Thank you – to Sueona, Princess Sin, Jollyolly, Morality and Chazmy. I'm glad you all are faithfully following this story. Your support makes the hours I spend working on it truly worthwhile – again, thank you!
Chazmy, thanks for mentioning Lord Enma in your review – I have seen this name given to the ruler of Meifu in fics, but I wasn't sure about it. In the series, I would hear the phrase 'enma-cho', and I thought it meant 'judgment bureau'. Thanks for confirming the name. I made use of it in this part :)
Disclaimers/reminders: This is a work of fiction. Yami no Matsuei and all the characters therein belong to Yoko Matsushita. All the other characters are my own. This story is rated M, for mature themes.
Love and darkness
Part Twelve
The last of the Hybrid offspring: prayer for a forgotten child
Sleep would not come to him. As exhausted as he was, he couldn't escape from the effects of adrenalin flows and ebbs caused by his emotional highs and lows. Fury plummeted to misery; despair to a newfound sense of purpose when the sparks of a fresh revenge-driven rage surged through his broken spirit, only to crash again, his fevered thoughts overtaken by fear and remorse. He crawled into a closet and cried until his head throbbed. He chain-smoked until the nicotine in those poisonous sticks nauseated him, drank until the alcohol burned his insides.
All he longed for was the release of death and the oblivion it would bring. But, something needled at him. There was something he needed to do… what was it? He banged his head against the wall, crazed, frustrated because he could not grasp the answer.
He lay on his back on the floor and laughed himself into a state of hysteria. The answer seemed hidden in the recesses of his mind, elusive, tantalizing him, revealing fragments of itself, only to dart out of reach again and submerge itself within the remnants of his slowly unraveling mind.
At last, he drifted into a fitful sleep, where troubled dreams awaited him.
The central theme of these dreams was a journey. In each of them, he found himself undertaking perilous journeys to attain something, an extraordinary treasure that continually eluded him, while an unseen force, nefarious and sinister, stalked him, filled him with terror.
Each time his heart quickened from the knowledge that what he sought was so close, within his grasp, more dangers would appear to hinder him. In his final dream, he swam across turbulent waters, scaled treacherous slopes of mountains to lay his hands on the holy grail of his quest. When it seemed all his strength and will had been depleted, he cried out in anguish, prayed – to whom he did not know. But it seemed his prayers had been answered; he would pick himself up, time and again, move his battered body and press on. When he stopped for breath, he would sense the shadow that pursued him at his back, and he would falter. He flung rocks, swung makeshift weapons made from tree branches at the thing he could not see. Amid his despair, he heard a voice, calling, encouraging him: "Fight with your will, not your strength. I'm waiting for you. Don't look back. Come to me. Use your will to find me." From then on, he gritted his teeth and strengthened his will, so that he charged effortlessly through the remainder of the punishing gauntlet ahead of him, no longer feeling the relentless pursuit of the dark force behind him.
At last, he came upon a paradisiacal place of peace. Holding his breath with anticipation, he saw the curtain of mist that preceded his steps fall away, finally revealing his prize.
Tears of happiness and relief leaked from the sleeping eyes of Kazutaka Muraki. With his dreaming eyes, he saw him, the gentle, loving smile on his face, the face of a bodhisattva. A few more steps, and he would be home free! He took them and fell into the embrace of his bodhisattva, sobs wracking his tired body. "Shh… everything will be all right now, I love you," whispered his bodhisattva. The voice, the words, were like a balm being rubbed on his hurting soul. His face was held and lifted. He cringed from sudden shame at his dishevelment, his grimy, bloodstained clothes and tried to pull away. But he was held fast by those loving arms, and when he blinked his tears away, the bodhisattva's face transformed into Oriya Mibu's…
Iroki dressed himself with care. After fastening the sash around his waist, he gathered up his long black tresses and bound them with black velvet ribbons at the top of his head. Satisfied that his appearance was impeccable, he glanced at the clock on his dresser.
"Oh no! I'm late! Master Eiji will be angry!"
The immortal youth dashed out of the dormitory. His feet picked up speed across the courtyard, but his heavy long robe hindered his sprinting, so he scooped up its edges, lifting them above his knees and continued his sprint to the Imperial Hall of History. To his chagrin, there seemed to be quite a number of goddesses in the area that morning, all of whom stopped to gawk and giggle and for once, Iroki did not despise the silk pantaloons that were a requisite part of his uniform, since they shielded his skinny legs from the gaze of the eminent ladies.
He arrived at his assigned office out of breath, and hastily proceeded to smoothen out his garments and tidy his hair. The apprentice scribe was delighted to find that stacks of fresh, blank sheets of parchment had been placed on his desk, together with several brand-new quill pens and bottles of ink. He set his lips in a tight line. None of those 'computers' for me – no way!
His master had told him recently that in the mortal world, as well as in Meifu, records or 'data' were fed into devices called 'computers' and stored in things called 'discs'. His instructor had laughed at his astonished face and had shown him pictures of those objects in a magazine from the mortal world. Although intrigued, Iroki was secretly fearful of them and he was glad that these strange methods of recording facts had not invaded his realm. His expression had grown seriously troubled when Master Eiji had announced in a delighted voice that he had ordered a computer for himself through Lord Enma's assistance. "I was told that it's the latest type, extremely popular and very, ah… 'compact'… something called a 'notebook', which I can carry around with me. Doesn't it seem wonderful?" He had looked at his master's eyes, shining with eager anticipation and then remarked, somewhat disdainfully, "A notebook? How can it be called a notebook when it is not a book?" Master Eiji had laughed uproariously at him again. "Why, I do believe you're scared of them, these computers, aren't you? Come on, admit it." Iroki had not liked the way his master's eyes narrowed impishly. "When my notebook arrives, I insist you come and see it… oh, it won't bite you! Lord Enma had very kindly offered to arrange for me to be instructed in its use by one of the Shinigami, Yutaka Watari, an inventor of sorts, and apparently an expert on computers. I confess I find the prospect to be quite exciting… ah, I know! I'll take you with me, Iroki! Would you like that?" Iroki, wide-eyed and stubbornly wary, had reacted to this proposal with undisguised apprehension, stammering incoherently, whereupon his master had picked him up and slung him over his shoulder, laughing gleefully and totally disregarding his pupil's squeaks of protests.
Recalling that incident, the youth's face warmed with embarrassment. He shook his head with longsuffering. As fond as he was of his master, he was sometimes stymied by his playful streak and was more at ease with the other teachers and Scribes who were similar to himself in nature, serious and single-minded. It amazed him however, that these illustrious figures, the majority of whom were truly ancient beings, accepted his master's mischief making, merely clucking their tongues with affectionate smiles. As such, he could not have hoped for any one of the teaching staff to come to his aid when he had been carried in that ignominious manner, through the hallway crammed with pointing, amused students, his teacher chortling all the way to his classroom. Amid the chuckles of the other students – half of which were young maidens, which had made it all the more humiliating for him, since Iroki was painfully shy of maidens – he had been plunked onto his chair. Horribly mortified, he had watched his master stride coolly to the front of the classroom, as if hauling pupils into class on his shoulder was a perfectly normal thing to do. After mounting the dais and flashing an entrancing smile on his flock, he commenced the day's lessons purposefully, his tone compelling without being overbearing, eyes gentle but always with that hint of playfulness peeping through. These attributes were his draw, Iroki decided; why he was loved, celebrated, his reputation preceding him, why the new students hoped fervently to be assigned to his class, why they thrived under his guidance.
These reflections led Iroki to think about another fact concerning his master: he found it surprising that his master lived alone, having never taken a consort. It was no secret that he was one of the most eligible bachelor deities and had remained thus for ages, out of reach to many who hoped to win him. The youth had himself witnessed the effect his master had on these would-be suitors, unattached goddesses, and gods, for that matter. The eyes of these love-struck beings would linger wistfully on him, and Iroki could not help but feel sorry for them, because his master did not seem to notice their obvious attraction to him, or their outright flirtations. Or, perhaps, thought Iroki, he did notice them, but merely feigned that he did not. Either way, it did not seem likely that any of these hopeful contenders for Master Eiji's heart were going to be successful in their endeavors anytime soon.
Iroki strode to the window near his desk and pushed open the shutters, allowing sunlight to stream into the room. The youth, who had been a history buff since he could toddle, loved this place, this immense building with its maze of halls and corridors, endless shelves that held countless millennia's worth of documented history; he loved the odors of ancient ink and manuscripts. It seemed to Iroki that all the history written on the parchments saturated the very air of these great rooms. With pride and a deep sense of achievement, he sat down blissfully at his desk.
He did not hear the door opening. Into the room stepped his master, tall and regal in his appearance. His full-length outer tunic had a fine sheen to it, the deep green and gold tints on its surface glimmered when he moved. Iroki sprang to his feet to execute a formal bow and proper greetings to his teacher. His stammered apology for his tardiness was interrupted by his master's elegant, rising hand and rich voice.
"It is quite all right, Iroki. You have been an exemplary student, such that I'm willing to forgive this small lapse."
The apprentice, relieved, bowed once more and expressed his thanks profusely, lifting his eyes to his master's serene face. The kindly smile there reached his eyes, which were the color of sun-kissed grass. Shining yellow hair, diaphanous in its quality, hung free, draping his shoulders and torso. The facets of citrines sparkled on his earlobes and fingers.
His student, who was small in stature, eyed his master's manly frame, wondering with no small measure of envy if his own physique would ever gain such heights of masculinity. Laughter, so hearty that it shook his master's broad shoulders, made Iroki's cheeks and ears turn a bright hue of red and he silently swore at himself for forgetting that his teacher could read his thoughts.
Eiji held the youth by his shoulders and Iroki had to tilt his head back to look at his master's face. "Cease your worrying, my pupil. I assure you that you have not stopped growing." The indulgent smile gracing Eiji's lips chased the lad's embarrassment away. "Who knows, eh, Iroki, someday, perhaps I will have to look up at you," he declared, good-naturedly. Sighing, he stepped back, tilted his head with his knuckles beneath his chin, considering his pupil, light dancing in his irises. "I am very pleased with you, proud of you. Tomorrow, you will no longer be an apprentice, but a fully-fledged Scribe. I congratulate you, Iroki!" Master acknowledged student with a dip of his noble head.
"All thanks to you, master. It has been a great honor to train and study beneath your tutelage. I am deeply grateful."
Eiji watched his pupil's bow with pride and amusement before he clapped his large hands together with zest. "From tomorrow, I expect you to be less formal with me, is that understood?" This request was delivered with mock severity.
"Oh, er, yes, of course, Sir," replied Iroki, who was fretfully wondering if it were at all possible to be less than formal when in his master's company – in spite of all his playfulness, he possessed such a princely bearing that demanded absolute respect and ceremony.
"Come, let us stroll to my rooms. I declare this a day off for you, young one! We will drink peach tea and eat lotus cakes," announced Eiji with a grin. "A small celebration is in order, to commemorate your becoming a Scribe and Keeper of the Annals!"
Iroki sighed happily and tripped after his master, almost running to stay in pace with his long strides…
Later, teacher and pupil were ensconced in plush armchairs in Eiji's airy, sitting room, the windows of which overlooked a verdant sanctuary that housed a wide variety of bird life and small mammals that made their homes in the trees. Birdsong and occasional animal calls floated to where they sat, providing pleasant accompaniment to their conversation.
Iroki looked over the rim of his teacup to find his master's eyes on him. Although the pair of green eyes seemed to be focused on him, the look in them was distant, distracted. Unsettled, the immortal scribe-to-be averted his eyes; setting his cup down, he dropped his gaze into his lap, debating with himself on whether or not to say something.
"Iroki."
"Yes, master?"
"In all my years of teaching, I have never before had the privilege of taking under my wing someone so passionately in love with history as you are. I daresay that you must be the most widely read scholar in this subject…"
Iroki made a little noise of humble protest, but Eiji waved away his objections. "No, I merely speak the truth. Your devotion to your studies is truly inspirational…" His voice tapered off and once again his eyes sought his pupil's face. "I shall tell you a story, Iroki, a true story. It is… a part of our history that was… erased from the Annals."
Eiji smiled gently to reassure, when he noted his young companion's sudden tense demeanor and anxious expression. "Relax, Iroki. This is not a test, I promise you, but something I wish to impart to you, before you take up your duties… make of it, learn from it, what you will. Get comfortable, put your feet up… oh, go on!"
His teacher's ploy of seeming hurt when Iroki refrained from propping up his feet on the footrest achieved results. The youth immediately obeyed, relaxed a little, and when his master began his tale, Iroki was glad of his voice; it was kind to his ears. He could listen to him for hours and hours without getting bored and nodding off. His heart raced, as though he were being let in on a deep, dark secret…
"There was a time when the gods and goddesses roamed as they wished, traveling liberally between our realm and that of the mortal beings.
"We True Immortals, although highly intelligent, tend to be somewhat… child-like, shall I say, in our perceptions. Born and raised in the ultimate Utopia, we knew no suffering – death, wars, poverty, sickness, hunger – these conditions are completely alien to our reality. Being entities of loving and compassionate natures, the plight of the short-lived mortals saddened us.
"We began to use our powers to ease their suffering, making the rains come when their wells and rivers ran dry, to nourish the grain-producing shoots that sprung, planted by worn mortal hands, from the ground. We made the rains cease when the people of the earth wailed at the relentless monsoons that threatened to ruin their crops; gusts from immortal lungs blew away the storm clouds, allowing the sun's warmth to ripen their fruit and grain.
"We even went so far as to bestow longevity on some favored mortals, because we loved them dearly and did not want them to perish so soon. The lips of deities kissed the sick and debilitated, healing them, as we could not bear to witness their suffering and the cries of those mortals who loved them.
"O-Ran, the emperor of heaven silently observed all of this unhappily, knowing deep in his heart that the denizens of his realm were overstepping their boundaries and interfering in the natural order of human life, upsetting the cycle of climatically-controlled seasons that was natural to the Earth's situation.
"Troubled, the emperor consulted Junko, the Epicene Celestial Oracle. Junko spoke, and O-Ran gathered all his deities and decreed that they were to refrain from interfering in the affairs of the mortal world, and to heed the Oracle's warning that chaos would ensue if the situation continued unabated.
"There rose a great cry from among his subjects – protests: 'how can we not help them? It grieves us to see them suffer! We desire only to give them joy during their short lives, because we love them so…'
"In answer, the emperor declared: 'It is not our place to alter the natural order of their world. A continuance of your interference, however well intended, would eventually culminate in disaster. We are deities. Our duties are to comfort them in their times of trials and bolster the strength of their spirits to endure.'
"Objections and disgruntlement still prevailed after they heard his admonishments, and so our king resorted to a threat: 'If you do not obey, I will no longer allow you to visit the realm of the mortals!'
"A hush fell upon the shocked throng of deities. They stared, aghast, at their liege. A multitude of them wept, their tears in turn shocking and unsettling O-Ran.
"Heaven's emperor embellished his instructions: 'I know how you all love them. Continue to love them, hear their prayers, strengthen them with a hint of your presence, let them know in their hearts you have heard them. They are resourceful, enduring beings – trust them to overcome their hardships, to live their lives without our interference.'
"Faced with the dismal prospect of not being able to be close to their beloved mortals, they capitulated dejectedly and resigned themselves to doing only what our sovereign had decreed.
"And so the deities continued to flit joyfully among the mortals who fascinated them. They realized that O-Ran had been correct – they stood in awe at their ingenuity and inventiveness, at the inherent striving nature of the short-lived people. With each new achievement, our love for the mortals was renewed, over and over.
"As the centuries flowed by, they were thrilled by the machines brought forth by clever minds and toiling hands, by the special ones that rose among them, to lead and govern, to provide better lives, who fought for peace and strove to put an end to strife and poverty.
"Thus the true immortals grew ever more captivated by the earth mortals, and this state of affairs paved the way for a new crisis…
"The deities faithfully did as they had been told. Within their hearts they stored, raptly, as if gathering priceless items, the prayers of their devotees. They danced delightfully to the music and song, the chants of their praises in their temples and shrines. Immortal nostrils inhaled the myriad scents of freshly cut blooms and offerings of food placed upon altars dedicated to their chosen deities. In return for all these gifts of heartfelt words, beautiful flowers and food, all the more precious when placed upon altars by the poor, the gods and goddesses warmed and lightened the hearts of hurting mortal souls. With their lips they kissed the tears of the suffering, surrounding them with their love.
"The Immortals opened their bursting hearts to love them, pressed their lips to mortal ones, moved their fingers to caress mortal skin…
"In time, this hotbed of innocent affection nurtured… desire, which resulted in carnal relationships between the beings of the two realms.
"Thus, Hybrid offspring were conceived, by both the divinities and the mortals. It must be pointed out that mortal women conceived the majority of these children.
"This fact made no difference, however, to heaven's king, whose brow was deeply furrowed and etched with consternation at these troubling developments.
"A firm edict was issued to his minions to stop these couplings when Junko the Oracle declared that the procreation of the hybrids, who would inherit the powers of the immortals, would again prove disastrous if left unchecked. Once more, the natural order of life in the mortal world was being tampered with – a race of unnatural, super-mortals were being bred. Equally worrying was the introduction of half-mortals to our realm…
"Supreme General Nagi and his army of enforcers were dispatched with haste to erase the memories of the mortals' encounters with the deities, manipulating them as such that those unions had never occurred. While they were engaged in this task, it was discovered that a young mortal woman had conceived a child by Isao, O-Ran's firstborn. Furthermore, this event had occurred after the edict had been issued.
"Beside himself with rage at Isao's disobedience, the emperor ex-communicated him, banishing his beloved, favorite child from the celestial palace and issued a further decree – one that banned all his deities from visiting the mortal world. All the portals leading to it were shut, sealed, and vigilantly guarded by the enforcers; to this day, they have remained so.
"Following this, there took place the heart wrenching task of gathering up all the love-children of the goddesses, conceived by mortal men, those who had been born in the heavenly realm.
"Ah… such terrible soul-cries resounded in the heavens that day… the outpouring of grief from these unfortunate mothers was so great that an icy rain poured from dense, dark clouds that obscured the seven suns of heaven for seven days.
"This unprecedented event – precipitation had never fallen in the heavens before – did not undermine O-Ran's determination to have the children sent to the mortal world, there to be raised by foster parents, mortals. Nor did the beseeching of his sister's child, the goddess Sanae. Distraught but defiant, she held his enforcers at bay, refusing to hand over her infant, who was six-months old in age. The enforcers balked, loath to injuring her, for she is a well-loved goddess.
"It was only when his beloved consort, Hatate, threw herself at his feet, begging him to reconsider that he waivered. Torn, O-Ran sought out the Oracle, who pronounced his decision to be correct.
"But still the queen resisted and held the king at a standoff for a month, with the threat of splitting the heavens into two factions. Her's was no idle threat: the heavens were, indeed, divided over the fate of the heaven-born offspring; she had the support of half the deities and half of the enforcers. Nevertheless, her threat profoundly stunned the kingdom's populace, for the depth of the love between O-Ran and Hatate is legendary. But upon reflection, they assumed that her separation from her son Isao, under house arrest in the northern part of the kingdom, had pushed her over the edge, and, possibly, the plight of Sanae had deeply affected her as well. At that time, the empress had birthed no daughters as yet, and she, in her yearning for a girl-child, had embraced Sanae as her own.
"Panic and fear gripped both sides. The possibility of their blissful utopia being torn apart seemed imminent, when Hatate rode off, to O-Ran's shock and bewilderment, on the back of her winged tiger to the eastern territory, her supporters swarming behind her on their flight beasts. There she set up camp to decide her next move. Banners emblazoned with her emblem fluttered ominously in her encampment…
"A month after the stalemate began, O-Ran, standing on the highest balcony of his palace, looked up to see an arrow plummeting towards him in the sky. Nagi, at his side, pushed him out the way and caught the arrow. Noting it was one of Hatate's, he unwrapped the parchment attached to its shaft and handed it to his king.
"With tight chest and horrified eyes, O-Ran read:
" 'The outcome will be decided by a one-on-one battle between you and I. This, I am prepared to do in order to prevent casualties among our beloved populace. Tomorrow, when the seven suns have set, we will clash, over Mount Ryukan in the western sky. I will love you forever, my beloved O-Ran – Hatate'
"O-Ran ground the parchment to dust in his hand and fell to his knees and wept. 'Hatate… my love… why…?'
"The celestial citizens held their breaths as their king mounted his white dragon and rose into the firmament…
"Over the clouds above Ryukanyama, O-Ran eyed his consort atop her mount with heartbreak. 'I beg you to reconsider… Hatate… please, not this… I love you…' he uttered, brokenly, tears running down his face.
" 'No more talk! Draw your weapon, husband!'
"O-Ran cringed at her determined shriek, and shook his head. 'I cannot do this…'
" 'Then, rescind your order. Let the children stay, and as for Isao…'
" 'Why cannot you understand, Hatate? The Oracle has spoken. I cannot allow further procreation of hybrids! We cannot interfere in the affairs of mortals… our bloodlines must not be mixed with theirs…'
"Before he could continue his plea, Hatate whipped out her sword from its sheath, spurred her mount and charged at a terrifying speed towards king and dragon…
"Forming a wide circle around the pair was an entourage of twenty attendants, ten on each side, on hand to witness the outcome of the tragic battle to come, and, to bear away the fallen combatant. These gasped as one, hearts in their mouths at the awesome, valiant sight of the diminutive empress, her form forever girlish in her agelessness, and her roaring tiger streaking towards her opponent, queen and mount preposterously dwarfed by the gigantic, mighty dragon. The king's dragon, stirred by the tiger's aggression, was already lashing its great tail and spewing flames from its jaws. O-Ran screamed in anguish and strained to reign in his beast to prevent its flames from scorching his beloved queen. He still had not drawn his weapon. His mount seemed confused by his actions; it was being turned and led away, almost in retreat…
"Hatate's cry resounded. 'Turn around, O-Ran! Fight me!' Courageously, she gave chase, her arm and sword brandished above her tiger's head…
"It will never be known… how far the queen would have gone… gods and goddesses, to this day, still quail at the memory of her desperate charge… wondering if her sword would indeed have found its mark… only Hatate herself knows… but the answer will forever remain secret, buried in her heart… yes, we will never know, because, into her path flew Masato's winged stallion, rearing and whinnying. Hatate gasped in shock, yanked on the reigns of her mount before its extended claws could shred the flanks of her brother's huge black horse.
" 'Stop this!'
"Both Hatate and O-Ran turned their beasts around, startled by the voice, gaping.
"In front of Masato sat Sanae, pale and breathless. 'I beg you to stop this, my queen! I cannot allow this to happen! I couldn't live with myself if either one of you were to be lost…'
"She seemed ill; her body drooped in the saddle as her head lolled. Only Masato's arm held her upright.
" 'Mercy… my king… grant us a mercy… a reprieve… only a reprieve… so that we may be allowed to choose the foster parents of our children… only this small mercy, and we will surrender them… put away your sword, my queen, my beloved second mother… I thank you for your support thus far… it is enough…'
"Her strained speech came to an end when she swooned, slumping against Masato, who sadly kissed her head.
"Hatate looked at O-Ran, who nodded his agreement, weeping inwardly at all the sorrow engulfing his kingdom.
"There came forth no cheering among the onlookers, only silent misery, at this outcome, merely an averting of one tragedy before another took place: the impending departure of the love-children of the goddesses… all these children were dearly loved by everyone…
"The last child to be taken from his mother's arms was Sanae's little boy. The exodus of the hybrid offspring was about to begin. The queen was nowhere to be seen that day, when a solemn Nagi looked to his king, awaiting his signal. When it came, the hybrid offspring of both genders – the young ones, frightened and bawling; the older and fully grown, silently weeping – were lulled into a deep sleep of forgetfulness and borne aloft in the arms of the enforcers.
"O-Ran turned away from the stricken, crumbled form of his niece, unable to bear the sight of her grief. His deep sigh shook the heavens…
"After that day, a gloom settled over our realm. A terrible sense of loss gripped the hearts of the deities. The children aside, there was the awful separation from their beloved mortals to contend with. No longer able to fly happily among them, they could only listen to their prayers from the heavens, send comfort back to them telepathically. But they set themselves to their tasks in earnest, for the sake of their devotees, and partly to forget their pain. To this day, the world of the mortals remains off-limits to us. No doubt, the mortals feel the absence of immortal presence greatly. During the crisis leading up to the exodus, when every deity's attention was riveted on the developments taking place in our realm, surely our absence from their realm must have been especially sensed.
"The adoptions engineered by the enforcers were to be the last acts of 'interference' by the immortals in the mortal world.
"Sanae would later tell me that her son came to be raised by the couple she had chosen – good, honest, hardworking people who had been childless for ten years after their marriage. They were also her devotees, and she had heard their countless prayers to her for a child. Sanae sent a dream to her son's adoptive mother. In this dream, the woman walked in a garden. There she came upon a being clothed in light, who spoke in a woman's voice, identifying herself as Sanae, telling her that she had heard her prayers. 'I birthed him myself, for you. His name is Oriya. Raise him well, love him as your own, and ensure that he will embrace me as his personal deity, as you and your husband have. Do this in return of this special gift I have bestowed upon you.'
"As for Isao's son: he was born into a mortal family by name of Muraki to his mortal mother, and was called Kazutaka. This boy, grandchild of the emperor of heaven, was the last of the hybrid children, the child whose conception shook the very foundations of heaven and almost tore it asunder.
"The exiled children grew up, lived, just as the ones born on earth had, among the mortals, seemingly like them in every way, but… they were not, in that they had special abilities, talents the modern mortal world came to recognize as telepathy, telekinesis and clairvoyance. Some possessed strength beyond the limits of human possibilities; others were highly intelligent, this trait appearing in very early childhood, called 'geniuses'. The powers inherited through their immortal bloodlines are potent enough to be passed down generation after generation, randomly bypassing some and manifesting in others. We hear of those with extended lives, those with resistance to diseases; some recover mysteriously from incurable illnesses, without treatment – mortals, depending on their beliefs, term these occurrences 'phenomena' and 'miracles'. Indeed, they are, for these are the descendants of the immortals."
Iroki was silent for a long while, his mind turning over all that he had heard. He had been thoroughly immersed in the story. He had so many questions he wanted to ask, but he dared not give voice to them. As to why he felt this way, he wasn't certain; probably it was because his teacher, who had narrated the story as a professional storyteller or voice actor would have, with suitable inflections to his fine voice at the appropriate parts, had been trying very hard to seem impassive, merely telling the tale as if he had not been present. Because of this, he had received the distinct impression that his master must have been there, involved, in the very thick of the action, and not just some bystander, or someone who was simply repeating what he had read.
I will ask my questions, perhaps, in the future… One of the questions he wanted to voice was: and what about you, Master? Had you been one of them? Had you fallen in love with a mortal? As soon as that question formed in his mind, he flushed, ashamed of himself. Even though he had asked it mentally, it seemed disrespectful, as though he was intruding on his master's privacy. Frantically, he hoped his master had not gleaned it from his mind.
His heart was deadweight inside of him. I wonder why these events were erased from the records… was it because they never wanted to be reminded? Did they want to forget the mistakes they made, forget their pain? Someday, when enough time has passed for healing, acceptance and reconciliation with what had happened, perhaps this missing part of our written history can once again be added to The Annals… all history, good and bad, contain valuable lessons…
While Iroki contemplated all this, Eiji was lost in his own thoughts – details he had not shared with his student…
My answer to you, is 'yes', Iroki… I did love a mortal… I loved that one with a consuming passion that was truly alarming, even to me… it took so long for the pain to lessen, to be able to hold my shattered heart in place. But I'll never ever forget you… even though I'll never see you again, I'll never forget you, Fumio…
How you remind me of him, Iroki, in so many ways! In his youth, he was just like you… I saw him when he received his commission to teach the children at the palace of Prince Michizane. His black eyes shone with pride like yours did, when you graduated…
No, I'll never forget you… from the day I first saw you, you were very little then, praying, obediently doing as your parents wanted you to, to Eijisho, patron god of scholars… to the last, when you sat at your desk, writing the last chapter of your epic, one you intended to publish… I'll always remember your face as you sat there, lips set in concentration, hand constantly in motion, swift strokes of your brush moving above the parchment… above your shoulder I read the words you wrote, I read the exuberance in your thoughts, as you anticipated the publication of your work… the scent of your black hair, your profile, lit by candlelight, these things will forever be preserved in my memory… it was that night I made my decision to show myself to you when I next came to you. Before that night, I had only contented myself with observing you, placing fleeting touches on your hair and cheeks… once, while you slept, tired out from a day of instructing the children, I lay next to you and pressed my lips to yours and you stirred, sighed and murmured, and turned your face this way and that… whenever you felt my touches, you would react as if some insects were buzzing around you, as you swatted your hand at the invisible butterflies, looking perplexed and adorable… I delighted at this, laughed at this, and would kiss you even more to draw these reactions from you. Totally smitten by you, I resolved to appear before you, I, whom you had called upon over the years to aid you in your endeavors, to light your scholarly path, would present myself to you, and if you accepted, woo you and become your lover. But, I stopped myself at the very last moment. I did not go to you, never saw you again, nor heard your voice in prayer… rebelliousness was never in my nature, I was never as bold as you, Isao…
Ah… I never envied you, Brother, not once, that it was you who was chosen king… and during those times, when your heart weighed heavily in your breast, I sighed guiltily with relief often, glad it was not I who had to bear the brunt of guilt… I can't even begin to imagine what I would have done, how I would have coped… yes, you suffered no less than the bereft goddesses… I was there, I held you after the near-battle with Hatate… her near-sacrifice almost destroyed you, you wept and trembled like a young child… 'Would she have… oh, no, no… why?' you cried, 'brother… why… why… why did it have to be me? Why me… you are elder to me, you were supposed to be king… why was I chosen, I don't want this… take this away, this awful burden, this terrible guilt, I cannot bear this, brother!' You beat your fists on my chest and shouted, demanded these things of me… I could say nothing to comfort you, except useless words like 'stop, brother, don't torment yourself this way, come, be strong, you are our king, stop crying…' Couldn't you see, brother, my utter uselessness to you was the reason I was not chosen king? You did bear it all, you took the sorrow of your subjects, hefted it on your shoulders, and after you spent your tears, you pulled yourself to your feet, lifted your head and became strong for them, like a true king, and went to them, to console, and bear their looks of dismay, to listen to their venting, their rants. You held those who, unable to speak, could only cry…
But what you did after, how you steeled your heart in order to convince yourself you had done the right thing… did you go too far, O-Ran? It was all too much for you, wasn't it… the pain in the depths of your Hatate's lovely eyes? You blamed it all on Isao, on his disobedience… he, whom you cherished above all your other children had dared to defy you… the symbol of his defiance was his child… To find the strength to go on leading us, you had to expunge your guilt… to do so you chose to forget, pretend that nothing had happened, that Isao had not planted his seed in a mortal woman…
And so, one of our own, a child named Kazutaka Muraki, was forgotten, erased from the consciousness of heaven, left by the wayside, only to be embraced by darkness…
And you, Masato… you learned that your child had become a Shinigami after his death… what a tragic life that poor child had endured, he and his mother both… hounded and tormented by superstitious mortal folk, branded demons, driven to madness and suicide… how difficult it must have been for you to learn of all he had suffered…
Had it not been for the fact that you kept constant tabs on him, following the course of his life in the netherworld, we would never have learned of what befell Kazutaka, whose path also crossed Oriya's through yet another twist of fate…
Poor Sanae… what a bittersweet reunion – if I could even call it that… when you went to him in Meifu… you could not even tell him who you are to him, because O-Ran has forbidden it… but, I am thankful he escaped the clutches of darkness…
I pray… I pray…? The mortals send their prayers to us… to whom do we send ours? Are there beings greater than ourselves, who can answer prayers and forgive our transgressions? I can only hope there are… with this hope, I pray, that it is not too late for you, Kazutaka… you did not deserve such a cruel fate…
Iroki was stirred from his contemplations by a sound. It came from his master, a stifled sob. He looked up to find him hunched over, his head bowed. Taken aback by the sight of his teacher in a state he had never before witnessed, he was uncomfortable and wincing. Waves of sadness radiated from the slumped figure, permeating his consciousness. The creatures outside had fallen silent. The youth shook himself, gathered his courage and went to his master's side. He knelt and with both his hands he took hold of the fisted ones that quivered. "Master Eiji," he whispered, "please, don't cry."
Eiji looked up at the boy's anxious face and held on tightly to the small hands, grateful for their warmth and comfort. But he could not staunch it – the steady stream of tears that flowed from his eyes, as if the dam that had contained them for so long had been breached.
He came awake, cruelly wrenched from the blissful, concluding part of his dream, alone and despairing.
His crumbling mind could only fixate on that face. He needed him, like a heroin junkie, whimpering and shuddering for a fix.
Before he could be free to die, he needed forgiveness from his bodhisattva.
He dressed in simple, dark clothes and selected the keys of his Maserati…
Renewed shame made him hesitate when he saw his bodhisattva. His hand shook when he pressed it against his chest, feeling his wildly pounding heart inside it. He stared at him, puzzled. His bodhisattva's lips were moving, as though he were speaking with someone… he sensed the presence of someone else… and then he saw the form appearing… he wracked his brain, for he felt he knew who this being was…
That's right, he's a Shinigami… puzzlement turned into shock when he witnessed their passionate embrace…
Until that moment, he had been clinging on to the prospect of the fulfillment of his quest. With that hope dashed to pieces by the reality of the moment – the sight of his bodhisattva's arms embracing someone else – he could only stand there, numb and crushed, as the two figures disappeared from his view.
Kazutaka Muraki cursed himself, his conception, his existence. But all his self-disgust could not control the emotion that followed: the jealous rage that flared and rampaged through him.
With an effort, he tried to close his mind against the visions… of the two of them, stripped of their clothing, pressed together, cavorting amorously…
Alien sensations overcame him. He felt as if his spirit had left his body, which still stood near the tree. He could perceive everything occurring in that room, as if he was actually inside it, a depraved voyeur. He could make out every minute detail. He turned his eyes away from the lovemaking pair on the bed. He saw familiar things; he saw his own face in a photograph on Oriya's dresser, and in front of it was a platinum ring. A hairbrush, strands of long dark hair caught in its bristles. Books piled on the small table in the corner. He stared at the moving shadows on the wall, cast by candlelight, at the clothes strewn on the floor. The sounds from the lovers became more intense, and he restrained his eyes from returning to them, but they were again slowly drawn to the bed, to be punished, tortured by their love play. He did not know if he was actually seeing these things or if they were being fabricated by his mind. Again, he tried to escape them, but the visions persisted, vivid, offensive, hurting him, angering him… and now, the bodhisattva, glorious and exquisite in his debauchery, was whispering with sweetly pouted lips, spreading his long legs, enticing his lover…
The voyeur's most intimate part awoke, ravening… that piece of his flesh, which had brought forth Oriya's cries of pleasure so often when they belonged to each other… cries that were, at that very moment, unbearably loud in his ears, cajoling, demanding, given in response to another's thrusts…
He hissed with self-derision. What did I expect? That I, a vile sinner, could come here, seek my bodhisattva's forgiveness… and then what? Be taken to his bed?
When the visions faded, his head ached. His jealousy and desire dulled to a hurt that settled in his heart, became excruciating, as if a spike had been driven into it.
When he could no longer cry, he was lucid and driven. Every cell in his body screamed for revenge, gave him a bizarre pleasure that coursed through his body and intensified, culminating in an orgasmic sensation – a climax to compensate for the one he could not have with his bodhisattva. Once more, he was a monster of revenge.
Brushing the maple leaves from his clothes, a smirk of satisfaction twisted his lips while he laid out his plan in his mind.
"Yes," he whispered, "this will be my last act of revenge."
To be continued
Oh dear! Hell hath no fury like Kazutaka Muraki scorned?! (sweatdrops) Oh no! What are you going to do now, Kazutaka…?
I'm sorry if most of this part was taken up by my original characters, but it was necessary, in order to fill in the gaps concerning the ancestry of Tsuzuki, Oriya and, of course, Muraki. After writing this part, I grew terribly fond of Eiji.
Until next time, cheers!
TGO