Kendo no Go: A Fanfic in 100 Chapters

by Akai Kitsune

A collection of brief stories, spanning anywhere from the childhood of the characters, almost exclusively K&K, to Seisouhen. This is a fanfic parody, combining aspects of RK and Diane Schoemperlen's novel, In The Language of Love.

36. Chapter 36 Akai

Note: No, this is NOT a chapter about me, O_o
~*~
Kendo no Go
In The Language of Kendo
A Fanfic in 100 Chapters
Akai Kitsune
~*~
36) Akai
~*~

The colour of blood as your sword carves its dark, wet path through a man's skull, stained for the first time. Your first kill. The colour of the sky, despite the sun's bright shining upon your face, as your heart clouds over with the overwhelming scent and feel of the life-giving liquid, as it spreads across your hands and forms a sticky bond that can never be washed, never be cleaned.

The colour of blood that fills your vision, as a sword slashes towards you, inches from your face. The same blood that, mere moments later, streams down your face as you touch - there - not focusing on the pain or the surprise that comes hand-in-hand from the receival of your first wound, but instead, the vehemence of the one who inflicts the wound, fiercely refusing to die even as his own blood leaves his body, killing him faster by the second. The blood that splashes upward as you cause the final blow, ending his suffering as well as his chance at life, however slim it may have been.

The colour of the sky as you smile into the face of the woman you love, glowing and unafraid, and ask her to be your wife. The colour of the blood, still on your hands, but slowly fading, paling in the midst of her presence, which has always been soothing, and piercing at the same time.

The colour of the blush which spreads across her cheeks, as she whispers her consent.

The colour of the blood that streams down your face, pulsing and screaming in your eardrums, louder than the battle-cry of your opponent, louder even than your own scream. The colour of the stains in the shawl you carry, once pure and pristine violet - like your eyes, warm and soothing to behold - now tainted with the foul infection of your blood, poisoned as is everything you touch.

Save one. Save her.

The colour of blood that is loud, loud in your ears, louder than everything, but not loud enough to drown out the scent of white plums as you drive your sword through her body, your eyes wide in horror and sudden understanding, loss and brokenness.

The colour of blood that falls from your cheek to hers, mingling with your tears as she passes from the world. The colour of pain, and anger, but above all, hatred for no one but yourself.

The colour of the cheeks of your wife - never, ever secondary - as she burns with her infuriated temperament, arguing heatedly with her young student over something inconsequential yet again. The colour of the bump on his head he earns from the side of her bokken, which will later develop into an admirable bruise.

The colour of the blood in your mind, as you recall how you had delivered the same form of strike in the past, with a completely different result. The feeling of annoyance, at your own inability to keep such thoughts from your mind.

The colour of the long, tattered bandanna of an old friend, whose casual comments and feckless, lounging nature were always able to banish almost anything from your head, although it did require a good punch or two which were berated at first, but later appreciated in silence. The colour of the grudges of past actions that lay between you and he, which were not coloured at all, for such grudges were nonexistent, at least in your mind. The colour of fear as you wonder, briefly and anxiously, if he would not come home, could not come home because he was dead, and such thoughts left you cold and empty.

The colour of the screaming, squirming baby, swathed in clean, honey-scented cloth and pressed into your arms, bloody and newly born. The colour of the blood that coats him, no longer holding such dark, cold memories for you, but instead the glow and glory of life, of love, of family. The knowledge that this blood is natural, and will be gone soon enough, and that its presence made the new life that much more important, that much more real.

The colour of his hair, a simple scrap of auburn atop his tiny head, revealed once the blood has been cleared. Darker than your own, closer to hers, but not quite close enough to please you completely. It would not spoil your joy, though; a son, your son. What right did you have to complain?

Who would?

The colour of the face of your wife, flushed and tired, her lips pursed against the pain, yet still curving into a smile as she is given the child, her dark eyes glittering with pride and newfound motherly love.

The colour of the blood on your hands, invisible and eternally present, yet faded and no more than a distant memory as she takes one in her own hand and presses it gently to his cheek, the baby's cheek, and all you feel is the brilliant fire of a new passion - the protection of life, his life, her life, renewed by the sudden presence of a boy-child who, you know, will change your life forever.

~*~

Again, omniscient narration for the purpose of effect; this is meant to be a parallel to Chapter 28.

The original chapter title was "Red". I thought of the Japanese equivalent, then realized how odd it would look for me to give a title that was part of my name, but... *shrug* It fit, ^_^

Reviewer Responses:

Calger459: How did I manage? Lots of water and a laptop in front of me, ^_^ I think I must have written for six straight hours... and then I watched music videos. *grin* This is the second time I've done it, and the first years was a LOT better (I think I was more active, though; a lot of people were just sitting around, as opposed to last year when we ran around the gym and played video games the whole time, ^_^ FUN...) but this year I had this itchy feeling I'd get bored, so I brought along the computer. I'm so glad I did...