house / yorishiro
The functioning part of a highly functioning alcoholic was no easy discipline. Or it was. As long as there was alcohol at hand. And alcohol was always at hand.
Zoro leant forward and picked up the bottle, its long neck cool between his index and pointer, light reflecting in its shale blue glass.
Resettling onto his cushion, he pulled the stopper, filled the sake bowl, and raised it to the small block of wood opposite, his bandana loosely draped across the cypress. Wado-Ichimonji and a white camellia rested on the bandana's folds.
A knotted purple sageo-cord decorated the scabbard like ropes linking outcrops across dark oceans; connecting them to land, the sea, the sky, the gods.
Purple—the colour of nobles and priests. Back in the day the shade was sewn into the undercoats of the rabble. Brilliant tones were outlawed for commoners, so the sacred trod the dusty streets in concealed defiance.
Zoro sipped, drank, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, then placed the emptied bowl in front, sealed the bottle and dropped his head, legs crossed. Meditated, dreamt, slept, remembered, forgot.
Underneath his folded ankles, the satin cushion—also purple—pressed softly against his skin. The tatami, polished smooth with wear and liquid, needed cleaning or replacing. It shone with the sweat of training, or a few wayward droplets of sake. There weren't so many of those.
White for Shinto weddings, a shiromuku kimono billowed on the wall behind him. An embossed dragon, phoenix, and lion-dog swirled into the white—fast-flowing currents rushing down the wide sleeves, over the back panel, spilling into the room.
A sheen brocaded the cloth like sun glancing from a knife's edge. Across the room, the under-leaves of the camellia released water, vapour and oxygen—their stomata absorbed poison to purify the air.
Isshin students cleaned the dojo, but a woman from the village dusted surfaces and straightened curtains when needed. She lifted her head at the sound of pots and pans clattering to the kitchen floor.
Koushirou's daughter, Kuina, fumbled about in the cupboard under the sink, looking for something, anything. Probably had in mind arranging the pink flower resting on the counter. Camellias bloomed through winter—a relief to the eye in the blinding snow that surrounded the house.
The girl filled a jam jar—its surface imprinted with apples and oranges. Left the cookware all over the linoleum, the tap dripping. She walked to the table, but the woman grabbed her wrist before she could slip the stem and flower into the makeshift vase.
"They drop whole when they fall." The woman gestured to the camellia. Kuina didn't break her hold, but could have. She easily defeated grown men in her matches. "We don't display them."
And as if the gods had slammed a rod against a chalkboard to make a point, the blossom tumbled to the floor. Whole. Petals spread only on impact. The woman nodded at Kuina, raised her eyebrows, clucked her tongue. See? Released the girl's hand and swept up the plant.
"Pick some twigs and leaves. Or play in the snow." She tipped the foliage into the bin. "With swords or sticks or things. That boy. Zoro? Always up for battle. Find him." She shooed her from the kitchen.
The sword crossed the stem of the white flower. A commitment to get better. The dragon, the phoenix, and the lion-dog rushed and clattered in a torrent of cymbals and twists of neck and tail and feather and fur and scales.
Bark, bite, pierce, gouge, fire, slice, fly.
The gods surely heard them. Were sent by them. Swords, bottles, glass, and mirrors—all attracted and housed deities. Became them.
Kuina wouldn't see a wedding. Zoro neither. Whether both lived or not. But new beginnings grow from old. The shiromuku stilled behind as Zoro's own cape slid a fraction from his shoulders. Of course it did. He'd be the greatest swordsman, but he'd never know. Even after Mihawk conceded. He'd never know.
A feathered sweep brushed his arm, head, and ankles; the breeze a hawk's wing heralding samurai triumphs. He'd get there. He'd made a promise.
He poured another drink and downed it, stoppered the bottle and stood, shook out his trouser leg. Stepped across the room to gather Wado-Ichimonji and his other katana.
Whether to go out and drink, stay in and drink, practice and drink, or drink and sleep, were the choices faced and each was the same as the other, one day blending into the next, but he wasn't alone.
Luffy's apartment was a few down, on the left. He was never alone. He exited, hoping they hadn't switched the rooms or doors around again.
A/N: I really suggest reading this one on AO3 where it's posted under Harmonica_Smile with and is a stand-alone story with the same title. The accompanying art piece is embedded there, and it's a good (maybe necessary) reference to the story. I'm not sure if the story works without it (or even with it).
Thank you for reading, and thank you so much for a-tsute her art and for it also inspiring me to write this. Check out her tumblr or twitter or deviant art. It's probably easier to find her on twitter. tumblr is impossible to search, and I can't put in a link on ffn no matter how much I try (AO3 has them).
Here's a little information about yorishiro from wikipedia. If you google the term and wikipedia, you'll get more info of course. It's a short entry though: "A yorishiro (依り代・依代・憑り代・憑代) in Shinto terminology is an object capable of attracting spirits called kami, thus giving them a physical space to occupy."