Notes -- Another shameless dive into my insomnia-ridden hobby...plus a bit of Kenshin introspective. Damn you, early afternoon nap. Wasting time gathering thoughts for my Anita Blake/Kenshin/X crossover...woohoo. -_-;; Thank you, Liam and Noel Gallagher, for keeping me company through this long, rainy night. *plugs in Oasis again* (where were you while WE were getting high?)

Warnings -- none. It's amazing what you can't write when you're too tired to think. I wonder if they're thankful for that?

Fun With Disclaimer -- Watsuki-sensei owns them. Sarah McLachlan sings it. I'm a loser, baby, so why don't you kill me.



Winter-night

an RK ficlet by miriya valentine



-- The air is still in the silence of my room

I hear your voice softly calling

If I could only have you near

To breathe a sigh or two

I would be happy just to hold the hands I love

On this winter's night with you --

--song for a winter's night by Sarah McLachlan



Sometimes, in the winter-night, when the moon is little more than a sliver in the dark sky, I imagine I can see her. She was (and always will be) the most beautiful woman in the world. I can see her in the deep shadows of the cedar groves--her kimono is snowdrift, her black hair is an errant brush of limb. I can still see the blurred outline of her slender body, just as I can remember how it felt--when I held her that night in our home, when I held her as she died. Her smile is the same; a soft curve at the side of her lips. If I wasn't watching so often, I just might have missed it.

She smiles for me that rare, precious smile, and I know she loves me still.

Sometimes, in the winter-night, when the line between dream and reality have blurred beyond recognition, I imagine that she's kneeling by the smoldering fire, slim hands reaching out to pass a cup of warm sake. Sometimes I even reach out, but my hands always return empty. She looks peaceful, implacable, and I think that I could watch forever. She whispers, though, she whispers /close your eyes/. I always do.

Sometimes, in the winter-night, when the chill air raises your skin to gooseflesh, I can smell her, a faint, chilled breeze that is a ghost-sigh of white plum and earth. If I open my mouth just barely, I can breathe her in with the night and be comforted. I am not alone.

Sometimes, in the winter-night, when the house is calm and I'm alone in the darkness behind my closed eyes -- alone with that memory -- I imagine I can feel her. Her kimono makes almost no sound as she kneels behind me, and I can feel the air move as she wraps her arms around my neck. I can feel her, but there is no warmth. I know why -- I stole her warmth, long ago. It was winter and the light was blinding and everything I knew was from senses battered beyond accuracy. But she doesn't mind. She lets out a small sigh, and leans her head against mine. And we stay that way for hours at a time -- I don't open my eyes. I don't need to see her, because if I look too hard I know she'll be gone.

She holds me through the night, and I don't know if my mind speaks truth or gentle lie. But I don't mind; I think, sometimes, I'd like it to lie to me more often. It's easier that way.

Always, when the winter-night is gone, I feel the faint beginning of sunlight and think that perhaps if I opened my eyes, maybe just a little, I can see her go. Yes. I know the light has stolen her. But until I open my eyes, the winter-night remains and I can imagine she's still there.

I hold her in my heart.

fin 12.11.01, 10.07am