Four Phases
Chapter 4: Winter
Disclaimer: I disclaim claiming that Saiyuki belongs to me by writing this disclaimer so that nobody will claim otherwise. *grins*
For UltraM2000: because she's grossed out by the concept. Thank you for reviewing everybody!
***
Spray.
The blade. The wielder. The sword. The swordsman. The bloodied. The bloody.
In this life there are appropriations. And there are none. What becomes one moment is useless the next.
What is appropriate with a blade through your heart?
Nothing.
Beaded moisture creeping up silk; grabbing, angry red fingers of retribution. One hundred eyes serve no purpose if they cannot see the truth.
Vengeance. Amazement. Fury. Desperation. Fear. Deceit. Written so clearly in his face. So many conflicts that produce twisted; even poisonous beauty.
The rain drowns out everything. Percussive persuasion for death. Coaxing surrender. Together with the cold wind washing the castle dry of life.
And in this rain, I hear footsteps. Staccato. Harsh breaths--into the joy of anticipation.
"Kanan . . . for you . . . ." Spoken so softly. In deadly lack of brutality.
The blade withdraws.
There is nothing on that face that speaks of violence. But those who have not tasted it create a different kind of revenge. He is bloodstained beyond belief. Learned to whittle away life as easily as drinking water.
Faces are just faces. Two faces can mirror the opposites of the heart. I know--
--because he wears mine.
In rain.
Chapter 4: Winter
Disclaimer: I disclaim claiming that Saiyuki belongs to me by writing this disclaimer so that nobody will claim otherwise. *grins*
For UltraM2000: because she's grossed out by the concept. Thank you for reviewing everybody!
***
Spray.
The blade. The wielder. The sword. The swordsman. The bloodied. The bloody.
In this life there are appropriations. And there are none. What becomes one moment is useless the next.
What is appropriate with a blade through your heart?
Nothing.
Beaded moisture creeping up silk; grabbing, angry red fingers of retribution. One hundred eyes serve no purpose if they cannot see the truth.
Vengeance. Amazement. Fury. Desperation. Fear. Deceit. Written so clearly in his face. So many conflicts that produce twisted; even poisonous beauty.
The rain drowns out everything. Percussive persuasion for death. Coaxing surrender. Together with the cold wind washing the castle dry of life.
And in this rain, I hear footsteps. Staccato. Harsh breaths--into the joy of anticipation.
"Kanan . . . for you . . . ." Spoken so softly. In deadly lack of brutality.
The blade withdraws.
There is nothing on that face that speaks of violence. But those who have not tasted it create a different kind of revenge. He is bloodstained beyond belief. Learned to whittle away life as easily as drinking water.
Faces are just faces. Two faces can mirror the opposites of the heart. I know--
--because he wears mine.
In rain.