~Chapter Twelve~
The Lie That We Believe
"No, Chichiri…don't," she objected suddenly, pulling away and turning her back on him.
"What…?"
"I'm sorry…gods, I'm so sorry, Chichiri, but I…"
She dissolved into tears.
"It's alright…gomen nasai," he amended.
Remembering was almost a physical pain. And the migraine he had didn't help. Idiot. Had to go and make a complete fool out of yourself, didn't you? She won't even look at you now.
At least she didn't have to. The heat had scattered them like so many grains of sand. No one really knew where Miaka had gone after running after Ashitare, or how Tamahome was faring in running after Miaka.
Chichiri buried his face in his hands for a moment, then, with an almost forced casualness, got up and walked away from their camp.
For a few blessed minutes all he knew was the sleepy heat of the afternoon sun, the flicker of light and shadow the oasis trees provided, the soft swish of the tall dune grass in the breeze and against the fabric of his pants.
And then he nearly tripped over something.
Or rather, someone.
Akiame lay innocently in the shade, all but hidden from view. He froze, hardly daring even to breathe.
Sleep erased the cares and worries of responsibility from her face, her resemblance to her little brother now striking. I love you.
You don't deserve her.
That doesn't mean I can't love her.
Moving silently, fluidly, as a cat would, Chichiri knelt beside her. He tentatively reached out to stroke her hair; halted an inch away; drew back.
A bird trilled from a branch above their heads. Chichiri started in surprise, looking up.
The bird was crying, tears as big as hailstones splashing on the sandy ground. Its plumed tail fell three feet toward the ground, a scarlet droop conveying immense sadness. A phoenix, big as the one in solid gold within the emperor's palace.
The rain of tears slowed to a halt, and the bird turned its head to stare into the sun, craning its long neck. It blinked once, slowly, and with a low screech burst into flame.
Its immense wings flared, each feather tipped with fire. The phoenix stretched, shook its wings as if it wanted to shake them away altogether, and a rain of burning scarlet down fell around Chichiri, encircling him.
The bird writhed in pain, and in a final explosion of feathers and smoke, disappeared.
Chichiri stared as a plume lit upon the back of his outstretched hand, curling into harmless ash as fire consumed it.
He blinked once, and smoke began to sting his eyes; fill his lungs and make him cough. A benignly floating feather suddenly straightened its course and abruptly changed velocity, slashing down his cheek.
He jerked awake. Somehow, he'd fallen asleep next to Akiame.
Opening his eye fully, a blush the scarlet of the dream-bird's feathers raced across his cheeks. His arms were wound securely around her waist, and he could feel the satin of her hair against his face. He dared not stir lest he disturb her sleep and compromise his position…at least, that's what he wanted to believe.
Gods, forgive me, but I refuse to move. He smiled slightly.
A sudden sting of pain from his cheek caused his fingers to find the fresh blood welling from a cut; definitely not only a thing of dreams. Querulously, he reached back, his hand closing around an arrow embedded only inches from his head. Too late, he realized that they were surrounded by a dancing ring of fire.
Panic rose in his heart, leaving him gasping like a frog for breath and allowing smoke to sting his lungs. "Akiame!"
She sat up abruptly with a small yelp, and almost instantly began to cough. "What the-"
Not the lightning again, not Soi, please…
"Chichiri, what's going on?" Her voice was strained with smoke and fear.
"Hold on, no da!" He pulled her upright, quickly gathering his energy for a short teleportation spell.
Out of harm's way for the time being, Akiame leaned sleepily against the monk's chest. "Thank y-"
He put a finger to her lips, gazing grimly toward the horizon. "Not just yet. You might not have anything to thank me for when this is over."
And, indeed, and ominous cloud of dust was being kicked up, moving closer to them.
"Where's Doukun?"
"He's with Mitsukake. And we're between them and…whoever that is, no da."
The rider appeared as a black shadowy wraith galloping across the monotony of the desert. Slowly, a black-cloaked figure atop a horse became more apparent. Neither Chichiri nor Akiame moved a muscle, playing chameleon to no avail.
"Good afternoon." The voice was somewhat educated, although with a slightly hollow quality and almost mocking tone. "My name is Ryo Chuin." The speaker had pushed back his hood, but the raven's-wing shade of his hair made little difference. His face was pale, deathly pale; not sunburned and roughened as those of other desert-dwellers; long and bony, smooth of feature and high-cheekboned to the point of femininity. The sunken glint of honey-colored cat's eyes stared out at them, almost amused. "And I'm afraid you're tresspassing."
"We're just simple travelers, no da. Surely you wouldn't begrudge our horses a little water…"
"Don't play innocent with me, Suzaku no Shichiseishi. Surely you wouldn't begrudge a mercenary a small challenge…"
Akiame cut in. "We don't want any trouble."
"Of course you don't. Unfortunately, it's my job to provide you with some." Their assailant cast an appraising glance at Akiame. "But you're not one of Suzaku's guardian's. What would your name be?"
She did her best to hold his unnerving gaze. "Ou Akiame."
"Autumn rain, is it? It fits you well. I assure you, the pleasure is mine…" He placed a chivalrous kiss upon the back of her hand. Chichiri stammered and nearly choked, blushing furiously.
Tomo cackled quietly, hidden in the branches of the tree the dream-phoenix had occupied. So the mask has a weakness, ne?
Akiame's eyes flashed indignantly. "What pleasure? You just threatened our lives." She snatched her hand away.
Nice, aren't we? I don't care for him much either. The dashing doppelganger's sarcastic ways were becoming a bit exaggerated. Let's cut to the chase, shall we?
A small shriek escaped her as the stranger flicked a wrist and sent a thin blade snicking dangerously close to her abdomen. Chichiri pulled her away hastily, but no more attacks were forthcoming.
The blade hung menacingly, glinting silver against the stranger's pitch black attire. The flat of the blades lay flush against the back of his fist.
"I will not take such an insult lightly," he snarled. Shadows somehow pooled on his once-smooth features, his eyes a hollow, rabid yellow. A shake of his left wrist, and a matching blade slid out of his sleeve; a malign, misshapen sixth finger. "One or both of you will not live to see the sunset." And he waited.
"Akiame, go back. Warn the others, get the horses." Chichiri's voice was nearly pleading. "I don't-"
"I'm not leaving you." She hadn't meant to be snappish, and it nearly broke her to see the flicker of pain in his expression.
"Please. For all of us."
Anger boiled up inside of her. "I wasn't raised to be a coward," she spat, but her voice faltered.
"Akiame…" He stepped closer, so that she had to look up at him. She loathed the fact that she was in the position of helplessness, the damsel in distress. "Sometimes true bravery is knowing when to turn back, na no da." Did he even realize what he was doing to her?
"Damn it, Chichiri…!" She looked away, teeth gritting, fists clenched. Suddenly, inexorably, she burst into angry tears and ran.
"I didn't mean…" Chichiri murmured, giving up the sentence for useless. His eyebrows knitted, giving his inscrutable fox-face a pitifully comic look.
With a rustle light as that of feathers, Ryo moved to face him. It amazed Chichiri how avian the man seemed, with his head tilted curiously to one side, his eyes greedily pecking for grains of weakness and distress.
"Now look what you've done. I'm disappointed in you," Ryo drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Chichiri met his gaze until the sharp reflection of sunlight on his adversary's weapon drew his eyes to the knife entwined in his prayer beads, inches from his heart.
But Ryo was speaking again. "What can a simple wandering taoist see in a silly little peasant girl, I wonder?" Chichiri's poker face remained set. "Do you think she loves you? Farm girls are extremely adept at playing with men's hearts. She's probably betrothed to someone already, if not married."
Suzaku, give me strength…
"The biggest lies are the ones we tell ourselves, Chichiri-sama." A sudden yank forward, and the necklace cord severed with a small snap, the blue and green globes the only rain the sand had felt in months; years perhaps. Chichiri watched them fall almost in suspended motion, the sunlight sending tiny rainbows splaying until the beads plopped unceremoniously to the ground.
An instantaneous reaction, and Ryo fell back, gasping for breath denied him by a sudden blow to the abdomen. The rings on Chichiri's staff clinked hollowly.
But for the identical clothing, he could have been faced by an entirely different person. The harmless monk, who had seemed fairly weak and small, was replaced by a warrior, mongoose-quick and toughened by an ugly scar that blotted out his left eye. Chichiri stood perfectly straight, his face a mask even though devoid of one.
Something about the monk's tranquillity set Ryo's blood boiling, muscles tensing with rage. A strangled yell escaped him as he ran at Chichiri, fists flashing.
Rather than take the full brunt of the attack, Chichiri sidestepped gracefully and attempted to sweep Ryo's feet out from under him.
Jump, Tomo silently willed the illusion. It did so neatly, whirling to attack the Suzaku seishi afresh. He'd done well with making this one controllable.
The blades clacked dully against his staff, scarring the smooth surface. He stepped away as Ryo's attack grew more adamant; the man intently, almost insanely bent on his destruction.
Chichiri repelled a blow aimed at his head, pushing his staff upward, held horizontally. The offending arm did not move; the other punched forward in an uppercut. He deflected it much the same as the first, and found his staff caught between the two blades, forcing on upward and one down.
With a sudden burst of strength, he spun the staff propeller-wise. The knives detached, flinging harmlessly away.
Ryo's arms fell uselessly to his sides, his jaw slack and breath rasping. Chichiri again straightened, waiting patiently.
The silence was tangible in the thin desert air. The grating noise of Ryo's panting changed ever so slightly, becoming a regular rumble, and then a snarl one would have thought impossible for a human to emit.
From somewhere within his loose black robes, the desert-dweller drew some semblance of weapon. At first it seemed to be a staff not unlike Chichiri's, until the long, curved blade on the end emerged, glinting metallic white in the sun.
Fear shortened his breath; as the gaunt, white-skinned figure metamorphosed, dying and transforming from mortal to the Reaper himself. Its face was hidden; Its shoulders hunched forward and long white hands hooked into claws. But Its head was raising, and Chichiri's eyes were glued to it helplessly; knowing that, somehow, something unspeakable would happen if he met Its eyes, but unable to look away.
Those eyes stared not at him, but through him, holding hollow, endless doom.
And Death flew at him, swinging Its scythe with cold snarling calculation.
Chichiri fought, desiring to keep his feet where they were at the moment, relying completely upon defense, guessing his adversary's next moves before they were made, staying one step ahead. But the heat had him in its talons, and he stumbled.
A dull crack followed by dizzying pain somewhere in the vicinity of his forehead sent him spiraling into oblivion. Oblivion lasted just a few seconds, as a new crushing pain smashed down on his right arm.
Stunned, bleeding from the head, unable to roll away, Chichiri watched as the scythe swung high above his attacker's head, sunlight on the metal blinding him, the blade making a particularly metallic shirr in the dry air.
His life failed to flash before his eyes. Good.
Tomo frowned at the lack of fear in the Suzaku seishi's eye. Pain there was, paralyzed dullness, even confusion, but no terror. He did so want to see a little terror. Oh, well, maybe the next one would be better.
More quickly than it had risen, the scythe fell, point aimed right for Chichiri's heart.
A thud.
An agonized scream.
Chichiri blinked. He pushed away the handle of the scythe, which had flung out of his attacker's hands and fallen harmlessly across his chest after Akiame had jumped out of nowhere and delivered a spinning kick to the back of Ryo's head.
Straggling slowly to a sitting position, he pressed his fingers to the fresh blood on his already pretty well mangled face.
Suddenly, he remembered that Akiame could probably use some help.
Her skill in the martial arts was admirable for a girl from the world Chichiri was used to, amazing, even. Without the polish or bravado of, say, Tamahome, or Aiumi's insanity and lack of thought, she drove Ryo, who, without his scythe, appeared rather weak and bedraggled, stumbling backward. Doubtless, she was absolutely livid; he wouldn't have been surprised if she'd begun to scratch Ryo's eyes out.
She deftly blocked a halfhearted swipe, snapping a high kick that sent him reeling backwards.
In one motion, she swept his unsteady feet out from under him, snatched up a blade, his previous weapon, from the sand, and drove it through his heart with a small cry.
The man writhed, the knife in his chest quivering as if his skewered heart was still attempting to beat. Akiame reeled backwards in horror.
There was no blood.
No scarlet stained the blade as Ryo groaned, rooted to the sand.
The dying man convulsed with a scream, his spread-eagled form shrinking rapidly. An unseen wind stirred about him, his robes tearing and the shreds whipping in the air, accompanied by the unearthly scream of the damned.
The horror lasted for only a few seconds. In its place, a small bird was left, black-feathered, eyes wide and shiny as black glass baubles, its beak open and neck bent brokenly, undoubtedly dead. The small feathered form was nearly hidden beneath the glinting metal of the blade, the only substantial part of their attacker left.
Tomo cursed and quickly made his exit.
Akiame trembled, small whimpers issuing from her crouched form. A wild, lost hysteria invaded her eyes.
I wish I could let myself hold you. What would be the harm in that?
Her hand scraped across the sand, a pale, fear-contorted spider groping for something not even she could name.
One of the larger green beads from Chichiri's necklace fell into the path of her fingers. She snatched it up eagerly, as if the talisman had some magic to calm her, end her confusion. Feverishly, she gathered the other beads from the sand, feeling helpless, pointless.
These thought of mine only push me away from you, Akiame. So, excuse me for not thinking. I hope you'll understand.
He quickly pulled her to a standing position, the beads again scattering in her surprise, and kissed her softly.
The universe and all its problems spun away for a few blessed seconds, leaving with her the simple realities of life; the reality of being in love with someone who loved you in return, and, more importantly, the reality of his arm around her waist and his hand brushing her hair away from her face.
When he'd said he loved her, that had been just a grandiose fairy-tale, too good to be true. She'd made her decision then, although it hadn't felt like the right one. She understood now.
The universe faded back into existence, and reluctantly she broke the embrace. "Goodbye, Chichiri," she whispered, kissing him lightly on the cheek.
He watched Akiame walk slowly back toward camp. Again, the beads were removed from the sand, one by one.
He did not follow her until the sun sank low on the horizon and the first of the night winds began to flit across the desert.
'Sayonara', was, after all, forever.
~Ca est tout pour maintenant.~
~La Fini du Chapitre Douze~