Yagami's Little Girl – Mono no Aware
Written By: RinoaDestiny
King of Fighters and Iori Yagami belong to SNK
"…Namu Amida Butsu…"
Iori heard the sutra being recited by the Buddhist priest, its repetition familiar from the day before. The turnout at the wake wasn't much, which was to be expected but he'd seen Michiru's sister, uncle, several of her friends and some of her work colleagues there. Before the wake, he'd done some quick reading on the usual protocol for immediate family. Having never attended a funeral before and never been invited to one, he didn't want to stand out for the wrong reasons. He was trying to be inconspicuous to the best of his ability, which wasn't hard if he didn't act out.
Yesterday was a day of black-clad mourners and a constant stream of well-meant condolences. He'd taken Aoi with him to the wake as well – the funeral being the morning after – and his sister-in-law took a shine to her, asking if she could hold her. His obligations heavy at the time and his mind overwhelmed, Iori entrusted his daughter to her. While Michiru's sister was also immediate family, she wasn't the husband of the deceased.
He wondered what he looked like, since everything was surreal to him.
Sitting here with Aoi asleep on his lap – the cadences of the chanting lulling him – he still felt off. Not off in a bad way; just off in a weird sense. What was this feeling? He couldn't place it.
The formal black suit, white shirt, and black tie were constricting and it wasn't due to the size, cut, or how the knot near his throat felt like a weight. The priest chanting nearby also steadily beat on a drum; however, Iori could only focus on the words. He didn't understand them – he wasn't Buddhist or Shintoist or a believer in religion at all – but they seemed to convey peace. He guessed whatever Michiru believed brought her the same.
The chair beneath him was stiff and his legs were cramped. Then again, most people weren't as tall as him or as lanky. It made him stand out. In deciding how best to go incognito, he mentally went through a few options. He could've dyed his hair, gotten a quick haircut, self-styled his hair differently, or worn a hat. Options one and two immediately got tossed to the wayside. He wasn't dyeing anything. He liked his red hair and coloring it another shade wasn't going to help. That would draw attention in the wrong way.
Getting a haircut would also be a terrible mistake. First off, what cut could hide that it was him? Cutting it short would show the sharpness of his face even more and he already knew what he looked like most days. Most of his hair fell forward, so even trimming that would look awkward. Hell, he'd feel awkward, too. There was no way he was getting it shaved or getting a bowl-cut or some godawful garbage like that. Just the thought made him shudder.
Wearing a hat…well, he was at a funeral. Apparently, hats were a no-go if he wanted to keep to funeral etiquette and protocol. He usually didn't mind if people thought he was insane or an idiot but putting the spotlight on the husband being the moron wasn't the impression he wanted to leave behind. Not just for his sake but also for his late wife. She would haunt him if he pulled something stupid like that. Hell, he didn't even look good in hats. What would he wear – a cap like Bogard's or some Japanese antique from the Warring States period?
Iori stretched out his legs. He was tired. Last night's vigil also kept him up. He hadn't gone to sleep till very late and before then, he had to take care of Aoi.
The priest continued chanting; the sutra droning on.
His ear itched. Iori fought the urge to reach up and scratch it, knowing what a sight that'll be. He'd been left with only one option and took it. While he wasn't a hairstylist, he knew his own hair and had plenty of gel and spray. After several tries and through sheer luck and persistence, he finally found a style that didn't look too bad. It also didn't scream typical Iori Yagami.
However, the amount of spray needed now irritated his scalp.
After parting the fringe of hair that curtained his face, he'd split it evenly to both sides, framing his cheekbones. It looked weird initially – he didn't recognize himself – but it worked. Then, he added the pair of cosmetic glasses he bought to further distort his appearance. He went from punk to pretty boy nerdy, which threw him off. After this one-time outing, he wasn't going to repeat this experiment again.
Add in the traditional suit and he supposed it worked. Between his band getup and very unorthodox fashion style, he had branded himself as colorful and loud. A sedate suit without any flair would hide him in public, now that he thought about it. He managed to carry Aoi through Esaka Station without being swarmed or recognized by idolizing fangirls. While he sometimes ignored them – stopping only if they were unusually persistent – it was a huge relief to not have to deal with it at all this time.
Somehow, he made it here without incident.
The sutras were coming to a close. He had a feel of it now after being at the wake. The smell of incense hung in the air and he recalled offering his last night. The scent in his nostrils, the texture of it fine on his fingers and the sensation of touching the powder to his forehead. All the while, he felt strange. After the third time, he was glad to be done of it. Something about the ritual disturbed him and he wasn't sure if it was the unfamiliarity or how vulnerable he felt doing it.
He didn't like being vulnerable.
Michiru's portrait seemed to glow from where it stood among the flowers and her memorial tablet. Her sister had picked the picture for the funeral. It was one Iori had never seen before – Michiru with her hair swept back into a ponytail wearing a bright blue shirt. While he had pictures, none of them seemed fit for this somber occasion; so when her sister asked, he relinquished the task to her. He did his part paying for the costs and finding a temple that aligned with his late wife's beliefs. Most of them knew their way around ceremonies, so he didn't worry about that.
The priest up front finished the chanting and said something.
Next to him, Michiru's sister and uncle sat up straighter.
What? Did I miss something?
His late wife's uncle must've seen his confusion, because he silently mouthed a word. Iori blinked and then it dawned on him. Michiru was just granted a Buddhist name as part of the rites. Which meant this part of the funeral was ending. Which meant…
The cremation was next.
He and the rest of Michiru's immediate family needed to be in attendance for that. Who should he leave Aoi with? Was there some woman here he could trust? He didn't know any of Michiru's friends or work colleagues – didn't talk to them much besides the courtesies extended here – and he sure as hell didn't feel comfortable enough to entrust Aoi to them. Maybe one of the priests? But he didn't know jackshit about them, either.
He certainly didn't know most of the men here.
Like hell he'd give Aoi to them while he watched his wife burn.
Iori suppressed a shiver. Flames were innate for him and only meant for fighting. He had no timetable on his own death – he only knew he'd never make thirty – and he wasn't sure what dying would be like. He was thirteen when his old man croaked, but his old man was fifteen when he had him. Compared to his father, he had even less time to spend with Aoi. Having despised his father, he didn't hang around to witness his deterioration and end. He even deliberately avoided the funeral, despite the clan guardians haranguing him for lack of filial piety and his callous irresponsibility. Did the Yagami males just wither away or did they burn from automatic self-immolation? Their flames were cursed; he could see it being a twisted form of poetic justice.
If that happened to him, he didn't want Aoi to see it.
"Yagami-san?" Iori turned to face Michiru's uncle, realizing he'd zoned out. "It's time for the coffin closing."
"We are to witness it?"
"Yes." There was a kind glint in the older man's eyes. "You miss her?"
Hell yes but how am I to admit that here? Not trusting his voice, Iori gave an infinitesimal nod.
"All those flowers you bought for her will go with her."
To this, Iori also nodded. Anything bold, pretty, or bright. They fit her.
"Come. Ayase, give your brother-in-law a hand so he can offer his flowers first."
"Okay, Uncle." Ayase – so that was her name – turned and held her hands out in a gesture Iori knew from yesterday. "Give her to me, Yagami-san. You can have her back when you're done."
"She's sleeping," he said, his voice rough. It was obvious his daughter was asleep, but there was nothing else to say that wouldn't betray his inward feelings. "Don't wake her up."
"I'll make sure of that. Go. We'll follow after you."
His hands empty, Iori advanced to where the priests were. They handed him one of the bouquets – one of the many he'd paid for – and from the corner of his eye, he saw Michiru's uncle receive one, too. Approaching the now open coffin, he looked down at Michiru's face. She could've been asleep, if not for the fact he saw her die. The white kimono and the very light makeup complemented her serene features. The blue petals of the flowers he held would show against the dark of her hair.
He placed the bouquet next to her head, aware that his hand trembled and mastered control over himself. As he returned to his seat – yet remained standing – Ayase handed Aoi back to him and went to receive her own floral offering. There, before all the mourners, he was relieved that none of his turmoil showed. That was private. That was personal.
Iori had seen and heard crying here.
He dared not. Not here.
Soon, he saw the others stand and go up as well to offer their flowers to the dead. He still felt that sense of detachment – was that the word he was looking for? – and knew that after this was done, then the cremation. The interment of the remains a while later. All of his farewells and future memorial services if he was given enough time to live to see them. O-bon now meant something significant for him – not long from now according to the calendar – and he already saw from memory the image of lanterns glowing on night waters.
He used to walk by them, considered them scenery.
Now?
Time will tell. He was racing too far ahead – finish this day. They were closing the coffin. He could hear the nails being hammered in. Another sound in a day that seemed full and yet devoid of them. He was seeing the scene but not quite registering it. Even Aoi felt light in his arms.
What's happening to me?
A gentle touch on his arm. Iori startled; Michiru's uncle smiled kindly at him. "I know. It's difficult. I take it you've never been to a funeral before?"
"No."
"Will you be all right? The cremation is next."
That reminded him. "Should I take her with me?" He nodded down at Aoi, still fast asleep.
"Should be all right. We don't stay for the full process."
"No?"
"No." The older man's voice was subdued and quiet like his. "But there is something after we must attend. You must be there, Yagami-san."
"And her?"
"I'll find someone who can watch over her during that time. Don't worry."
Iori didn't respect many people. He could count them on one hand, if the hand was mangled. People feared him and the disrespect went both ways. He was so accustomed to this since he was a teen that it hardly bothered him. Being rude put people off and they left him alone. This was what he wanted. So when he did find someone he could respect, it threw him off balance.
Michiru's uncle was such a person.
True to his word, they went to the crematorium, trailed by the mourners. Then, it was just the four of them – Aoi fussing a bit as they entered – and the procedure started. He saw his wife being laid into the machine and then they were kindly told to come back within two hours. He didn't have to stay there to see her burn. It was an extended politeness, he understood.
Understanding was murky for him today.
If not for Michiru's uncle – he needed to know how to address him – Iori knew he would've gone insane twice over. Like as not, he already was due to his upbringing but his late wife grounded him and the presence of his daughter did as well. With supportive relatives, he might eke out and try – try – to have as normal a life as possible, despite all the complications he dealt with. It was worth considering.
He was no longer living just for himself now.
"It's the funeral feast next, Yagami-san." The uncle had become his guide. "Let's not delay."
So they didn't.
Iori didn't recall much of the details after this point. There was food and sake; he had eaten and drunk but he didn't remember what was served. Did he or the uncle make a toast for the first cup? He did take Aoi off to a side room to feed her – that was a clear memory – and she had fussed and cried. Ayase took her off his hands and he fell asleep for a brief moment, completely worn out.
Someone had awakened him later, giving him a smart shake. His suit was wrinkled; glasses askew on his face and his scalp itched. He was still exhausted but he knew what was next and he couldn't miss it. Like Michiru's uncle said, it was critical that he be there.
As promised, Aoi was taken into the care of a family friend.
So they left, arriving at the crematorium a few minutes earlier than the designated time. The staff let them into a separate room and suddenly, he was face-to-face with a large metal tray of ashes and bones. The sight jarred him, shook something loose. His wife was now only bones and ashes and they were to divide her remains, if that was the plan. He saw the urns – yes, some of the ashes were going with her blood family and the rest were to be interred in the ground after he kept them home for a certain number of days. There were long chopsticks on the side.
Why am I unsettled by this? I've done and seen worse during the tournaments.
Automatic self-immolation. He couldn't stop thinking about that.
If this was what it looked like burning after death, then... Hell, he and Kyo literally played with fire and they walked or limped away from that. But to burn and burn while dying and being unable to stop it while turning to ash…
He really hoped that wasn't how the males in his ancestral line died.
Moving through a haze – feeling, seeing himself pick up a pair of chopsticks – Iori stood alongside Ayase. Michiru's uncle was across from them on the other side of the tray. Gently, they transferred the bones to the larger urn. Feet first moving backwards, working their careful way up to what remained of the skull. At times, Iori paused, trying to get a firmer grip on a particular bone and found the uncle assisting him; his chopsticks grabbing the other end. Ayase handed him the smaller bones to place into the urn, his reach being the longest.
Time seemed to slow in this dull quiet room.
Chopsticks clacked against bone. Ashes sifted. The clinking of bone against ceramic as they transferred the remains into the urn. The faces near him were sad, drawn. He wondered, yet again, what he looked like to those who saw him.
He had a feeling many who knew him from the tournament wouldn't recognize him.
Would he?
Why are you going on like this? Bad enough you already visit that one grave.
He slammed down that line of thought fast. Orochi liked attacking him on that front, deriding his attachment to that one dead person. Getting it into his head – now, of all times – was just asking for trouble. That snake took every opportunity to make his life miserable.
Started it from the cradle, damn him.
"Come, Yagami-san." The uncle again. "The staff will sort the ashes for us. We'll get the urns later. You're tired. Let's go off to the side and wait."
Having nothing left to do, he followed. Ayase was already waiting at the end of the room for them, arms wrapped around her. Dark shadows colored the skin beneath her eyes, painting her sorrow in the open. The older man next to him had mild wrinkles but within the hour, Iori swore he'd aged a bit. Although his eyes were kind, they were also sad and the creases on his brow and around his mouth deepened. It reminded Iori of a mask.
If those two looked like that, he must've looked like shit.
Tired didn't even explain half of what he felt. Light. Removed. Detached. An out-of-body experience, perhaps? Good thing he wasn't prone to fainting, or he'd embarrassed himself a while back. He watched himself react – that was it – and it was akin to seeing a performance on a live stage with all the lights, dry ice fog, and theatrics. Here, the performance was done by one man for an audience of one.
Himself.
He shivered this time. As much as he loved Michiru, he wanted to go home. He didn't feel safe in his own skin. Safety was what he needed and it wasn't here among the dead.
"Yagami-san?" Ayase asked, worry apparent in her eyes. "You okay?"
"It's been a long day."
"It has." Flanking him was Michiru's uncle, who studied him with concern. "We'll be done soon. You can rest after this."
"A month later…"
"We'll properly observe the rites. Do you have an altar at home?"
"We have the start of one."
"Michiru didn't have one at home?" Disbelief tinged Ayase's voice. "She had one in her apartment before."
"I don't believe."
"Ah, you're what they call an atheist," the older man next to him said. "A lot of you young ones think like this nowadays."
It wasn't exactly like he didn't know gods and goddesses and sacred relics existed. His whole life was dictated by the choices made by his ancestors – power, vengeance, and early death – and he bore the double unluckiness of Orochi being invasive and the Riot of Blood. Such was his lot. The snake was a god, Kagura was a priestess born to seal him away, and he and Kyo were the other factors in sabotaging Orochi's efforts. For that, he had the magatama.
He made the choice to take it back, blood curse and all. Part of him knew he could live a better life without it, but he abhorred the loss of his power. More than that, he detested Orochi and would do anything after 1997 to continue sealing him away.
So it wasn't that he didn't believe. Instead…
"Hard to believe when the gods screw you over." Yeah, not very polite and a bit crass but he tended to be blunt.
Ayase stared at him. "But they don't."
Iori refrained from snorting in derision. The tale of Izanagi and Izanami countered her claim, whatnot with the goddess murdering her ex-husband's human creations. Talk about a bad breakup. That was one way humanity got absolutely fucked in the beginning. Amaterasu got her feelings hurt and hid in a cave, denying the world heat and light. So much for looking out for people. Gods and goddesses did things on a whim and who cared if the creations suffered?
Orochi sure as hell didn't care about his needs, just how to use him.
1997 stuck in his memory: Riot of Blood forcibly induced, him holding Orochi by the neck, the brief moment of lucidity before Kyo struck, and then pain and utter whiteout.
"Not for you, maybe," he responded to his sister-in-law, "but you aren't me."
"What about today?"
He turned to face Michiru's uncle. "How should I address you?"
"Uchida-san should be fine."
Uchida. That was a surname he wasn't familiar with, not as common as Watanabe, Sato, or even Fujisaka. "Uchida would be easier."
Uchida blinked. "Not as polite and I'm older than you, but whatever works for you, Yagami-san."
Well, that didn't go over smoothly. Whatever. "Uchida," Iori said, aware of the disapproving gaze Ayase fixed on him and the stillness in the other man's expression. "If today would've pleased Michiru, that's all that matters."
"Did you feel different than usual?"
Been feeling weird all day. Too much incense? "I'm just tired."
"You were focused on the sutras the priest chanted earlier today. I noticed." Uchida's stern expression softened. "So maybe something did get through to you."
Iori shrugged, sinking back against the wall. Goddamn, he was completely wiped out. His glasses were dirty, he wanted to get his hair back to normal, and he needed sleep. Go home, put the urn by the family altar, tuck Aoi in, and then curl up himself under the sheets. Whether he'd hit the shower first depended on how fast he fell asleep.
As if some mischievous god heard his inner thoughts, the staff approached them with two distinctive boxes tied with cord. Uchida took the smaller box; Iori received the larger one, surprised at its weight. Bones and ashes were supposed to be lighter, he thought but he could be wrong. Apparently, he was wrong on several things today.
He hated being proven wrong. Of course it all happened during Michiru's funeral.
If she was here, she'd have chuckled, finding him endearing.
Iori scowled.
"Yagami-san, take care of her and yourself."
"And Aoi," Ayase chipped in, no longer glowering. Some people forgave slights better than others, he saw. "We want to see her again. Maybe during O-bon?"
"I'll see."
"We'll meet again next month, Yagami-san. Then we can put her to rest."
Thirty-five days of keeping the bones and ashes at home by the family altar. Remembrances and tradition – everything that wasn't done when he was growing up as a boy. You see this, old man? You see what I can do without you running my life?
"Yes."
"Take care. Goodbye." That was Ayase.
"Goodbye, Yagami-san. Pleased to finally meet you." Uchida smiled. "She's in a better place, you know."
He didn't know but that was okay.
"Goodbye, Uchida."
By the time they arrived home, it was late. A luminous full moon hung in the sky; his mind on the verge of shutting down, Iori had no energy for poetic phrasing. Aoi slept against the broad of his back as he climbed the stairs to their apartment. His daughter was a sound sleeper and it had been a long day. He hoped that meant a quiet night for him, because he didn't think he'd wake up once he passed out.
The bag holding the boxed urn weighed heavy on his wrist, cords furrowing into his skin. He frowned, uncertain as to the lingering feeling that had settled thick on him starting from the wake until now. There had to be a name for it; yet, Iori found himself clueless.
It eluded him.
What was it?
Somehow, he managed to reach their floor, fumble the keys from his pocket, open the door, enter, and close and lock it in one blurred moment that he barely registered. Moving on auto-pilot, he unstrapped his daughter from his back and headed towards her room. Once he made sure she was comfortable and still sleeping, he took care of himself. In the shower he went to wash off the smell of incense and hairspray. The glasses he tossed to the side, their use fulfilled.
The hot water almost lulled him to sleep. Iori caught himself dozing off, droplets sliding down his hair and his breathing evened out. Since he didn't want to sleep naked all night on the wet floor – wasn't looking forward to getting sick – he got out, toweling himself dry. How he was still functioning was a mystery.
From one minute to the next, he finished drying his hair, draped his much-worn dress shirt around his shoulders and made for the front door. He'd left the urn there before taking Aoi to her room – a reflex, since he wasn't aware of it till later. Before he crashed for the night, certain respects needed to be paid. As he mentioned to Uchida, he had the beginnings of the family altar prepared. Nothing major or fancy: a small photo of Michiru at her best, some flowers and fruit, and a single candle.
He placed the urn there, carefully positioning it next to the picture.
After the proper burial rites, he'll be adding a memorial tablet to the altar. But that wouldn't be for some time and Iori realized he needed the ritualized delay. There were things he needed to come to terms with and most of them happened today.
Good night, Michiru.
He wasn't one for prayers or chanting. The best he could offer was himself and he hoped it was enough even for a spirit.
Night continued to fall. He went to bed and was immediately unconscious to the world. Moonlight shone through the windows as if seeking him but he was already beyond its grasp, sleeping a dreamless sleep.
Pale light washed the bland walls of his room, easing its slow way through. Iori awoke, groaning. The under lids of his eyes were bruised as he tumbled out from under the sheets wearing nothing but the rumpled shirt. Red hair in his face, over his eye and it felt like he'd lived through several journeys in the span of a night. He couldn't understand it. Nothing made sense and he already had trouble comprehending what it was about.
Michiru. Aoi. Music. Kyo.
That was all that mattered to him, right?
As he lifted himself off the floor and back onto the bed, his fingers brushed the pillow. The thin fabric was wet in places. Iori froze, hand hovering. That wasn't possible. Not with him.
He wasn't that type. He wouldn't…
You did.
It was the longest pause in his life. He stared at the pillow, at his hand, felt the heaviness around his eyes and knew for the briefest second what yesterday's feeling was about. It was alien. It was strange. It frightened him, and Iori Yagami was not easily scared.
Time passed – seeming an eternity – before he finally roused himself from his trance. Gently, he flipped the pillow, pulled the sheets up, and prepared for another day. Day after day. One week into the next. Then the months and the years.
Iori moved through all of them. He never stopped moving.
But there were things, concepts, and some people he couldn't move past. No matter how hard he tried, they remained there as both sentiment and obstacle.
The pillow was now dry.
The feeling was still there.
Notes: I did a lot of reading online just for this chapter, since Japanese funerals are rather foreign to me and I needed to research this topic. There are several steps to the wake, to the funeral proceedings, and then even the transition phase from post-funeral to the actual interment of the ashes and bones. It appears some families do move straight into the burial phase afterwards, but traditionally, there is a thirty-five day wait period before that occurs. Even with all the reading I did, there still may be some aspects of this chapter that are off simply because I've never been to a Japanese funeral (live on the other side of the world) and it seems the little details change depending on the family, etc.
As for Iori himself, he's becoming quite interesting for me to write. While I know he is a supreme jerkass in canon (Oh hell is he in KoF XIV!), it appears that my head-canon is trying to figure out a proper unity between his douchebag side and the side that SNK shows when he is nice. Trying to juggle the two in the same character without making him OOC is difficult. Then again, that is part of the draw of Yagami to me – he's the rougher-edged of the two rival boys and therefore more intriguing. I'm sure he can be decent but he needs to want to be that way – you can't make him that way, I think.
For his quirky hairstyle, it does look odd. I happened upon Falcoon's recent art on Kyo and Iori after writing this chapter and did a double-take at his Iori. He has a few illustrations of him with his hair parted to the sides and I didn't recognize him at first glance. I even had to check to make sure the picture was labelled as Iori Yagami because he looked so different. As for the glasses, take a look at his official illustrations within the otome dating game series, Days of Memories that SNK officially released quite a while back. There are a few pictures of Iori wearing glasses and he looks absolutely adorable in them.