Disclaimers: Don't own Saiyuki, the boy, the initiate or the bird. 30-minute fic.
Of Song
He was dying. He lifted his head, and he began to sing to the boy.
His voice was one of of burnished gold, like a flowing river or a desert wind. You could hardly tell that the breath was being torn from him in sputtering gasps as his melody went steadily on through the night. Every note from his throat clawed at his heart and seared his lungs with agony; still he sang, because he had to and wanted to.
It was an old song, one every member of his kind knew. The words were as ancient as time itself, old and worn and comforting. They told of the earth itself, the Mother of Everything, and he sang of her kindness and grace. He sang of her beautiful rivers, the cloak of green she covered herself with, her bounty in the form of all that is good to eat and drink and see.
Mother of Everything, he knew, was good to all. She loved unconditionally, and was loved unconditionally in return by her children. Like himself, and the deer and the bear, and the mighty hawks, the tiny worms and the boy himself.
Still he went on, though the sun was about to rise. He sang on about the Father of Everything, the boundless blue sky, the wispy cotton mist that he cloaked himself in, shifting from white to grey to gold as the day wore on. His breath upon their cheeks, his tears upon Mother Earth that brought forth the new green plants, his shifting hues as he watched over the children of the Earth.
Father of Everything was distant, he knew. Still, like his wife, all his children he bestowed his unbridled emotion. He was not as patient as the Mother and angered sometimes, but he could be equally quick to forget his darker moods.
The First Child, Almighty Sun himself, the Equal To The Heavens, was beginning to rise over the far-off mountains to begin his journey across the land. He was not as patient as his sire and dam, and could be as cruel as he was kind. His anger was fierce to behold, for his blazing heat could scorch his Mother and strike even the fiercest animals dead, tongues out under his stern gaze and begging for mercy given too late.
Still, he had not angered Almighty Sun in his life. He was sure of it. Sun, like the boy, was kind to him, and had bestowed upon him his radiance so that it shone from him, and from his bright black eyes (now dulling like a flint long abandoned). The boy had rejoiced in his presence, his warmth and light like a small piece of Sun himself.
Funny how the boy and Sun had such similar sounding names, wasn't it?
In voice without speech, in words without letters, he gathered his last strength and sang in praise of Almighty Sun, of his warmth and his strength, burning eternal like the strength of the boy. Sun was creator and destroyer, commander of the armies of Father Sky and the guardian of his brothers born from Mother Earth.
Sun's first heat beat upon his small, tired frame. He looked up the boy, still asleep, and he sang his final piece. He sang on about Life, bestowed by Sun and Sky and Earth, ever unchained and ever indestructible, for Life spreads through Sun and Earth and Sky, in the light of day, in the pulse of the earth, in the breath of the wind, and so the child would survive as long as those three things existed.
Peace flooded him as the last tremulous words passed from his lungs. He felt that he could finally die, and closed his eyes. Surrendering to quiet sleep, the one who sang, at last, passed on.
*
The sun filtered through the cold granite bars fortified further by talismans. Those powerful parchments glowed gold and green with bristling black commands against Earth and Sky and Sun. They touched the sleeping boy, and he awoke to see the dead bird.
The boy stretched yearning fingers through the bars, trying to reach his little friend, his living piece of sun, to warm his still body and kiss the closed eyes and soothe the already frozen corpse. He did not know of death. That, too, had been denied him by the Sky Ones, who admittedly grew less and less like Father Sky by the day. Their chains chafed his smooth wrists and held him back from the contact he so desperately craved.
Had the chains not held the boy, he could have made a final burst and snatched the bird from the hard rock face. As it was, alas, his fingertips were hairsbreadths from his friend. The boy gripped the bars of his cruel prison, sobbing now, and howled like a dying animal, a beast who wants one last cry to the Earth before his wounds bleed him dry and his breath deserts him. He gave another unholy cry, long-drawn and eerie. And another.
Granted, those were screams of unholy terror, but in themselves, another song; a song to the bird, the little friend he had lost, and other friends he could not remember losing but whose absence inspired a hunger that clawed not at the stomach but the heart. It was a song of heartbreak and sorrow; a plea for someone, anyone, to come find him, to hear the voice that had forgotten the truth, to touch the hands that had forgotten sin.
Somewhere in the forests below Five-Finger Mountain, the young blonde initiate looked up. He was cold, icy-cold and bone-dry down to the core, but he had sung once long before his world was drowned in familiar blood. It was faint, and it was not the voice he heard, for that was drowned by the sturdy viridian canopy that rose above him, but his heart definitely caught the song. It beckoned. It embraced. It persisted for many long years...
...And after many long years, somehow, the heart sang straight back.
Of Song
He was dying. He lifted his head, and he began to sing to the boy.
His voice was one of of burnished gold, like a flowing river or a desert wind. You could hardly tell that the breath was being torn from him in sputtering gasps as his melody went steadily on through the night. Every note from his throat clawed at his heart and seared his lungs with agony; still he sang, because he had to and wanted to.
It was an old song, one every member of his kind knew. The words were as ancient as time itself, old and worn and comforting. They told of the earth itself, the Mother of Everything, and he sang of her kindness and grace. He sang of her beautiful rivers, the cloak of green she covered herself with, her bounty in the form of all that is good to eat and drink and see.
Mother of Everything, he knew, was good to all. She loved unconditionally, and was loved unconditionally in return by her children. Like himself, and the deer and the bear, and the mighty hawks, the tiny worms and the boy himself.
Still he went on, though the sun was about to rise. He sang on about the Father of Everything, the boundless blue sky, the wispy cotton mist that he cloaked himself in, shifting from white to grey to gold as the day wore on. His breath upon their cheeks, his tears upon Mother Earth that brought forth the new green plants, his shifting hues as he watched over the children of the Earth.
Father of Everything was distant, he knew. Still, like his wife, all his children he bestowed his unbridled emotion. He was not as patient as the Mother and angered sometimes, but he could be equally quick to forget his darker moods.
The First Child, Almighty Sun himself, the Equal To The Heavens, was beginning to rise over the far-off mountains to begin his journey across the land. He was not as patient as his sire and dam, and could be as cruel as he was kind. His anger was fierce to behold, for his blazing heat could scorch his Mother and strike even the fiercest animals dead, tongues out under his stern gaze and begging for mercy given too late.
Still, he had not angered Almighty Sun in his life. He was sure of it. Sun, like the boy, was kind to him, and had bestowed upon him his radiance so that it shone from him, and from his bright black eyes (now dulling like a flint long abandoned). The boy had rejoiced in his presence, his warmth and light like a small piece of Sun himself.
Funny how the boy and Sun had such similar sounding names, wasn't it?
In voice without speech, in words without letters, he gathered his last strength and sang in praise of Almighty Sun, of his warmth and his strength, burning eternal like the strength of the boy. Sun was creator and destroyer, commander of the armies of Father Sky and the guardian of his brothers born from Mother Earth.
Sun's first heat beat upon his small, tired frame. He looked up the boy, still asleep, and he sang his final piece. He sang on about Life, bestowed by Sun and Sky and Earth, ever unchained and ever indestructible, for Life spreads through Sun and Earth and Sky, in the light of day, in the pulse of the earth, in the breath of the wind, and so the child would survive as long as those three things existed.
Peace flooded him as the last tremulous words passed from his lungs. He felt that he could finally die, and closed his eyes. Surrendering to quiet sleep, the one who sang, at last, passed on.
*
The sun filtered through the cold granite bars fortified further by talismans. Those powerful parchments glowed gold and green with bristling black commands against Earth and Sky and Sun. They touched the sleeping boy, and he awoke to see the dead bird.
The boy stretched yearning fingers through the bars, trying to reach his little friend, his living piece of sun, to warm his still body and kiss the closed eyes and soothe the already frozen corpse. He did not know of death. That, too, had been denied him by the Sky Ones, who admittedly grew less and less like Father Sky by the day. Their chains chafed his smooth wrists and held him back from the contact he so desperately craved.
Had the chains not held the boy, he could have made a final burst and snatched the bird from the hard rock face. As it was, alas, his fingertips were hairsbreadths from his friend. The boy gripped the bars of his cruel prison, sobbing now, and howled like a dying animal, a beast who wants one last cry to the Earth before his wounds bleed him dry and his breath deserts him. He gave another unholy cry, long-drawn and eerie. And another.
Granted, those were screams of unholy terror, but in themselves, another song; a song to the bird, the little friend he had lost, and other friends he could not remember losing but whose absence inspired a hunger that clawed not at the stomach but the heart. It was a song of heartbreak and sorrow; a plea for someone, anyone, to come find him, to hear the voice that had forgotten the truth, to touch the hands that had forgotten sin.
Somewhere in the forests below Five-Finger Mountain, the young blonde initiate looked up. He was cold, icy-cold and bone-dry down to the core, but he had sung once long before his world was drowned in familiar blood. It was faint, and it was not the voice he heard, for that was drowned by the sturdy viridian canopy that rose above him, but his heart definitely caught the song. It beckoned. It embraced. It persisted for many long years...
...And after many long years, somehow, the heart sang straight back.