill,
the very image of a great red dragon passively returning
home.
The hazel eyes that once flamed with deadliness now sparkle
like gold nuggets under the sun. Two discs of happiness and
contentment laugh in amusement as the stuttering lad pays him
for the pot he so carefully crafted for a family reunion that
was to take place that evening. The man grins almost
devilishly as he waves the lad off, who is only to eager
to get out of the "haunted" mountain. Chuckling to himself
at an inside joke, he turns and retreats to his shack, mouth
watering at the thought of a sumptuous lunch of broiled
fish and mushrooms.
The dragon -- a beast to be feared by all save the ignorant
that eventually fall to its clutches. A great winged creature
with eyes that can penetrate into the soul of even the most
resilient men, whose nostrils breathe the destructive fire
that bakes the evil in merciless flames, whose fangs sink
deep into the flesh and draw the vibrant vermilion juice of
life drop by drop, delighting in the cries of agony and
writhings of the unfortunate victim.
The man -- the highest form of existence under God, that which
possesses a mind that thinks, a heart that feels and a soul
that lives, fed not just by instinct but by decision, clothed
not with fur but with garments made of his own hands. Given
feet that transport him, hands that fend for him, teeth that
chew for him, eyes that see for him, ears that hear for him,
nerves that sense for him, he has been granted the greatest
privilege which is to live, and not just exist. When he dies
he does not exist anymore, but lives on; whereas the dragon
who exists but does not live is forgotten in unknown shores
or discarded in unexplored heights.
And *he* is both man and dragon -- structured with the body
of a man and the feral instincts of the ferocious beast that
lives only by the law of club and fang. Both dragon and man
in him coexist peacefully, yet their natures constantly
conflict each other, especially on the foreground in which
nothing but survival matters. It cannot be this way forever;
one will eventually have to give in to that which predominates.
With slow, hulking steps, he returns to the scenario of
the kill. Nothing much has changed, he cynically observes,
save for the flies that swarm over the carcass his sword
has left behind. The blood on the ground has mercifully
dried, yet the crimson of it still clings to the tiny blades
of grass. The soil is scarlet with death.
The shovel bites into the soil, and he flips the mound of
grains over his shoulder. He digs until there is ample space
for the corpse to buried in, then holds his breath as he lifts
the body and carefully tucks it in the hole of the ground.
He then covers the area with shovel-fuls of soil until there
is not a single trace of the body. Then, he takes a large
heavy stone, muscles in his forearms bulging as he bears
its weight, then sets it over the grave.
He steps back to observe his handiwork. Yet another grave
among a sea of countless graves scattered all over a world
that has all too willingly embraced death as a part of reality.
A world in which man and dragon constantly battle it out
in every living, breathing human being -- a world in which
the dragon that lives only by instinct and not by will has
predominated.
He smiles slightly, feeling the winds of freedom on his handsome
face, the honey-scented air sweet in his nostrils.
For him, the dominant primordial beast is still the man.
OWARI
3/31/00
This fic was inspired by, believe it or not, "The Call of
the Wild" (Jack London), one of my favorite novels. It's
great, I love the way Jack-sama uses words, and the way
he so vividly describes the rapid pace of life from the
viewpoint of the furry, romantic hero Buck ^.^ The title
"The Dominant Primordial Beast" came from one of the chapters
of the book, and the line "The law of club and fang" also
came from one of the book's chapters. I've always liked
Hiko Seijurou, and this is the first time I've ever written
something 'bout the guy. I noticed there weren't that many
Hiko fics around, so I decided to try my luck. Hopefully,
it was worth it.
Take care and God bless, minna!
Comics, Shueisha, Fuji TV and Sony Entertainment. This
is a nonprofit work of fanfiction written only for online
entertainment purposes. No copyright infringement intended.
*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*
THE DOMINANT PRIMORDIAL BEAST
by: Chibi-Chiriko
*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*
The hands that so skilfully shape grainy lumps of clay
into beautifully designed pots and flower vases now
grasp the hilt of a blade poised to kill. Gleaming in
the mirroring silver of the naked stretch of metal are
a menacing pair of hazel eyes, the brazen color of dull
gold, burning with primal wrath. The air is heavy with
tension, nerves taut to the point of cracking, moments
quickly departing as the combatants eye each other warily.
A shout slices into the stillness of the night; instincts
leap to life. Feet take off the ground, sparks fly into
the air as the din of clashing swords and crashing bones
destroys the night. Blood speckles the ground then soaks it as
it settles, and a body drops without so much as a single
cry of terror, everything spoken in the face's dull,
lifeless expression. The stench of death diffuses into
the air.
The minted light of the moon casts a silent, melancholy
glow on the lone figure that slowly walks down the hill,
the very image of a great red dragon passively returning
home.
The hazel eyes that once flamed with deadliness now sparkle
like gold nuggets under the sun. Two discs of happiness and
contentment laugh in amusement as the stuttering lad pays him
for the pot he so carefully crafted for a family reunion that
was to take place that evening. The man grins almost
devilishly as he waves the lad off, who is only to eager
to get out of the "haunted" mountain. Chuckling to himself
at an inside joke, he turns and retreats to his shack, mouth
watering at the thought of a sumptuous lunch of broiled
fish and mushrooms.
The dragon -- a beast to be feared by all save the ignorant
that eventually fall to its clutches. A great winged creature
with eyes that can penetrate into the soul of even the most
resilient men, whose nostrils breathe the destructive fire
that bakes the evil in merciless flames, whose fangs sink
deep into the flesh and draw the vibrant vermilion juice of
life drop by drop, delighting in the cries of agony and
writhings of the unfortunate victim.
The man -- the highest form of existence under God, that which
possesses a mind that thinks, a heart that feels and a soul
that lives, fed not just by instinct but by decision, clothed
not with fur but with garments made of his own hands. Given
feet that transport him, hands that fend for him, teeth that
chew for him, eyes that see for him, ears that hear for him,
nerves that sense for him, he has been granted the greatest
privilege which is to live, and not just exist. When he dies
he does not exist anymore, but lives on; whereas the dragon
who exists but does not live is forgotten in unknown shores
or discarded in unexplored heights.
And *he* is both man and dragon -- structured with the body
of a man and the feral instincts of the ferocious beast that
lives only by the law of club and fang. Both dragon and man
in him coexist peacefully, yet their natures constantly
conflict each other, especially on the foreground in which
nothing but survival matters. It cannot be this way forever;
one will eventually have to give in to that which predominates.
With slow, hulking steps, he returns to the scenario of
the kill. Nothing much has changed, he cynically observes,
save for the flies that swarm over the carcass his sword
has left behind. The blood on the ground has mercifully
dried, yet the crimson of it still clings to the tiny blades
of grass. The soil is scarlet with death.
The shovel bites into the soil, and he flips the mound of
grains over his shoulder. He digs until there is ample space
for the corpse to buried in, then holds his breath as he lifts
the body and carefully tucks it in the hole of the ground.
He then covers the area with shovel-fuls of soil until there
is not a single trace of the body. Then, he takes a large
heavy stone, muscles in his forearms bulging as he bears
its weight, then sets it over the grave.
He steps back to observe his handiwork. Yet another grave
among a sea of countless graves scattered all over a world
that has all too willingly embraced death as a part of reality.
A world in which man and dragon constantly battle it out
in every living, breathing human being -- a world in which
the dragon that lives only by instinct and not by will has
predominated.
He smiles slightly, feeling the winds of freedom on his handsome
face, the honey-scented air sweet in his nostrils.
For him, the dominant primordial beast is still the man.
OWARI
3/31/00
This fic was inspired by, believe it or not, "The Call of
the Wild" (Jack London), one of my favorite novels. It's
great, I love the way Jack-sama uses words, and the way
he so vividly describes the rapid pace of life from the
viewpoint of the furry, romantic hero Buck ^.^ The title
"The Dominant Primordial Beast" came from one of the chapters
of the book, and the line "The law of club and fang" also
came from one of the book's chapters. I've always liked
Hiko Seijurou, and this is the first time I've ever written
something 'bout the guy. I noticed there weren't that many
Hiko fics around, so I decided to try my luck. Hopefully,
it was worth it.
Take care and God bless, minna!