Is it very hard to tell that he has been imprisoned, once, long ago? His small frame luxuriates in the space, the sheer space it has been given on this bed. He claims it, or his body claims it, sprawling all over the bed in 20, 000 most uncomfortable looking postures. Still, he never wakes up with a crick in his neck, or a twinge in his back--only with the hunger that can be satisfied by sunshine, breakfast, and a jolly old bicker with his counterpart. His hunger is a deeper one than most, bound since 500 years previous and continuing to be bound.
The room is a mess. He isn't even pretending to be neat. One boot lies dead center on the floor, the other scrunched up in a corner. They are made of good, solid leather, worn upon the heels and toes and soles and all over to a comfortable suppleness. Their golden fasteners are undone too. Considering the dirt and grime the soles of the boots have tracked in (the innkeeper will not be pleased with the mess), the golden fasteners are impeccably shiny. The youth seems to treasure these pieces of metal like something far more precious. They are as new, gleaming like pieces of the summer sun.
There's a shirt resting on the bedside table, a broad red stripe bordered with black running down its length. Its sleeves are short, the cuffs wide and the buttonholes stiff with dirt. The black border is almost silken, and slips over one's fingers. The stripe is a concealed pocket, big enough to hide something the size of a chocolate roll, or tonight, several small meatbuns. They feel squishy in your palm. So _that_ explains why the shirt seemed so bulky!
The fabric itself is a little thicker than it looks, and slightly rough. Easily mantained. Difficult to damage or penetrate. Stains wash out easier, whether they're dumpling sauce, springroll oil, bile, spittle or blood. Blood is the worst-case scenario, but one, sadly, encountered quite often.
Faded pants lie on the bed, one leg crumpled up, frozen in a half-kneel. They are becoming threadbare at the knees and the base of the legs, where clothing rubs leather, skin and stony ground. Still, they're good pants, and they've lasted him this far. He'll be a little sad should the day finally come when he has to throw them away. He hates throwing things away. He doesn't really think it fair.
Still more clothing lies strewn across the room. Two belts at the foot of the bed, one too thick to fit the loops of the pants. You wonder briefly where it goes. There is a short orange cape, frayed at the end and slightly scorched and bloodied. He must have battled hard today, but that stands to reason. He knows he can fight, and he fights well. Why squander such God...Earth-given talent? There are shoulder shields, too, and cloth padding, joining cape to protect the boy's neck. The green-bordered shields have great claw-like portrusions curving out from them. Perhaps they are there to remind the boy he has similar attributes.
You wonder how he has the time and patience to put all this on in the morning.
The sleeper grunts, turns on his front. When this one does something, he devotes all attention to it. Nothing will wake him up except other, more pressing needs. Needs for bathrooms. Needs for breakfasts. Needs for battle. Often the third is neither need nor choice, but a summons to fight alongside his comrades.
One hand brushes his forehead hesitantly, and you see the glint of cold metal, half-hidden by the veritable bush of chocolate-brown hair. This is his bind, his limiter, to keep his true self, the equal to Tenkai, from bursting out onto the world and wreaking more havoc in ten minutes than the whole group can wreak in ten months. It also keeps a firm hold upon memories of long ago, when a child was still a child and his heart was simple and his needs even simpler. Give him the warmth of the sun, and he would be happy. Let his brother and his tutor stay also, and he is content. Spirit away any part of this and there will be hell to pay, as Tenkai so unfortunately found out.
Yes, they were the ones to blame. Trap an animal, one knowing nothing, and it will bite and claw until there is nothing left to bite and claw, if only it can get free. In the sleeper's mind, there is only a great white spot where those days are supposed to be, and 500 spring breezes, 500 teasing summer suns, 500 miserable autumns and 500 winters of death. It was in one of those springs he made his first friend after his grip upon the sun wavered. It was inferior compared to what he had before, but it was soft, warm, and golden, like living sunlight. He was happy to be with it, and it was happy in his company. It was one of the winters of death that lost him that friend, one of the winters of death that taught him never to let go lest things are lost. He lives as such, seizing onto an enemy and fighting him to the death, seizing onto his food and nearly inhaling it, seizing onto his new sun, following its path, wondering at its brightness and never letting it out of his sight.
It seems, also, that that winter made one grudging concession to him, or perhaps it sought to mock him. A near-miss stings more than a full failure, for you are left with the taste of things that might have been, and it is a bitter mixture indeed. The small, ratty golden feather in the youth's grip will attest to that. A last gift. The first pain after so long. A piece of a piece of the sun, to tide him over until the sun should rise again.
A sigh escapes the boy, and he buries his head deeper in the pillow. the feather trembles in his grip. One foot deftly hooks the edge of the blanket and draws it up, and one hand grabs it and wraps it all around his body. All this without even batting an eyelash. He continues to sleep. Tomorrow--what is tomorrow? Is it food? Fighting? Mystery? Mayhem? Love? Loss? Past? Present? The only way to find out is to live, and he intends to do just that. Just as all the travellers do, racing towards a setting sun.
And so, this concludes WYWS! This'll be my last piece for a while, as I'm off to Japan this week. I'll probably be back for an Xmas fic, no fear. My most ardent thanks to my chapter 2 and 3 reviewers:
hakkai-san -- dat's cos I only just started writing it! XD
Konzen -- blood has been corrected. Sankyu!
sf -- I actually got a review from SF. I am blessed, and I take thine tips to mind! *gives cookie*
ChaosD -- Nope, just a bunch of long sentences. Although I must say, that's a TEMPTING proposition...;)
Erutan X. -- YW. I really hope Saiyuki in ANY form comes to the UK soon. :)
B.O.I. -- Happy working on Gatsby! Thanks for 'faving' me!
lizalou -- thanks for your comments!
chiefraz -- 'sleeping beauties'? Oy. *LOL* Glad you enjoyed it.
nameless reviewer -- thankee. I LIKE Gojyo's bandanna.
KarotsaMused -- enjoy the last installment! *bows out*
The room is a mess. He isn't even pretending to be neat. One boot lies dead center on the floor, the other scrunched up in a corner. They are made of good, solid leather, worn upon the heels and toes and soles and all over to a comfortable suppleness. Their golden fasteners are undone too. Considering the dirt and grime the soles of the boots have tracked in (the innkeeper will not be pleased with the mess), the golden fasteners are impeccably shiny. The youth seems to treasure these pieces of metal like something far more precious. They are as new, gleaming like pieces of the summer sun.
There's a shirt resting on the bedside table, a broad red stripe bordered with black running down its length. Its sleeves are short, the cuffs wide and the buttonholes stiff with dirt. The black border is almost silken, and slips over one's fingers. The stripe is a concealed pocket, big enough to hide something the size of a chocolate roll, or tonight, several small meatbuns. They feel squishy in your palm. So _that_ explains why the shirt seemed so bulky!
The fabric itself is a little thicker than it looks, and slightly rough. Easily mantained. Difficult to damage or penetrate. Stains wash out easier, whether they're dumpling sauce, springroll oil, bile, spittle or blood. Blood is the worst-case scenario, but one, sadly, encountered quite often.
Faded pants lie on the bed, one leg crumpled up, frozen in a half-kneel. They are becoming threadbare at the knees and the base of the legs, where clothing rubs leather, skin and stony ground. Still, they're good pants, and they've lasted him this far. He'll be a little sad should the day finally come when he has to throw them away. He hates throwing things away. He doesn't really think it fair.
Still more clothing lies strewn across the room. Two belts at the foot of the bed, one too thick to fit the loops of the pants. You wonder briefly where it goes. There is a short orange cape, frayed at the end and slightly scorched and bloodied. He must have battled hard today, but that stands to reason. He knows he can fight, and he fights well. Why squander such God...Earth-given talent? There are shoulder shields, too, and cloth padding, joining cape to protect the boy's neck. The green-bordered shields have great claw-like portrusions curving out from them. Perhaps they are there to remind the boy he has similar attributes.
You wonder how he has the time and patience to put all this on in the morning.
The sleeper grunts, turns on his front. When this one does something, he devotes all attention to it. Nothing will wake him up except other, more pressing needs. Needs for bathrooms. Needs for breakfasts. Needs for battle. Often the third is neither need nor choice, but a summons to fight alongside his comrades.
One hand brushes his forehead hesitantly, and you see the glint of cold metal, half-hidden by the veritable bush of chocolate-brown hair. This is his bind, his limiter, to keep his true self, the equal to Tenkai, from bursting out onto the world and wreaking more havoc in ten minutes than the whole group can wreak in ten months. It also keeps a firm hold upon memories of long ago, when a child was still a child and his heart was simple and his needs even simpler. Give him the warmth of the sun, and he would be happy. Let his brother and his tutor stay also, and he is content. Spirit away any part of this and there will be hell to pay, as Tenkai so unfortunately found out.
Yes, they were the ones to blame. Trap an animal, one knowing nothing, and it will bite and claw until there is nothing left to bite and claw, if only it can get free. In the sleeper's mind, there is only a great white spot where those days are supposed to be, and 500 spring breezes, 500 teasing summer suns, 500 miserable autumns and 500 winters of death. It was in one of those springs he made his first friend after his grip upon the sun wavered. It was inferior compared to what he had before, but it was soft, warm, and golden, like living sunlight. He was happy to be with it, and it was happy in his company. It was one of the winters of death that lost him that friend, one of the winters of death that taught him never to let go lest things are lost. He lives as such, seizing onto an enemy and fighting him to the death, seizing onto his food and nearly inhaling it, seizing onto his new sun, following its path, wondering at its brightness and never letting it out of his sight.
It seems, also, that that winter made one grudging concession to him, or perhaps it sought to mock him. A near-miss stings more than a full failure, for you are left with the taste of things that might have been, and it is a bitter mixture indeed. The small, ratty golden feather in the youth's grip will attest to that. A last gift. The first pain after so long. A piece of a piece of the sun, to tide him over until the sun should rise again.
A sigh escapes the boy, and he buries his head deeper in the pillow. the feather trembles in his grip. One foot deftly hooks the edge of the blanket and draws it up, and one hand grabs it and wraps it all around his body. All this without even batting an eyelash. He continues to sleep. Tomorrow--what is tomorrow? Is it food? Fighting? Mystery? Mayhem? Love? Loss? Past? Present? The only way to find out is to live, and he intends to do just that. Just as all the travellers do, racing towards a setting sun.
And so, this concludes WYWS! This'll be my last piece for a while, as I'm off to Japan this week. I'll probably be back for an Xmas fic, no fear. My most ardent thanks to my chapter 2 and 3 reviewers:
hakkai-san -- dat's cos I only just started writing it! XD
Konzen -- blood has been corrected. Sankyu!
sf -- I actually got a review from SF. I am blessed, and I take thine tips to mind! *gives cookie*
ChaosD -- Nope, just a bunch of long sentences. Although I must say, that's a TEMPTING proposition...;)
Erutan X. -- YW. I really hope Saiyuki in ANY form comes to the UK soon. :)
B.O.I. -- Happy working on Gatsby! Thanks for 'faving' me!
lizalou -- thanks for your comments!
chiefraz -- 'sleeping beauties'? Oy. *LOL* Glad you enjoyed it.
nameless reviewer -- thankee. I LIKE Gojyo's bandanna.
KarotsaMused -- enjoy the last installment! *bows out*