Chapter Two
Hakkai was used to having to purchase the supplies for the group. It would have been unkind and impolite to tell them that sometimes he welcomed the chance to be separate from them. It would have hurt Goku's feelings, and worried Gojyo. Gojyo grew worried so easily, after all.
Dust danced in the wind as he made his way down the street.
Gojyo grew worried so easily, and for such little cause. He didn't want the other man ever to have to understand that sudden abrupt moment of shock, loss -- no, not loss, he hadn't fully understood the true breadth of loss at that point, its depth and height and full dimensions, that great dark thing which swelled out behind the breastbone and left the heart drowning. That single heartbeat of she's gone and I never knew as he had looked around the room and seen the upturned chair, the shattered table, the scattered set of scrolls which he had been ordering for his work with the children, the wrongness of it all. A heartbeat. The world changes.
Of course he knew about Gojyo's past, he understood the other man's pain and grief, he sympathised with it -- but it wasn't the same. It could never be the same. In that respect, they were all alone.
The shopkeeper's door stood closed, and the piles of vegetables and fruits in the crates outside her window were dried and wind-withered. Ants crawled over the melon in the far right hand corner, a trail of tiny dark insects without beginning or end.
He knocked on the door.
The woman who answered it was bent and wrinkled, as wizened as her goods, and a tangled mass of shawls slung around her shoulders made it hard to judge whether her stooped back was natural or deliberate. She looked up at him through thin grey lashes, then beckoned him in silently, and made no comment, spoke no word, as he picked through her meager stocks.
There was dried fruit and bottled water and cans of beer, but no cigarettes. Gojyo would be annoyed. Hakkai tried to make pleasant conversation as he stacked fruit and cans on the counter, filling up the silence with a stream of questions and comments, but nothing broke her arid quiet. She took Sanzou's Three Aspects card from him and presented him with a bill, still unspeaking.
Outside the wind walked down the centre of the street. He glanced out and saw the dust riffling and stirring, wiping away his footprints.
When he stepped outside again, bags in his arms, the wind stopped as though he had caught it unawares, and the street was wrapped in a hushed silence.
And with the silence fallen around him, there were only his own thoughts for company as he made his way back towards where he had left Hakuryuu and the others. Even his catfooted pace was audible as he walked down the empty street.
Step. Step.
He'd been alone then too.
Step.
But he'd known he'd find her.
Step.
It would have been wrong to say that it was because of her, or because he loved her, or because he could not live without her. It simply was. The knife had been part of him. It hadn't even been the berserker rage which he had read about (you read so much, Gonou) and there had not been any merciful blindness, any red haze, any driving fury which went beyond his body and moved him like a puppet.
Step.
The wind had started again. It ruffled his hair and flicked at the fringes of his sash. It smelt of sand and salt and iron.
Step.
Anger had risen in him and flowed through him as though it was as simple a thing as blood, as necessary a thing as breath. They were his enemy. He had killed them.
Step.
And she had said I bear the monster's child. And then the quick movement of the knife. Had the blade dulled when he used it on others? Had he had that precision of stroke, that economy of motion? How alike were their hands?
Step.
He needed someone to talk to. He needed someone else. He needed someone so that he could be Cho Hakkai, because Cho Hakkai had friends, had companions, had people who needed him, and all his steps were turning inwards to that quiet place where she was curled silent and unspeaking, and his own voice screamed blame louder than any accusation from man or youkai or god.
Step.
The smell of blood wasn't coming from the wind. It was coming from him. He let the bags fall from his hands to look at them, but they were clean, pale things, long-fingered and delicate, hardly the sort of hands to kill babies in cradles or run a knife through a pregnant woman's throat, hardly that at all, such gentle hands, such delicate hands.
And still, the scent of blood.
Step.
Motion was a habit, continued without thinking, because to stop would have required conscious thought, and all his focus was on the past now. And if he stopped, if he thought of something else, if he broke free of the pattern, then he would have to face the weight of it again and take it on his shoulders, and surely that would kill him, choke him with remembered tears and blood.
Step.
The wind blew dust around his feet.
Step.
Shadows reared above his head as though he was walking down a corridor. Shafts of light between the buildings flickered like torches.
I have always been waiting for you, it said. You knew that you could never leave. No matter what promises were made, what absolution was given, what judgement was pronounced, you knew that this place would always be here.
Step.
I do not promise you surcease from sorrow, it said. I do not promise you release. I do not promise you peace. I do not promise you joy.
Step.
I only promise you this: that you will live in the moment forever and that it will never change. You will have despair and you will desire nothing else. You will see her before you and you will always know that you were too late. The moment will go on forever. You will not die. You will not change. You will see her and her dead eyes will look at you and there will always be that momentary wonder as to why she smiled while the water ran from the corners of her eyes and traced lines through the dust and dirt which streaked her face. You will see the blood on her hands and dress from when she embraced you through the bars. You will never have to leave the despair and know what happens next.
The darkness rose before him in long bars. A shadow lay behind them, a broken flower in a pool of blood.
Step.
And you could turn away, you could always turn away. I will not compel you. I do not lie to you. I am your voice which speaks to you in the silence of your own mind. Surely I am not unkind. Surely this is all that you will ever desire. I am the only perfection. I shall hold death's hand away from you, so that you may see this forever.
Hakkai knelt down like an old man, and looked through the bars at where Kanan lay in the pool of blood.
I am the dry river and I have no need for lies, for this is unchanging truth and this is despair.
In the street, the dust began to cover up his footprints.
---
Hakkai was used to having to purchase the supplies for the group. It would have been unkind and impolite to tell them that sometimes he welcomed the chance to be separate from them. It would have hurt Goku's feelings, and worried Gojyo. Gojyo grew worried so easily, after all.
Dust danced in the wind as he made his way down the street.
Gojyo grew worried so easily, and for such little cause. He didn't want the other man ever to have to understand that sudden abrupt moment of shock, loss -- no, not loss, he hadn't fully understood the true breadth of loss at that point, its depth and height and full dimensions, that great dark thing which swelled out behind the breastbone and left the heart drowning. That single heartbeat of she's gone and I never knew as he had looked around the room and seen the upturned chair, the shattered table, the scattered set of scrolls which he had been ordering for his work with the children, the wrongness of it all. A heartbeat. The world changes.
Of course he knew about Gojyo's past, he understood the other man's pain and grief, he sympathised with it -- but it wasn't the same. It could never be the same. In that respect, they were all alone.
The shopkeeper's door stood closed, and the piles of vegetables and fruits in the crates outside her window were dried and wind-withered. Ants crawled over the melon in the far right hand corner, a trail of tiny dark insects without beginning or end.
He knocked on the door.
The woman who answered it was bent and wrinkled, as wizened as her goods, and a tangled mass of shawls slung around her shoulders made it hard to judge whether her stooped back was natural or deliberate. She looked up at him through thin grey lashes, then beckoned him in silently, and made no comment, spoke no word, as he picked through her meager stocks.
There was dried fruit and bottled water and cans of beer, but no cigarettes. Gojyo would be annoyed. Hakkai tried to make pleasant conversation as he stacked fruit and cans on the counter, filling up the silence with a stream of questions and comments, but nothing broke her arid quiet. She took Sanzou's Three Aspects card from him and presented him with a bill, still unspeaking.
Outside the wind walked down the centre of the street. He glanced out and saw the dust riffling and stirring, wiping away his footprints.
When he stepped outside again, bags in his arms, the wind stopped as though he had caught it unawares, and the street was wrapped in a hushed silence.
And with the silence fallen around him, there were only his own thoughts for company as he made his way back towards where he had left Hakuryuu and the others. Even his catfooted pace was audible as he walked down the empty street.
Step. Step.
He'd been alone then too.
Step.
But he'd known he'd find her.
Step.
It would have been wrong to say that it was because of her, or because he loved her, or because he could not live without her. It simply was. The knife had been part of him. It hadn't even been the berserker rage which he had read about (you read so much, Gonou) and there had not been any merciful blindness, any red haze, any driving fury which went beyond his body and moved him like a puppet.
Step.
The wind had started again. It ruffled his hair and flicked at the fringes of his sash. It smelt of sand and salt and iron.
Step.
Anger had risen in him and flowed through him as though it was as simple a thing as blood, as necessary a thing as breath. They were his enemy. He had killed them.
Step.
And she had said I bear the monster's child. And then the quick movement of the knife. Had the blade dulled when he used it on others? Had he had that precision of stroke, that economy of motion? How alike were their hands?
Step.
He needed someone to talk to. He needed someone else. He needed someone so that he could be Cho Hakkai, because Cho Hakkai had friends, had companions, had people who needed him, and all his steps were turning inwards to that quiet place where she was curled silent and unspeaking, and his own voice screamed blame louder than any accusation from man or youkai or god.
Step.
The smell of blood wasn't coming from the wind. It was coming from him. He let the bags fall from his hands to look at them, but they were clean, pale things, long-fingered and delicate, hardly the sort of hands to kill babies in cradles or run a knife through a pregnant woman's throat, hardly that at all, such gentle hands, such delicate hands.
And still, the scent of blood.
Step.
Motion was a habit, continued without thinking, because to stop would have required conscious thought, and all his focus was on the past now. And if he stopped, if he thought of something else, if he broke free of the pattern, then he would have to face the weight of it again and take it on his shoulders, and surely that would kill him, choke him with remembered tears and blood.
Step.
The wind blew dust around his feet.
Step.
Shadows reared above his head as though he was walking down a corridor. Shafts of light between the buildings flickered like torches.
I have always been waiting for you, it said. You knew that you could never leave. No matter what promises were made, what absolution was given, what judgement was pronounced, you knew that this place would always be here.
Step.
I do not promise you surcease from sorrow, it said. I do not promise you release. I do not promise you peace. I do not promise you joy.
Step.
I only promise you this: that you will live in the moment forever and that it will never change. You will have despair and you will desire nothing else. You will see her before you and you will always know that you were too late. The moment will go on forever. You will not die. You will not change. You will see her and her dead eyes will look at you and there will always be that momentary wonder as to why she smiled while the water ran from the corners of her eyes and traced lines through the dust and dirt which streaked her face. You will see the blood on her hands and dress from when she embraced you through the bars. You will never have to leave the despair and know what happens next.
The darkness rose before him in long bars. A shadow lay behind them, a broken flower in a pool of blood.
Step.
And you could turn away, you could always turn away. I will not compel you. I do not lie to you. I am your voice which speaks to you in the silence of your own mind. Surely I am not unkind. Surely this is all that you will ever desire. I am the only perfection. I shall hold death's hand away from you, so that you may see this forever.
Hakkai knelt down like an old man, and looked through the bars at where Kanan lay in the pool of blood.
I am the dry river and I have no need for lies, for this is unchanging truth and this is despair.
In the street, the dust began to cover up his footprints.
---
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