In the kendo dojo, after hours, I ofttimes practice alone after the classes depart. Their smells and noisy bright chatter fades out of the wood's memory and flees the slashing of my bokken- or, on rare nights, my katana.
Sometimes, only in late, smudged light, I hear residual memories of the door sliding open, of the bokken slithering out of the racks as you caught it and challenged me with your very demeanor. I can hear your voice condemning me, bringing your blinding personal light into the private dusk of my realm. I liked Shinohara's light better; she was warm and amber-radiant. You were sharper, cooler after you took up with the Rose Bride. I think of Shinohara too much lately. I had thought… of sending her a gift, perhaps another hair ornament of a higher caliber than that original.
A pair of smiles, I remember. You grinning like a sun spirit and that chilling Mona Lisa smile behind you wherever you went. Exquisite. Even if I did hate it at the time.
I tried to carve a statuette of you once, in a slow summer. After five blocks of wood that became shapeless, conceptual representations of physicality or honor, one after another, I gave up. The wood I burned. My woodcarving is improving, I think, after so many years without touching a knife in that way. My sketching skills are still as rudimentary as ever, but I find I don't need them when I carve. I enjoy it- it aids relaxation, keeping the hands and eyes occupied while allowing the mind to roam.
I will no longer say her name, that demon in woman-form. I will not. When I joined my forces with Touga it was no longer for her, but because… because he asked me to. And I owed him. Do not ask me for what I was in his debt. I will not tell you, nor anyone. He knows, and that is more than I prefer. People, on the whole, no longer impact my life. I find myself more satisfied with this situation.
The glory meant for Saionji Kyouichi. What a joke.
I think of Shinohara too much.
