A/N: I'm not as fond of Sanzo as I am of Gojyo and Hakkai, so excuse this instalment if it doesn't come up to scratch.
A strange one, this. If it rains, he will not sleep. If he is troubled, he cannot sleep. If his comrades are in danger (and this he actively denies), he does not sleep. It is his way, and nothing can change it. Tonight, the sky is clear, he is just plain tired out and the inn he resides in with his three companions is calm.
He appearing to be deeply ensconced in Morpheus' dark robes, but this calmness can be shattered by the slightest ripple. A cricket, a gust of wind, a stalking youkai. It will propel his five foot seven inch frame up from the bed with a gun in his hand, demanding explanation for the disturbance. Too many times has this happened for his body to shake off the figurative shell-shock. He sleeps on his side, the trademark serious, slightly frowning expression etched on his face even in the deepest slumber.
There is almost nothing to betray his identity in the room, not even a pair of slippers on the floor. No, even those are on his feet, the black-socked feet on the end of legs bent in an affectation of a sprint's first desperate, bounding leap. It is as if he is prepared to leave without trace, or as if he wants to do so.
The fabric that flows around his lower body is heavy silk. Cool to the touch when the weather is warm, a graceful blessing when the weather is cold. It is almost comforting, this familiar weight of silk robes against his legs, a presence felt through skin and heavy-duty denim jeans.
The silk has been half-shed from his torso like a chrysalis, revealing his upper body and a good part of his arms to be clad in tight leather, familiar to his body like a second skin. He cannot remember a time when he has been without it, or perhaps he does not wish to remember. The bodysuit is black, solid, foreboding. Black hides red and white and brown, dark blood and bone chips, filth and mud. They cloak sin and tears, hope and hate, death and denial.This black hides blood, and it smells of that and tobacco, fine Marlboro tobacco, and yes, even a little bit of varnish and wood, the red-heart wood that forms the handle of his deadly Smith and Wesson.
The gun. It is small and compact, hidden in his sleeve, but how it shoots; few have lived to tell just how. It is a dragonet, a small, ferocious dragonet very unlike his companion's, a dragonet that spits crystal flame to annihilate its enemies forever and curse them to eternal hell. The handle is smooth with sweat, fitting the sleeper's palm like the hand of a beloved.
Think not, doubt not for a second this is a religious man. The chakra, hidden nevertheless under shimmering blonde locks, is there, crimson and telling. So is the sutra he bears, rolled up safe and kept in those most secret of places where none will find it. Note also, the small, short, almost pathetic string of red prayer beads wound around the fingers of one hand.
YES, prayer beads. Juzu. Just one or two or three of them, red spheres like frozen drops of fresh blood. They are as coral jade--flaws not disguising beauty nor beauty disguising flaws. Flawed the beads are, for one is cracked almost all the way down its smooth surface. It is an ugly crack, like a scar cut into human flesh.
It is probably not hard to understand why he still carries these fragile juzu with him. They were a gift; the first gift he received from unknown parents, the first and last gift he ever bestowed to a friend (friend in question being Kinzanji's unorthodox shihan-dai)*. Well, not quite the last gift--the last gift to the shihan-dai involved a bullet to the cranium. A release. After that broken body had finally given up the ghost, what had remained of the once resplendent rosary fell from the limp, shrivelled talons.
It would have been a shame to decline a gift, even if it is something returned. The beads hold memories that he would like to throw away, but he can't quite find a good reason to do so. After all, these are memories of blood, and death, and severed limbs and silver-brown hair dipping into the rippling pools of red, but they are also memories of stability, security and love; peace, pipes and paper planes.
The red of the prayer beads is swallowed by shadow as he turns over, mumbling in his sleep. It sounds suspiciously like 'shishou'.
He was told to be strong once and has needed no second telling. It's just that sometimes he forgets that he was once weak; he runs so fast and far he forgets where he came from; he fights so hard he forgets the doubt of defeat. Many times he even forgets the beads, restrung with crude rope and shoved into a pocket within his sleeves. When he does remember, then he remembers also that he wasn't always alone, he wasn't always running, he wasn't always fighting. It is in this he takes security, and in his dreams he awaits the day when he won't have to run or fight for a long, pleasant time. It will come when he finishes this journey. Tomorrow, he will start again, intent on his strength, his life, and his goals. He asks for nothing else. He is always so.
-----
*shihan-dai -- one rank below the master, or the 'shihan'. Can be translated as 'instructor' or 'helper/successor to the master'.
Seriously, all my reviewers so far--thanks. I've never gotten reviews so quickly ^_^ *huggles the reviewer-chans*
B.O.I. -- You got it. Glad you enjoyed the Hakkai bit.
ruishi -- Haven't we all, now? 0:)
Firn -- thanks, senpai!
Ves -- This IS planned as a four-parter. Fear not.
KarotsaMused -- Here's Sanzo for yeh.
E. Xiku -- I feel so flattered!
A strange one, this. If it rains, he will not sleep. If he is troubled, he cannot sleep. If his comrades are in danger (and this he actively denies), he does not sleep. It is his way, and nothing can change it. Tonight, the sky is clear, he is just plain tired out and the inn he resides in with his three companions is calm.
He appearing to be deeply ensconced in Morpheus' dark robes, but this calmness can be shattered by the slightest ripple. A cricket, a gust of wind, a stalking youkai. It will propel his five foot seven inch frame up from the bed with a gun in his hand, demanding explanation for the disturbance. Too many times has this happened for his body to shake off the figurative shell-shock. He sleeps on his side, the trademark serious, slightly frowning expression etched on his face even in the deepest slumber.
There is almost nothing to betray his identity in the room, not even a pair of slippers on the floor. No, even those are on his feet, the black-socked feet on the end of legs bent in an affectation of a sprint's first desperate, bounding leap. It is as if he is prepared to leave without trace, or as if he wants to do so.
The fabric that flows around his lower body is heavy silk. Cool to the touch when the weather is warm, a graceful blessing when the weather is cold. It is almost comforting, this familiar weight of silk robes against his legs, a presence felt through skin and heavy-duty denim jeans.
The silk has been half-shed from his torso like a chrysalis, revealing his upper body and a good part of his arms to be clad in tight leather, familiar to his body like a second skin. He cannot remember a time when he has been without it, or perhaps he does not wish to remember. The bodysuit is black, solid, foreboding. Black hides red and white and brown, dark blood and bone chips, filth and mud. They cloak sin and tears, hope and hate, death and denial.This black hides blood, and it smells of that and tobacco, fine Marlboro tobacco, and yes, even a little bit of varnish and wood, the red-heart wood that forms the handle of his deadly Smith and Wesson.
The gun. It is small and compact, hidden in his sleeve, but how it shoots; few have lived to tell just how. It is a dragonet, a small, ferocious dragonet very unlike his companion's, a dragonet that spits crystal flame to annihilate its enemies forever and curse them to eternal hell. The handle is smooth with sweat, fitting the sleeper's palm like the hand of a beloved.
Think not, doubt not for a second this is a religious man. The chakra, hidden nevertheless under shimmering blonde locks, is there, crimson and telling. So is the sutra he bears, rolled up safe and kept in those most secret of places where none will find it. Note also, the small, short, almost pathetic string of red prayer beads wound around the fingers of one hand.
YES, prayer beads. Juzu. Just one or two or three of them, red spheres like frozen drops of fresh blood. They are as coral jade--flaws not disguising beauty nor beauty disguising flaws. Flawed the beads are, for one is cracked almost all the way down its smooth surface. It is an ugly crack, like a scar cut into human flesh.
It is probably not hard to understand why he still carries these fragile juzu with him. They were a gift; the first gift he received from unknown parents, the first and last gift he ever bestowed to a friend (friend in question being Kinzanji's unorthodox shihan-dai)*. Well, not quite the last gift--the last gift to the shihan-dai involved a bullet to the cranium. A release. After that broken body had finally given up the ghost, what had remained of the once resplendent rosary fell from the limp, shrivelled talons.
It would have been a shame to decline a gift, even if it is something returned. The beads hold memories that he would like to throw away, but he can't quite find a good reason to do so. After all, these are memories of blood, and death, and severed limbs and silver-brown hair dipping into the rippling pools of red, but they are also memories of stability, security and love; peace, pipes and paper planes.
The red of the prayer beads is swallowed by shadow as he turns over, mumbling in his sleep. It sounds suspiciously like 'shishou'.
He was told to be strong once and has needed no second telling. It's just that sometimes he forgets that he was once weak; he runs so fast and far he forgets where he came from; he fights so hard he forgets the doubt of defeat. Many times he even forgets the beads, restrung with crude rope and shoved into a pocket within his sleeves. When he does remember, then he remembers also that he wasn't always alone, he wasn't always running, he wasn't always fighting. It is in this he takes security, and in his dreams he awaits the day when he won't have to run or fight for a long, pleasant time. It will come when he finishes this journey. Tomorrow, he will start again, intent on his strength, his life, and his goals. He asks for nothing else. He is always so.
-----
*shihan-dai -- one rank below the master, or the 'shihan'. Can be translated as 'instructor' or 'helper/successor to the master'.
Seriously, all my reviewers so far--thanks. I've never gotten reviews so quickly ^_^ *huggles the reviewer-chans*
B.O.I. -- You got it. Glad you enjoyed the Hakkai bit.
ruishi -- Haven't we all, now? 0:)
Firn -- thanks, senpai!
Ves -- This IS planned as a four-parter. Fear not.
KarotsaMused -- Here's Sanzo for yeh.
E. Xiku -- I feel so flattered!