Wound of the Wind
Few people understand the wind. Even Naraku, who created me from the breath in Onigumo's lungs and the cowardice in his heart, and hoped to control me thereby, doesn't. He knows how quickly the wind can change directions, can blow from a gust to a storm in a moment, and he's took steps to prevent that in me; but he forgot, or never cared to notice, that wind can stir a spark to a blaze: and I've been nourishing my spark.
My fan had long since been ripped to tatters; I'd given way as easily as a feather, choosing to lurk in the rafters of Naraku's hall while I watched and waited. And blew on my spark.
Then I saw my moment and I exhaled, exhaled slowly and gently like a dying man's last breath continuing forever, until my stomach trembled with the strain and spots danced before my eyes, motes of dust on the wind. My breath spun into an eddy of youki as I'd planned, changing its direction in the slightest degree so that it gathered more youki to it, gaining a speed that ripped by the taijiya's boomerang and edged it off course--I could see Naraku note that and knew he'd praise me as he factored it into his plans. And then the eddy, now swirled to a tempest, was boosted by the gale of the air rip and drawn into the tornado of the hanyou's sword.
Naraku realized what I'd done, as I had sometimes wanted him to, but by then he didn't have the time to deal with me. I don't think the hanyou did, which suits me less well. But my wind with his was enough, just enough, to tear through Naraku's tangle of half-purified tentacles: a storm leaving everything barren and quiet in its wake.
I made appropriate use of the moment and a feather. So now I'm free. But it seems as if the wind has turned from me, left me in the still eye at the center of its storm, my breaths shallow through lungs too sore to call it back. Humans scent the wind with incense to appease the spirits of their dead; but my wind was scented with the breath of betrayal, the very breath given to me by my creator. Were I to call it back and his spirit find me-- for, even in the end, he couldn't excise the human kernel left in his heart- -how would I answer him? The wind's voice is a wordless howl.
Few people understand the wind. Even Naraku, who created me from the breath in Onigumo's lungs and the cowardice in his heart, and hoped to control me thereby, doesn't. He knows how quickly the wind can change directions, can blow from a gust to a storm in a moment, and he's took steps to prevent that in me; but he forgot, or never cared to notice, that wind can stir a spark to a blaze: and I've been nourishing my spark.
My fan had long since been ripped to tatters; I'd given way as easily as a feather, choosing to lurk in the rafters of Naraku's hall while I watched and waited. And blew on my spark.
Then I saw my moment and I exhaled, exhaled slowly and gently like a dying man's last breath continuing forever, until my stomach trembled with the strain and spots danced before my eyes, motes of dust on the wind. My breath spun into an eddy of youki as I'd planned, changing its direction in the slightest degree so that it gathered more youki to it, gaining a speed that ripped by the taijiya's boomerang and edged it off course--I could see Naraku note that and knew he'd praise me as he factored it into his plans. And then the eddy, now swirled to a tempest, was boosted by the gale of the air rip and drawn into the tornado of the hanyou's sword.
Naraku realized what I'd done, as I had sometimes wanted him to, but by then he didn't have the time to deal with me. I don't think the hanyou did, which suits me less well. But my wind with his was enough, just enough, to tear through Naraku's tangle of half-purified tentacles: a storm leaving everything barren and quiet in its wake.
I made appropriate use of the moment and a feather. So now I'm free. But it seems as if the wind has turned from me, left me in the still eye at the center of its storm, my breaths shallow through lungs too sore to call it back. Humans scent the wind with incense to appease the spirits of their dead; but my wind was scented with the breath of betrayal, the very breath given to me by my creator. Were I to call it back and his spirit find me-- for, even in the end, he couldn't excise the human kernel left in his heart- -how would I answer him? The wind's voice is a wordless howl.