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The Man Beneath the Braid - 9

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He was vaguely aware of the light...of the pain...of the nearly-inaudible sound of quiet weeping, very nearby.

The soft sobs were screams against his fading thoughts, tangled, gnarled hands clawing into his heart. His eyes slid open almost without his consent, peered through a haze of violet and crimson to glimpse the source of the noise...the source of that pain.

What he saw nearly made him gasp...although, he knew that it would hurt, to draw breath...so he didn't. He lay there and rested for a moment, did not breathe, did not blink...laid there and stared blankly and tried to pretend that he had died...that the pain was gone forever. It wasn't, of course, and as the world started to tilt in front of him, he was forced to draw another painful breath, draw the life back into his body and focus on the cold, cracked stone, the dark shadows of the bars...the soft orange light flooding from a torch stuck into the nearby wall.

Gradually, he regained enough control of his trembling, pain-torn body to lift his head a bit from the floor, gaze with blurry eyes towards the wall, towards the sound...and make out a hunched, shaking figure, crying softly in the corner. And, as the world came into focus for a moment, as he saw the familiar decorated armor, the blood-stained whip still dangling from those thick, muscled fingers...he wondered, briefly, if he might be dreaming.

"Do...shite?" he managed, his voice a cracked, hissing whisper.

The big guard started at the sound, snapped his head up from his hands and leaped to his feet...brushed hurriedly at his eyes. It was a useless gesture, of course, as they both well knew--but, nonetheless, the man rubbed a blood-darkened thumb beneath the curve of his eyelashes, brushed the last of the tears from his cheeks even as he drew in a few harsh breaths, regained control.

Nuriko closed his eyes, realized he was lying on his side on the floor, arms hanging limply at his sides, his hair a virtual cape around him...the blood pooling neatly around his body. The pain was coming back... He tried, again, to not breathe...to let himself rest in the stasis without pain.

//Just don't breathe.\\

He let out a soft, final breath...let himself go limp and dead against the cool stone. The room was dark, comfortable...the floor almost like a balm against his wounds...and, without breath...without life...the pain could almost be forgotten.

He felt his lungs begin to burn, forced himself to ignore it. After all...it was only a mild irritation, compared with what awaited him when he drew in another breath--when he felt his ribs stretch in protest, his arms screech in pain...his stomach lurch with the scent of blood, flooding up through his nostrils.

//Just...don't breathe.\\

He began to grow lightheaded, ignored that, too. He felt numb...painless. Lifeless. It was better this way...ne?

And, then, suddenly...he felt heavy hands on his shoulders, felt himself being hefted up into the air, placed into a forced standing position even as he forced himself to remain limp, to let his head loll back, let his arms dangle lifelessly...let his toes drift limply over the cool stone. It was almost like floating, hanging here...almost like floating.

The burning in his lungs began to grow more intense, the thud of straining heartbeat in his ears more insistent.

"Damn you, you can't die now!"

The voice was harsh and ragged with the echoes of the tears, ripping through his thoughts...drawing him up out of the breathless death even before he realized he was allowing himself to listen. But, still...no...no...to draw breath meant to live, to feel this pain...to face those he'd let down, those he'd failed.

//No. Don't breathe. Don't live.\\

Dully, he felt himself being shaken, felt his feet sliding over the stone with the movement. "DAMN YOU!" Hon bellowed.

The voice was so loud...the breath hot and stinging on his face.

And, then, abruptly...the hands let go, let him drop...and, he fell. He crumpled to the ground in a lifeless heap, felt his skull strike hard against the cold stone, his shoulder slam into the rocky floor with force enough to make him cry out in pain, draw in a great, gasping breath of air against the shock...

And, then, damn it...he was breathing again. The air flooded back into his lungs in a hot, bitter rush, made him cough, choke, gag...and, the pain came surging back, too...ripped into every inch of his body until he screamed...until he could only lie weakly on his side, crying softly and trying to ignore the agony he'd come so close to dismissing.

Vaguely, he became aware of a dark shape hovering above him, somehow managed to turn onto his back on the floor, gaze up through the crimson haze at those sharp, hawk-like features, twisted into a strange mix of sorrow and disgust.

"Aarin said many things of you," Hon spat, his eyes dark...wide...enraged. There was such anger in those eyes, such unfathomable rage... "But, he never said that you were a COWARD!" The man shook his head again, took a long step backwards and began to pace the length of the cell...began to stamp his feet hard against the stone, each new step sending another shuddering burst of pain surging through Nuriko's body. But, he ignored the pain this time, ignored it as his eyebrows came together in confusion...as, slowly, he began to understand.

"A...Aarin," he managed, his voice little more than a gasping whisper in the stillness.

Hon was suddenly kneeling just beside him, the man's breath a heavy heat against his cheeks, those dark eyes narrowed and incensed above him. He felt meaty fingers digging into his arm, resisted the urge to cry out with all that remained of his willpower.

"Yes," Hon hissed, tightening his grip...squeezing one slim bicep tightly enough that the young seishi felt his fingers start to go numb... "And, this isn't about revenge, either, before you ask." He shook his head, let a sharp breath slide through his lips. "This...was justice."

Nuriko coughed, had to lay back on his side, spend a moment coughing weakly before he could draw in a clear breath, slide again onto his back and stare up at the guard. "Justice," he whispered.

Hon nodded once, and it was only then that Nuriko noticed that the man's eyes were still wet, that they still shone softly in the torchlight. "Hai," he replied simply. "Justice. You don't need to know why."

Nuriko drew in a gasping breath, lay weakly on his side and closed his eyes. The grip on his arm abruptly loosened...and, he felt warm fingers against his chin, drawing his face up from the ground...making his eyes slide open, stare into a dark, shadowed face of pain and sorrow and misery and regret.

"No," Hon said quietly. His words were firm, his voice a low, deep rumble of sudden certainty. "No...I think...I DO want you to understand.

"I want you to understand."


He listened. Even as the pain shuddered through him, even as the world faded out beneath the agony of his own screams...he listened. And, slowly...slowly...he began to understand.



---

He was asleep again.


In the dreams, it was dark...and he was running. Always, there was the solitary light--the warm, golden flood that always eluded him without really moving at all, that draped everything just out of reach with its amber radiance...but, left him always cold, always alone...always in the chill, stretching darkness.

And, then, somehow...suddenly, Hotohori was with him, holding him...carrying him. He cried out in sudden anguish as his heart twisted painfully, caught a glimpse of that beautiful bronze-skinned face, those eyes of liquid amber...filled with tears.

//Tears for me?\\

//Tears...for a coward?\\



He remembered, vaguely, being attended to those first few hours...days...years...eternities...gods only knew how long it had been. He remembered Hotohori caring for him with a gentle hand, a warm, sorrowful smile...remembered the touch of his fingers, the soft, dusky scent of his body and his hair and his sweat. And, he remembered, most of all, the smooth, soothing timbre of the young emperor's voice, reminding him always of that first magical time he'd heard it...of the moment when he'd known that his life would never, ever be complete without the master of that voice within it.

It was more than love. It was more than devotion. It was more than physical attraction. It was more, even, than adoring this man's courage and kindness and gentility and strength...no. It was so much more than that.

It was...completion.

For a long moment, Nuriko lay in silence on the mattress, wrapped in the warm, comfortably-tight bandages the doctor's assistants had strapped onto him, and stared up into the canopy of the bed...stared and let himself think.

//Completion. Ne, what an odd way to phrase it.\\

But, somehow...it was true. He felt every ounce of his being resonate with rightness each time the young emperor was with him, felt as if this thing that he called himself was somehow incomplete...or, perhaps, broken...tattered...in need of ressurrection, of healing. And, yet, when Hotohori drew near...somehow, everything was right, perfect...complete.

//Gods, can't he FEEL it??\\

Sighing softly, Nuriko turned over in the bed, slid his legs carefully beneath the blankets and closed his eyes.