Disclaimer: Fushigi Yuugi does not belong to me. If it did, I would be living in a happy little hobbit house in England right now, and the words "part time job" would never leave my lips.
Notes: No notes up here this time, folks. They're at the bottom. ^_~.
One Inch Ahead
by Ryuen
-1-
He staggered backwards, bloodied hands falling to his sides. His shoulder blades struck into the wall a moment later, but his feet kept moving, desperate for escape. His hands, stained and splotched with crimson, clawed at the unyielding brick until his own blood mingled with that already there, but he barely felt the pain. His mind was filled with a blinding, screaming light, his ears thick with static. He was afraid he might pass out. Or be sick. There was so much blood...
Gradually, he became aware of a low, moaning wail, rising in the air around him. Harsh and ragged, it rose in volume and intensity as the seconds ticked by, until finally he could do nothing but clap his hands over his ears and sink to the floor, pleading for it to stop. It was the moan of a murderer, the moan of a man whose entire world lay broken and bloodied on the floor of his living room. It was the moan of a man who had killed his best friend, and killed his love, and who now had nothing in the world but blood and tears and a tenderly-wrapped box, waiting on the coffee table with a splatter of scarlet on the paper.
He wasn't sure when, but eventually, the moaning stopped—but it was almost worse once it had. The silence pummeled into him in waves, and through the breaks in his fingers, he could still see the curve of her shoulder, the silken brown strands of her hair. She had always filled the silence, wrapping him in the melody of her laughter and the warmth of her love, but now... Now, the silence swirled around him, clawing at him with charred, blackened hands, mocking him with imagined echoes of her voice, his voice, their voices together, blending in laughter. It hadn't been that long ago, had it, that they'd sat around that table, her slicing up birthday cake with that very knife? It hadn't been that long ago that they'd lain together on that couch, warm in each other's arms, talking softly until sleep came.
It hadn't been that long ago that he'd slipped that ring onto her finger, begging her only to consider it, and she'd given him that sad smile and handed it back and everything had shattered into dust.
It hadn't been that long ago, it really hadn't. And yet now, somehow, everything was different. Everything had changed. It still didn't feel real; he was half-certain that any moment, he would feel her hand on his shoulder, shaking him out of this terrible nightmare. That was how it went, after all, wasn't it? On T.V.? The man only dreamed that he lost everything, that he ended the lives of his best friend and his love. Then he woke up, the dream sequence ended, and everything was fine again and he could finally really appreciate the beautiful, perfect life that he had. It wasn't real. It was never real. How could it be real? That wouldn't be fair. That wouldn't be right. For the man never to have a chance to tell his friend that he loved him after all, to never have a chance to tell his love that it was all right, that he could be happy with what they had—that they didn't need to get married to be together... That wasn't how things went. There was always a second chance.
Shivering, he sank down to the floor and rested his cheek on the cool tile. His arms curled into his chest, and his knees pressed upwards until they rested near his chin.
He would just lie here. He would lie here and wait, and soon...soon he would wake up. Soon the world would stop rocking and the tears would stop coming and things would go back to normal—soon everything would be all right again. He just had to wait long enough. He just had to...
~*~
6 Months Later
His legs had long since stopped cramping up as he sat there, hands folded before his chest, back unnaturally straight. It was the posture itself, Master Jiu had told him, that allowed one to be completely relaxed and at one with the air around him, but also to remain completely alert. Meditation was a personal experience, carried out in a place removed from the distractions of others, but Master Jiu was known to peek into the chambers from time to time, observing the progress of his students. Those members of the monastery Jiu found relaxed in sleep rather than meditation were rarely disciplined lightly, and were occasionally forced to forgo sleep the next night as a punishment. During such a punishment, Master Jiu would call the guilty party to his chambers for the long night, and would sit there on the floor, legs folded into the lotus, eyes lightly-closed. The student would be expected stand beside his master, still and silent, and meditate on the cause of his lack of self-discipline until dawn. Although he himself had never experienced that particular punishment, he'd heard that the master kept a willow branch in reach in case the student were to lapse into sleep, or to waver even an inch from his pose.
He himself had only been punished once during his stay here, and that had been on the very day he'd arrived. Master Jiu had asked him, as he stood there before him in jeans and a button-down dress shirt, a suitcase of belongings clutched in his hand, what he hoped to accomplish by entering the monastery.
"I hope to lose myself," he had answered.
Master Jiu, a small, bald Chinese man with a hawk-like nose, had stared at him levelly and said, "This place is not about losing. It is about finding. Go change into proper clothes and then go to the gardens. Tell whoever you find there that you will do his job until you can give him the one gift that he yearns to receive from you."
He had done so, confused but certain that he could find peace nowhere but here, and had spent the next three weeks slaving in the gardens, his fingers kneading the earth, trimming leaves, shearing bushes, digging up weeds, and watering thirsty stalks. It had been hard, back-breaking work, but he had done it, and as time had passed and he had begun to see the effects of his work on the gardens, he had grown to love the feel of the dirt in his fingers, the scent of rich, churned earth in his nostrils. It hadn't been until he'd glanced up from his work one day, sweat shining on his bare chest, fingers bathed in sap, dirt, and a few pricks of blood, that he had seen the face of the old gardener and realized what he could give him.
He'd risen from the ground, feeling the heat of the sun on his smooth, shaved head, and had started to walk towards the man. His name was Henry; he was from New York, and despite his age—forty-five or so—he had the sweet, plump face of a boy. He had often noticed Henry lingering at the edge of the gardens as he worked, watching him with large, intent eyes, but until now had not understood that it was longing, not watchfulness, that rested in his gaze.
Certain, now, that he knew the answer to Master Jiu's once-confusing instructions, he had stopped in front of Henry, who was suddenly looking guilty and contrite, gaze flickering as if in search of escape, and had handed the man the trowel he'd been using to dig up weeds.
"Here," he'd said, and then had left the gardens and returned to his room.
Master Jiu had visited him that night, pausing in his doorway with hands folded before him, dark eyes glittering in the candlelight. "What have you lost?" he'd asked quietly.
Not shifting from his position of meditation or even opening his eyes, he had replied, "I've lost something that was important to me. Something that I cared about. But I lost it to someone who wanted it more."
"No," Master Jiu had said. "You lost nothing. You gave. You can never lose what you give freely." And then, in a tone gentler and kinder than he'd ever heard the master use before: "Don't lose yourself, Houjun. Give yourself to something that wants you more."
He hadn't been entirely sure what the master meant by that, at first. Initially, he'd thought that perhaps he had meant the pursuit of peace, or preserving the quiet life that existed in the monastery. Now, however, with the memory of that girl's face so agonizingly-sharp in his mind, he was convinced that it was for something else that he was destined. A great deal of time had passed since he'd woken on the floor of his apartment, trapped in a nightmare that wouldn't fade, and that time had changed him. The quiet, meditative life of the monastery had drawn some of the grief from his heart, and had smoothed and refined the guilt until it was little more than a slight pang in his chest. And even though it was easy to forget himself here, to forget who he had been and what he had done, to vanish into the peace of the meditation and live as a new man, he strained to hold onto the memory of his former life. Kouran was dead. Hikou was dead. But for whatever reason, he was alive, and losing himself in the hopes of avenging them would do no good.
He had to give himself, and now, finally, he knew where he was needed.
He concluded his meditation at the rumble of hunger in his stomach. The members of the monastery functioned without the benefit of a calendar or clock, and measured time only in the rising and setting of the sun and the various phases of the moon. In that way, they drew themselves closer to nature, and felt the flow of the world, the interconnectedness of all things, more deeply. Because of this belief in the unimportance of time, students were encouraged to eat when hungry, not at an appointed hour to be upheld by all. When hungry, eat. That was the first instruction Master Jiu gave all new students, and despite its seeming simplicity, Houjun had found it one of the master's most important and meaningful lessons.
Eat when hungry. Listen to what your body tells you. Only you can know when you need nourishment, whether it be of the body or of the spirit. And only you can know when you are filled, and it is time to move on to other things.
He would miss being here, he truly would. Life was gentle and unhurried, and despite how much time he spent alone in his chamber, feeling the hard wood below him and the cool air around him, he had never felt lonely, and had never once desired anything more or less than this life. And yet, he knew—as deeply as he had ever known anything—that this life had filled him, had provided all the nourishment that it could, and now it was time to move on.
Rising from the floor, bare feet sticky against the wood, Houjun knew of the master's presence in the doorway before he turned.
"You are hungry again," Jiu said; it was not a question.
Houjun nodded, for once letting his eyes meet the
eyes of his teacher without hesitation.
"Yes, Master."
"Go, then," the small man continued. "Be filled. This room will be here if that hunger fades." A slight smile tugged at his lips. "If you still need it."
Houjun bowed, palms pressed together at chest level. "Thank you, Master."
He ate slowly that day, savoring each bite, enjoying the touch of the food on his tongue. And then, when he was finished, he rose from the squat table, washed his plate and chopsticks, and left the monastery through the front door. He wanted to take one last stroll through the gardens, to perhaps ask Henry if he could spend just a few minutes watering or trimming or weeding, but instead, he started off down the dirt road to the world beyond the monastery. The road spread out below him, long and sprinkled with debris from the previous night's storm, a river of hazards to his bare, calloused feet. The sunlight was warm on his back.
~*~
The hut was small. He had bought it from a kind-faced widow intending to move in with her sister, paying even less than the tiny structure was worth because the widow claimed she was glad to be rid of it. He had seen the recognition in her eyes when she looked at him, however, when she noticed his shaved head, bare feet, and reddish-brown robes, and knew that she had lowered the price because he didn't have enough to pay it. He'd never mentioned that, however, and had happily accepted the widow's generosity. Now, the hut was his, smaller than his old apartment and just about the size of his room at the monastery. The walls were sturdy and kept out the weather, there was room for a sleeping mat, table, and the belongings he still carried from his old life, and a small garden waited in the back. The hut itself was set atop a hill, within walking distance of the nearest village, and was cloaked on three sides by thick, lush Chinese woodland.
It was everything he could've wanted, and a quarter mile's walk would put him in the village of Tongli, where he had seen the girl several weeks earlier. She had been at the market, pretty in a satiny blue blouse and black slacks, her long black hair plaited into a braid and flipped over one shoulder. There had been something about her, something about her eyes... It was as if, peering into them, he could see straight into the secret heart of this young woman, and that secret heart had spoken of unimaginable pain, of lying awake at nights sobbing, of sprinting down that too-short road to self-destruction.
Yet examining her, studying the casual grace to her limbs, the easy smiles that touched her lips, he hadn't been able to believe that she could hold such pain within her. After all, if such a thing were made so obvious merely by looking into her eyes, why had no one else been able to see it? She had interacted with shopkeepers, friendly old women, young children with admiration shining in their eyes, and they had seen nothing but a cheerful young woman, smiling as she went about her shopping. Was that because he was imagining things, inventing pain where there was none?
No.
No, he had seen it. He was sure, now more than ever. Now, as he stood on the edge of the marketplace again, pretending to examine a delicate silver necklace as he watched her, he was sure. She wore a stylish, ankle-length skirt today, the fabric dyed black and embroidered with red flowers; her hair hung loose, flooding down over her shoulders, contrasting starkly with the whiteness of her blouse. Her face was pale and unmistakably Asian, her eyes dark and almond-shaped, her cheekbones high and well-defined. A small mole rested below her left eye, easily distinguishable against the paleness of her cheek.
She moved like a willow through the chaos of the marketplace, bending in the wind of the shifting crowd, letting herself be moved by it, but always standing strong, never breaking her stride. Before Houjun was entirely aware of what he was doing, he found himself starting towards her, barely having the sense to return the necklace to its table before doing so. He knew he should wait. He knew he should observe her a bit more, find out just what it was that made him sure that he could help her—learn something about her and find a subtler, less-forward way to approach her. But, his feet were moving and he couldn't stop them, and only a few moments later, he found himself standing only inches away from her.
She had stopped at the booth of an old man selling flowers, and was pointing at a bundle of long-stemmed purple flowers arrayed in a crystal vase. He came up behind her, just another shopper strolling through the marketplace, but her back stiffened as if she knew somehow that he was there for her. His first instinct, seeing that new rigidity to her shoulders, was to turn and leave as quickly as possible, abandon this foolishness and wait until a better opportunity presented itself. But something inside of him wouldn't let him leave, and if his time with Master Jiu had taught him anything, it was to pay attention to the voice within. That voice spoke to him now, telling him to stay where he was, and so he did.
So it was that he was standing directly behind her, hair a brownish fuzz on his head, hands and robes stained with earth from his garden, feet bare but for simple leather sandals, when she finally turned around. She had bought the flowers, depositing the correct amount of money on the shopkeeper's table, and so they were now clasped tight in her fingers, held almost protectively to her chest.
He noticed, now, that she was a few inches shorter than he was, the top of her head reaching only to the bottom of his nose; her arms and body were very slender, too, looking as if they might snap if put under the least amount of pressure. Physically, she wasn't terribly formidable—yet, something told him not to underestimate this woman. Something told him that there was more to her than there seemed, and as he looked into her eyes and saw, again, that depth of pain and anguish, he knew that he had made the right decision in coming here.
"Hello," he said.
Her eyes narrowed, just slightly, but then widened as if she'd seen something unexpected. "Hello," she echoed.
Her voice was husky but pleasant, and low enough to be genderless; her features, now that he looked at them, held that androgynous quality to them, also, attractive but not overtly feminine or masculine. Before he had even considered the consequences of doing so, he found his eyes drifting to her chest, to the billowy, concealing fabric of her blouse...
And it was then that he knew.
Like the pain in those dark, almond-shaped eyes, he doubted that it was obvious to anyone else, yet to him, it was glaringly clear. He thought that he had known all along, somehow, that perhaps upon that first glimpse, he had seen this beautiful, delicate-featured young man for what he was, even if he hadn't been able to admit it to himself. But now, knowing, and perhaps beginning to understand why it was that he could help this poor soul in pain, he found that he couldn't deny what he knew.
But as he opened his mouth to give some sign as to his knowledge, he found that he didn't need to. The young man's eyes were wide with shock, cheeks flushed, bouquet pressed even more tightly to his chest. "You know," he whispered. "How do you know?"
Pressing his hands together at chest level, Houjun
bowed slightly. "I'm here to help
you," he said softly. "Is
there somewhere we could go to—"
"I'm on my way to the cemetery," the young man interjected; his voice wavered slightly. "Would...would you like to come with me?"
The decision to go seemed hardly a decision at all. He had decided days ago, as he strode down the path from the monastery for the last time, and now, standing here in the Tongli marketplace with this young man, the word slipped from his lips before he'd even given it thought.
"Yes." He drew a deep breath; the scent of flowers was thick in the air, making him think inevitably of a funeral. He swallowed. "Yes, I'll come."
~*~
N O T E S:
Well, this is certainly...different, ne? ^_~. Different for me, at least. Anyway, this is a story I've been thinking about writing for awhile now, but which I've only recently gotten around to working on. Oddly, the structure of it seems to mirror Roku-chan's "Bridge Over the Abyss" a bit—e.g., Houjun mourns the deaths of Kouran and Hikou, Houjun goes to some sort of monastery-like place, Houjun meets a new friend—but I promise you, any resemblance to that wonderful work of fanfiction was completely unintentional. Most of this was written before I even read Bridge. *nod*
Annnnnyway. By now, you have probably figured out that the main character is, indeed, Chichiri, better known as Ri Houjun. It's a reincarnation fic in the fact that it takes place in the real world, not the Book World, and in that the Fushigi Yuugi characters exist in it in a state similar to their states in the Book. However, I've opted to make it as little like anime as possible; Nuriko, you'll notice, has black hair and Asian features, and Houjun's hair is brown—and, sorry to say, does not defy gravity. :P
On another note, the monastery that Houjun finds himself in (and there will be more explanation later as to just how he gets there, as well as precisely what went on with Kouran and Hikou) is a place dedicated to Zen Buddhist beliefs, in case you found them appealing and want to learn more. :P The Chinese village of Tongli, too, is a real place—it's what's called a "water town," as it has a great deal of water and a ton of bridges. Quite the tourist attraction, as I understand. ...unfortunately, though, I'm not an expert on China. I've never been there, and I know fairly little about the country in general. Thus, most of the detail I include about it will be made up of creative educated guesses. So, hey, if you're writing a paper or something about China, don't use my story for a reference point. ^_~.
As for the title, it comes from a Japanese saying, "One inch ahead and all is total darkness," a statement on the uncertainty of the future and the importance of appreciating now, because it can all be gone far too quickly.
Anyway, I suppose that's all I have to say at this
point. I've enjoyed writing this story
thus far, and so I hope to be able to add more to it in the future and thus
enjoy it further. And as for my other
fics...well, I can only work on what I'm inspired to work on. If I try to force it, it doesn't work all
that well, and personally, I'd rather turn out one really excellent chapter
every few weeks than a bunch of crappy chapters every few days. So.
I guess all that's left to say now is thanks, to all who read and
review, and to all who read and don't review, and even to those who open the
fic and skim down to the bottom to see what the hell it's about, anyway.
^_~. Thanks to all, and if you're so
inclined, I'd love to hear your thoughts/opinions/whatever. Jaaaa!!
~Ryuen
