Chapter Four: …And War
The sound of a blade tearing through flesh is a special thing.
Meat and bone, torn asunder by an edge thinner than paper and giving way beneath the pressure driving cold steel forward. The timbre, shifting depending on the angle and depth of the cut, can vary so wildly that it resembles the notes of a symphony—a resounding chorus of pain and suffering brought to life by nothing but skill and savagery…
He knew that sound. He was a master, an artist, and he knew all of the ways it could change…
…But why? Why did he know this sound so well?
With that question, considered from the depths of an empty dream, Asama Takehito pierced the veil of slumber like so much flesh and opened his eyes.
"Hah… Hah… Back to normal now, are you…?"
Devastation surrounded him.
The atrium more resembled a warzone than a tech company's lobby, with man-sized craters and gashes abounding across every surface. Furniture was reduced to broken shards, many of which were driven into concrete walls and marbled flooring as impromptu weapons, while a chandelier—once shining down upon the room brilliantly as a centerpiece—lay crumpled on the ground like a dying carcass.
"K-Karasuba…?" he stuttered, utterly dumbfounded by his surroundings.
The woman was barely a foot in front of him, looking almost as bad as everything else in his line of sight. Her uniform was in tatters, haori long abandoned, while several long gashes oozed blood from her arms and legs. A cut above her brow sent a steady stream down the side of her face, meeting the thin line left by a cut across her cheekbone and trailing down her skin in a gentle arc, dribbling to the ground from the tip of her chin.
…And then there was the silver sword piercing through her gut.
"Hah… You're so much more boring like this…"
The blade was beautiful, an ornate cross between a katana and a saber, with intricate lines etched into every inch of the cold metal…. And it was resting in his hand. In his other palm was a dagger of similar design, its length about the size of his forearm. Both weapons were dripping with blood, the wet stickiness drowning his trembling fingers with its presence.
"Karasuba…!" he exclaimed, shock and horror mixing together into a horrible mess of irrational emotion.
"I much preferred… Hah… The way you were smiling before… Hah… to that stupid look on your face right now…" the Sekirei continued, coughing as she spoke.
Pausing, Karasuba twisted her head to the side and spat out a dark red something.
"It's a shame that… Hah… your sword is so much prettier than mine…"
Off to the side, Takehito realized, was the woman's blade. It had been shattered into several pieces, the largest of which was forced into the marble floor like a grave marker… the handle and other shards scattered around it messily.
"You'll make poor Natsuo feel inadequate with a beauty like that…" the Sekirei chuckled wetly, her voice slowly being overcome by the blood in her throat. "What will he say… Hah… When he realizes he's lost the competition…?"
"Karasuba, we need to stop the bleeding…!" Takehito shouted, his hands trembling as he stood there, ready to pull the blade out and start—
Her own fingers clasped around his, holding the weapon in her gut.
"Hah… Silly little man…" the woman giggled deliriously, her frightening grin widening as she leered at him. The expression made Takehito realize she was blushing, eyes lidded as she let out a contented sigh… Suddenly, she tugged him closer, forcing him deeper with the grip she had on him—
"...You've already killed me."
—and then the taste of blood claimed his lips.
…
Ecstasy.
That was the only word that could describe the feeling that overwhelmed him, claimed him by the neck and forced its way down his throat. The scent of iron set his mind aflame, a fire that spread throughout his very being as it sought out every last aspect of who he was.
Asama Takehito, a renowned scientist—
The unbridled sensation brushed aside that part of him, claiming it like all the rest but treating it like it was nothing; an unimportant anecdote to be swept past effortlessly. No, it wanted something else…
It wanted *̵̠̳͛~̶̖̫̽~̸͚̦̈́̿~̶̰̃~̷̡͈͂͠~̴͖̓~̴͕̖̉*̸̃͝ͅ..—
His mind blanked out entirely when it made contact, recoiling from whatever it had been in instinctive terror before he could try and process what he'd seen… and then the aggressive force settled. It had found what it had wanted, seen every aspect of him and claimed it all…
…And then it gave itself to him.
For a moment, he stood before a sea of blood. Staring down at its roiling surface, it seemed endless, bottomless… A yawning chasm of scarlet filth…
"I… Am Number 04, Karasuba…"
…And then he began to fall.
Down…
Down…
Down…
It would be so easy to lose himself, buried within the scarlet liquid, and he wondered how anyone could remain even vaguely sane here… And then he saw it. At the bottom of the ocean, buried in bone-white sands, was a blackened blade. It was rusted, rotting from the scarlet sea bearing down upon it. It bore no sheath and its edge was chipped… yet it hungered even still. Like a mad dog, nothing could satiate the weapon, even as it glut itself upon an endless sea.
"...And together…"
Without thinking, he wrapped his fingers around its hilt, brushing away the shards of bone that clung to its feather-wrapped handle like scallops. In his hands, the weapon seemed to come alive, the rot and damage falling away like dust in the wind—leaving him with a beautiful sword; a blade fit for the greatest of Crows.
…But it was missing something.
It was still empty, still ravenous in its thirst for the blood that surrounded it. Given the chance, it would return to its mindless war, destroying itself again in its desperate hunger for battle. It was simple, he realized. The weapon still needed a sheath.
"...We will duel a Dance of Death for eternity…"
The naked steel plunged into his heart, coating itself in his blood as its hilt thudded against his chest. The bloodthirst of the weapon soaked into his body, clamoring around it eagerly and tracing his form like a twisted lover… before, finally, it settled. Instantly, the scarlet sea dissipated… Leaving behind an infinite expanse of pristine white sand, spreading well beyond the horizon and into the vast emptiness beyond. The sword exuded a sense of approval, of contentment.
It was the perfect place for a Dance.
"...My Ashikabi…"
The vision vanished in an instant, leaving Takehito to stare into Karasuba's gray eyes. She grinned a predator's grin back at him, her blood giving her a morbid mockery of lipstick as their gazes met…
…And then her eyes slid shut, her body falling lifelessly against him.
Asama Miya was having a typical day.
The sun had risen as she awoke, the birds just beginning to chirp as she began her morning ritual. First, she would wash herself, then she would dress and start warming up the kitchen to make breakfast for all the residents of the Inn…
…And then she would pray in front of her husband's shrine.
To all the countless gods… May he be at peace in the next life…
It was a meditative process, a necessary habit to keep herself in check. Without it, well… The grief would return, and where would she be then? Sekirei weren't supposed to outlive their Ashikabi, after all. They ceased aging naturally once they hit their prime and only resumed the process once their fated partner was found, their nature placing them perfectly in sync with the lifespan of their Ashikabi. Their psychology reflected this, a fact that was normally a boon to their species…
…But what happens when a Sekirei outlives the person they see as their Ashikabi, but who was never able to wing them?
"I'll never forget, Takehito…" she murmured softly, eyes tracing the photo that sat centerstage in the small shrine—hidden away in her room. "I shall carry your memory with me for as long as I live."
Wiping away a tear on the hem of her sleeve, she slowly stood upright, taking care to move exactly as he'd shown her was appropriate for such a ritualistic occasion. Human traditions were often silly from her perspective, even if she had no memory of her own people's values, but she maintained as many of them as she could. It was a way of tethering herself to her husband… A small thing to keep his memory alive. The inn they had purchased together was a prime example of that.
"I should go check on the rice…" she said quietly.
Letting out a final breath to drain the rest of her emotions, she gathered herself and exited her room. All in all, her morning was going normally, the same as it had for the past decade since Takehito had passed away.
Knock, knock…!
"Ara…?" she hummed. "A guest at this hour…?"
Speeding up a little, she made her way to the front door, smoothing down her kimono so that it was as pristine as possible. It wouldn't do to make a poor first impression. Not when it was already so rare that they received guests here.
Maybe they could actually pay?
KNOCK, KNOCK!
Her brow furrowed in annoyance as she let out a huff at the guest's rudeness.
"Pardon me," she called, only allowing the smallest trace of her dissatisfaction through as she sped up a little more. Her snark would convey it for her, not that she'd ever admit such things out loud.
"We don't normally receive guests before the sun has fully risen."
That said, she slid the door open—
"Miya…!"
Her heart stopped.
Standing in front of her was an exact copy of her husband. Everything about him was perfect. From his height, to his hair, to his face… All of it slammed into her with such familiarity that it was a wonder the tears hadn't come yet.
…Perhaps it was the fact that her husband was dead? Perhaps it was the fact that the man in front of her was soaked in blood, his oddly old-fashioned western clothing torn to shreds by whatever had caused the vast amount of superficial cuts spread across his form…?
Perhaps it was the fact that he was holding Karasuba, the one person that Miya well and truly hated in this world, in a princess carry as she herself dripped blood all over Izumo's doormat…?
"Miya, we need to hurry…!" the man shouted. "I don't know why, but the sword disappeared, and now she's bleeding out…! Get my medical supplies…!"
With that said, he brushed past her before she could recover, rushing into the living room with the kind of familiarity that could only come from significant prior experience.
"Miya, please…!"
It was something in his voice that compelled her to listen… A sound she'd both longed for with every fiber of her being and resented with the same depth of emotion for years…
"Miya, please…!" a memory echoed. "If I don't go, they're going to die…!"
Blinking away tears, the woman let out a shuddering breath… and then she began to move.
"HOMURA! MATSU! UZUME!" Miya roared, authority ringing from her voice like the captain she used to be. "GET DOWN HERE! NOW! BRING MEDICAL SUPPLIES!"
Almost immediately, several crashes resounded from the second floor, the Sekirei living up there no doubt rushing to follow her order. Miya, herself, rushed into a storage closet, ripping several things off the walls as she searched for something she hadn't seen in years.
It took her longer than she would have liked, but she found Takehito's old surgical kit sitting at the back of a shelf with a thick layer of dust upon it. She had never discarded anything of his, unable to bear the thought of it, and so here it was…
"What else do you need…?" she asked sharply upon returning to the man's side.
Miya had yet to decide if this was actually her husband… the thought that this may all be a trick, some sick illusion, preventing her from committing to hope. Losing him the first time had broken her. Losing him again…?
…She would lose what little kept her sane.
"Water. Hot water," the man said tersely as he tore off the remains of Karasuba's top, exposing her naked form.
It was not a pretty sight; the normally smooth skin and attractive figure that all Sekirei had marred by dozens of wounds. They varied in size, some no bigger than a papercut while others exposed the white of bone. Worst of them all, however, was the ugly hole that had torn through her stomach, oozing dark red blood at a rate that simply wasn't sustainable.
…Why hadn't Take—Why hadn't this man brought her to MBI…? Or failing that, a hospital…?
"On it," Miya said, leaving the questions for later.
She had many things to ask this man… and least of all of them was why he'd brought such a horrible thing to her doorstep.
Careful, now…
Takehito's hands were perfectly steady as he examined Karasuba's most problematic wound. It appeared to have been a perfect thrust, piercing through her intestines and narrowly missing her spine before exiting her back, but it had been widened roughly when she'd pulled the weapon into herself—catching on flesh and muscle from the jerky motion. The copious amounts of blood made it difficult to examine what exactly had been damaged, but with his experience, he could intuit the problem areas.
If Karasuba was human, she would already be dead of blood loss or shock, but as it was she was hanging on by a thread. He needed to act fast, but for that he needed water to sterilize the wound, towels to soak up all the blood, and extra hands to help him keep things in place while he sewed her back together.
"Miya…!" he called. "Where's the—"
The door to the living room slammed open, but it wasn't Miya's face that greeted him.
"Who the hell—" Homura began, bundled towels and an assortment of gauze and tape falling from his hands as he raised an already flaming hand to gesture at Takehito.
…And then his face paled as he realized who he was threatening.
"T-Takehito…?"
The silver-haired twenty-something ignored Homura's exclamation at first, scrambling to collect the dropped materials before returning to his patient's side.
"No time…!"
He didn't have time to answer questions, he didn't have time to worry about how exactly Karasuba had wound up so injured, he didn't have time to worry about the blank spot in his memory… And he didn't have time to wonder why Homura, the tween he remembered being an adorable little rascal, was all grown up now.
"Help me apply pressure!" he ordered.
Right now, he needed to minimize the bleeding until Miya returned—
"What's going on?! Do I need to—"
A young woman, dressed in pajamas, burst into the room, hands empty but eyes glaring—ready to help with whatever was going on.
"Get over here and help me…!" Takehito shouted.
The familiar girl gawked at him openly, jaw working up and down as she struggled to form a sentence—
"Move it, move it, move it…!"
A third person that wasn't Miya burst into the room, shoving Uzume aside as she forced her way into the place, a bundle of first aid kits weighing her down awkwardly. Matsu, unlike Homura and Uzume, looked as old as Takehito remembered her to be.
"T-Takehito…?"
He was really getting tired of that reaction.
"Can you all not see that I'm kind of busy, here?!" he growled, replacing the towel he'd been forcing against Karasuba's wound with another, clean, piece of fabric.
Finally, they all seemed to realize there was a patient in the room, turning to look down at—
"Oh, for the love of…" he grumbled, dismissing them as useless with how their shocked expressions somehow got even more exaggerated at the sight of Karasuba.
He really, really, just wanted Miya to—
"I'm back."
Takehito's shoulders slumped in relief, turning to the purple-haired woman with a thankful smile—
His wife flinched.
—and then he grabbed the steaming kettle out of her hands, steadfastly refusing to consider what her reaction meant. He could confront all of the problems that were piling up once Karasuba was okay.
"I'm going to need you to help me with this, Miya," he stated firmly, arranging all of his tools and materials quickly. "This is going to be rough without proper facilities…"
Why hadn't he brought her to MBI's care? They were right there…!
'Miya… Get to Miya…' a memory whispered.
…Right. That's why. He was going insane… Of course he hadn't made the rational decision.
"But—" the woman began, uncertainty evident in her tone.
"Miya…" he began, turning to look her straight in her familiar reddish-brown eyes. "Please…"
Her face crumpled, a worrying mix of emotions overwhelming her for a moment… And then she gave a nod.
"Tell me what to do…"
…
Takehito wiped some sweat off his brow, straining to keep his hands from shaking as he worked needle and thread through flesh. It was difficult work, made all the harder by the constant feeling that he was doing something… wrong.
What am I missing…?
Suturing wounds shut wasn't his preferred skillset, but he'd done it enough times in the past. People often overlooked him for Minaka, the man's eccentric brand of genius all the more attention getting, but Takehito was quite intelligent himself. He'd learned everything he could about biology, both how to care for living things and how to study them, and he had excelled in his work. It wasn't often that someone achieved an MD and a PHD before they hit twenty-five.
"Scissors," he ordered, holding out a hand to the side.
His eyes didn't leave his other limb, which held two bits of flesh together so that the sutures weren't strained before completion. It had been a long, nerve-wracking operation, but with this suture he'd managed to finish caring for the most problematic wound. Now it was time to move to… everything else. She'd already lost a lot of blood, but with a bit of luck, Karasuba would be—
"Guh…!" the woman gasped suddenly, spasming on the floor as bloody phlegm spattered around her head.
"Hold her down…!" he ordered. "Don't let her re-open anything…!"
Immediately, Miya was there, pressing the woman's shoulders down while the other Sekirei in the room crowded around, using their own alien strength to control the silver-haired woman's remaining limbs… And then the seizure stopped as quickly as it began.
"...Why? Why can't I see…?!"
Takehito's gaze whipped up to face Karasuba's own. Her eyes were wide open, but the shaky motions and relative dilation of her pupils suggested she was still unconscious. Hurriedly, Takehito tied the last knot for what little remained of the current stitch—not bothering to cut the remainder—and then rushed to her head to examine her gray orbs.
"...Why can't I see you, Ashikabi-san…?"
Her eyes were bloodshot, stretching at the corners as she strained the limits of her eyelids' range in some dreamlike attempt to 'see.'
"Oh… Is that it…?" she mumbled like she was… speaking with something. "How simple…"
A feral grin spread across her face, her eyes finally returning to their natural positioning, but… There was something wrong with the expression. It simply didn't fit her—
"...I just need Ḛ̷̎Y̸̖͂Ĕ̸̗S̷̢̅…"
Takehito flinched, his thoughts going fuzzy… Before the silver-haired woman's face went slack again as she went fully limp.
"Takehito…!" Miya exclaimed suddenly, yanking him from his daze. "She's fading…!"
The woman's fingers were at Karasuba's throat, checking the other Sekirei's pulse.
"No, no, no…!"
Takehito brought his head to the silver-haired woman's exposed torso, pressing his ear directly to her chest. The heartbeat he heard there was weak, barely a tremor, and he already knew why.
"
"Blood…!" he exclaimed. "She doesn't have enough blood…!"
He'd taken too long, his stupid mad decision to rush back to Miya instead of deeper into MBI costing him irreplaceable time and far too much of the vital liquid. For a human, this would be disastrous, but for a Sekirei…?
"I'm… Sorry… There's nothing you can do, now…" Miya said, her voice soft and comforting for all that it was hesitant.
A Sekirei's blood was not compatible with others of their own species, much less that of humanity. They were, on every level, only meant to share themselves with one other…
"She doesn't have an Ashikabi…"
Grimacing, Takehito pulled up a sleeve and grabbed a thin plastic tube from his assorted medical supplies.
"Hey, man, didn't you hear her…?" Uzume interjected, nervousness easily audible in her voice. "You'll hurt yourself if you try…"
Ignoring her, he levered Karasuba into an upright position—
"I-I wouldn't be so sure of that, Uzume…" Homura added, shakily pointing to the crest on the silver-haired woman's exposed back.
Takehito plunged a needle into the crook of Karasuba's arm before doing the same to himself, leaning her against him as support while he held her arm above her head to aid in making the flow reach her heart. He could feel Miya's gaze on him as a scarlet line trailed between him and the other woman, tying them together in a morbid mimicry of the red thread of fate…
…But he wouldn't stop now; couldn't stop now.
Asama Takehito was simply that kind of person, a doctor on every level. He couldn't let someone suffer, couldn't let someone die, if there was something he could do about it. It was one of the things he remembered his wife loving him for, and it was a trait he would never let go.
"...I can't believe it…" Matsu muttered in surprise, even forgoing her habitual cutesy use of the third person in her shock. "How could you…?"
Before his very eyes, Takehito could see Karasuba's wounds sealing up, threads and sutures degrading into nothing as smooth flesh replaced them. His blood was healing her, like some kind of miracle cure.
This was it, he realized, a healthy color returning to Karasuba's skin. This was what he had been doing wrong. He almost felt like laughing. Why had he even bothered with traditional methods…? He of all people should know that Sekirei weren't normal…! It was so obvious that he couldn't fathom how he'd missed it…!
"̴͙̓Í̵̹ ̶̹͊t̶̜̆ĕ̷̥l̴̯̐l̴̝̋ ̴̋͜y̴̿ͅo̷̗̎u̴͖͐…̶͉̀ ̵͈̃I̶͖͂ ̶̣͋w̸͕̕i̵̻̋l̴͖̾l̴̑ͅ ̵̡̂n̶̥̐o̵̰͑ṫ̶̻ ̷̖̎f̶̰̎o̶̙͝r̶̯̽g̶͉̿e̸͉̒t̵̉͜ ̸̒ͅō̵͎u̴͎̿r̷͎̎ ̶̬̈́a̷͓̽d̵̨̅a̷̜͆g̸̰͗ȇ̵̯…̷̱̑"̶̟̀
A throb of pain slammed into his skull, Karasuba's hand nearly slipping from his own as he went to clutch his head. A sharp spike was pounding there, a memory on the tip of his metaphorical tongue… But it faded before he could give it further thought. Adjusting his grip Karasuba's hand, he woozily kept it above her head, determined to finish what he'd started.
"You… You winged her…" Miya whispered quietly.
Willing or not, he'd essentially found another woman and granted her the thing he knew Miya had longed to have for as long as their relationship had existed. There was nothing he could say to her expression. The crinkling eyes and trembling lips were a knife through his heart, and he longed to rush over and hold her, to do whatever he could to rid her of that damned expression…
…But he had a patient in his lap, and so, he couldn't.
"I… I'm sorry…" he said, finally. There wasn't anything else he could do, no other words that came to mind that would solve this problem.
"I-I see…" Miya mumbled before taking a deep breath.
…And then her face hardened into a familiar mask; a look he hadn't seen on her in years. The last time it had been present was when she'd said goodbye to him, moments before heading out to defend Kamikura from the militaries of the world. It had hurt, then, to know there was nothing he could do to help her, nothing he could do to solve the current problem or take it on in her stead…
It hurt even more to know that he was the problem now.
"Excuse me," she said, far too calmly. "...I need a moment."
And with that, Asama Miya left the room.
It was a difficult thing to have a heart, Miya reflected…
She had experienced so many emotions today, and her heart felt quite abused by the experience. From the shock, to the steadily rising sense of hope that wouldn't die no matter what she tried, to the feeling of raw betrayal… Yes, she thought it was perfectly reasonable to need a… moment… to process her feelings.
…Which is why she was outside, holding a blade she hadn't touched in years, and slowly slicing a rolled up tatami mat into thin shavings. Each cut was less than an inch apart, the bamboo core and thoroughly wetted straw insufficient to truly challenge her with resistance, so she had to settle for perfection in motion as the main source of difficulty. Maybe, if it was hard enough, she would actually focus on the simple act instead of the turmoil within her.
"Why…?!"
Chik…!
A thin cross-section plopped to the ground.
"Why her…?!"
Chik…!
And that was the crux of the matter, wasn't it?
Somewhere along the way, she'd accepted that somehow, her husband was alive. Her sense of denial simply couldn't stand up to the fact of his presence over such a protracted length of time. Either Takehito had somehow risen from the dead, or he had never been so in the first place. Whatever the means, the man in her living room was so identical to what she remembered in every aspect that it simply had to be him… the genuine article.
"Why did it have to be her…?!"
Chik…!
She did not know how it had happened, and quite frankly, she didn't care. All that mattered was the fact that her husband, her Ashikabi, had winged another Sekirei after all the love they had between them. Worse than that, it was the one woman that Miya stepped outside of the realm of her personal moral compass and actively hated.
There were two reasons that Miya still kept a blade around the house. The first was as an insurance policy, a warning to MBI that she could still quite easily step in if they ever went too far… And the other was so that, if ever she had the excuse, she could gut the woman that had taken her Ashikabi from her…!
Chik…!
Now, against all odds… Karasuba had managed to repeat that crime.
"WHY?!"
CRACK…!
In her anger, her iron control over her strength slipped… obliterating the Tameshigiri stand and warping the handle of her blade. In her grief, she didn't even notice it—simply dropping the ruined weapon as she fell to her knees.
Finally, the tears had come.
"Why…?" Miya hiccuped, burying her face in her hands. "Why, Takehito…?"
She wasn't aware how long she sat there, staining her kimono with the grass and dirt of her garden… but eventually, her bout of emotion was interrupted.
"Hey…"
The sound of the man's voice made her flinch. Withdrawing her head from her hands, Miya turned to look at the familiar face, her eyes tracing the curve of his jaw… the shape of his eyes.
Truly, he was exactly as she remembered him.
"I've got a story to tell you…" he went on softly, taking a seat next to her and draping an arm over her shoulder.
"Oh…?" Miya chuckled bitterly. "Is it how you winged that horrible thing…?"
"No," Takehito said, "Something much more important."
Absently, Miya realized she had automatically rested her head against his shoulder, the position so familiar and personal that it was almost painful in present circumstances… but she couldn't bear to pull away after so long.
"It was back when we had just started dating…" he began. "You were still captain of the Discipline Squad, and I was Adjusting the first generation of Sekirei besides you, Karasuba, and the other members of your team."
People like Uzume and Homura, then… The Sekirei between 05 and 10… Barring 08, they hadn't needed to start fighting from the day they'd awoken, allowed to be children instead of skipping that developmental stage entirely and waking as adults.
"I had come to pick you up for dinner from the gym, but you were still practicing with your blade, so I sat down to get some paperwork done and let you finish…" Takehito went on.
…Where was he going with this? It sounded like a perfectly normal day, not something 'important.'
"I didn't get any work done that day."
The thought that her workaholic husband was even capable of such a thing was startling. What could possibly have stopped him…?
"At first, I tried to focus on my notes, but… I just couldn't keep my eyes off you. You were so beautiful, so focused on what you were doing… Watching you do your drills was like watching a dancer lose themselves to the music…"
In spite of herself, Miya looking away abashedly. Really, he had to be exaggerating. She was effective with a sword, yes, but there was no artistry in such things. It was a brutal skillset, meant for—
"But that wasn't why I couldn't stop watching," he stated, cutting off her thoughts. "No, it was because of the fact you were smiling."
She could feel her face burning as he kept speaking.
"Up until then, I had seen you smile, but it was always a fleeting thing. Usually it was because I was yelling at Kaoru-kun, or getting upset with Minaka… You never smiled for the sake of it, never smiled because you were happy," Takehito explained. "Back then, you were always so serious, following me around and trying to understand every little thing I did. Heck, when you first asked me out it felt like you were reading from a script on how to be a normal person…"
S-she hadn't been that bad, surely…?
"But when you lost yourself to that sword dance…"
He turned to look at her, meeting her eyes directly.
"It was like I'd seen you for the first time."
Her breath caught in her throat.
"Not Miya, the first Sekirei, nor Miya the Captain of the Discipline Squad… Not even Miya, the Pillar that had decided to keep her entire race safe herself because she cared too damn much…" The man declared. "No… I was looking at Miya… the girl that just wanted to have a happy life… The girl that had decided she wanted me to be a part of that, even though I couldn't be her Ashikabi…"
Her heart was hammering in her chest as she struggled to breathe, eyes glistening as the man she loved spoke such beautiful words to her… A deep feeling of rightness filled her soul in a way she'd only ever heard described by the younger members of her kind…
"That's when I realized I was in love with you, Miya… When I saw the real you for the first time…"
Takehito didn't know how he'd managed to wing Karasuba in-spite of his genetic deficiency, but he prayed to everything he could think of that it would work again as he leaned in to kiss his wife. Tears pooling in her eyes and a watery smile on her lips, she met him halfway… And then it happened.
Ecstasy.
The feeling was just as addictive the second time… Losing himself in the rush of energy that fed into his soul, tying him forever to the woman he loved so much. Yet, it was completely different to what he'd experienced before. This flow was calm, gentle even, but no less demanding. It claimed every aspect of who he was for itself, pouring over every detail obsessively as it trailed through his essence like it needed to be certain he was actually there.
Suddenly he was flying, soaring through the skies like a bird, and looking down at the sea of clouds below him. It was beautiful up there, in the world above all… but it was also lonely.
Nothing else could bear to be so high, he realized…
"I… am Number 01, Miya…"
Resting among the clouds, he noticed, was a sword. It was beautiful, an intricate work of art, sealed within a masterfully hewn wooden sheath… but nothing more. It was not meant to ever see a battlefield, not meant to be tainted by the call of blood and savagery. It was an offering to the Gods, draped in white ribbons and left there to slumber… alone… for eternity.
"And together…"
Yet, despite its purpose, it had seen battle. Cracks marred its ceremonial hilt, the wood of its sheath splintered and peeling from misuse… The blade had chosen to be a protector, a bulwark to defend all that flew below… But it couldn't bear the weight of the duty.
Not alone.
"...We shall soar through the Heavens themselves…"
Takehito softly grasped the handle of the weapon, smoothly withdrawing it from its sheath. The blade gleamed in the light, the years of suffering fading away at his touch. With a swing of his arm, the clouds around him parted, revealing the heavens in all their glory—obscured no longer by an infinite sea of white.
"Forever and ever…"
…It was the perfect place to fly.
"...My Ashikabi…"
Takehito blinked, and the vision had disappeared, replaced with the tender gaze of his wife.
"Miya…" he began. "I'm so—"
Her fingers pressed against his lips, forcing him into silence.
"Shh…" she whispered, happy tears retreading the path of the bitter ones that had come before.
Her head came to rest against his chest, arms slipping underneath his own as she embraced him tightly. Slowly, he returned the gesture, resting his chin on her shoulder. There was no need for words now, he realized. All that mattered was this moment… This feeling… It felt like he was finally, after far too long, back where he belonged…
Tears of his own began to fall, and he tightened his grip on the woman, holding her tighter against him. He never wanted to let go.
He was home.
"̸̻͝.̷̥͘.̴̖͝.̸̣̊M̷̯͂ã̴̮y̷̠̌ ̴̲͒ý̵͎o̵̢̒ũ̶͙ ̸͉͋f̶͍̚i̶̝͆n̵̝͝d̵̫̽ ̷̻͝y̷͎̚ò̶̗u̷̩̿r̷̯͐ ̵̥̈́w̴̹̌ő̶͜r̵̠͗ṯ̸͒ḧ̴͕́ ̸͈͘i̶͍̾ṉ̶̇ ̴̰̓t̵̪̉h̸͍̊e̸͇͘ ̴͚̊W̵̰͋a̴̳̎k̷͍̈́i̵̖͘n̵̥͌g̶͕̀ ̴̜͘W̶͚͗o̶̩͋r̵͉̔l̵͇̈́ḓ̶̈́…̴̮̾"̷͕̈
Author's Note:
Been a while, huh? Time sure does fly, and boy does it bring change. I've got good news for readers of this story!
I will be updating this project 1+ times a month, going forward.
I have an Editor now who's replaced Mr. D, and I've been in the groove of writing (mostly) consistently for a few weeks already. I'm several chapters ahead of this one, and the lead will continue to grow. For now I'll be keeping releases monthly, and we'll see how that goes.
For those of you who may have read my other projects, they're on hold at the moment. I only have time to write one thing currently, and this one has occupied the bulk of my Muse's attention. Furthermore, given how long it's been since I started writing some of them (Ahem, the Waifutrix), it's hard for me to look at older projects without focusing exclusively on the flaws that'll make it hard to continue writing them. I'm not saying I've given up yet, but we'll see what the future holds.
Finally, I'm going to repeat my statement from the last update about the Emerald Library. It's a discord server for authors to interact with their fans, and I've almost hit the requisite follow count required to get my own channel. If you're interested in chatting with myself or other readers (of this work or others!), then consider giving it a look, eh?
Here's the scary link:
(slash)elibrary
Welp, that's it for me today…! I'll see you all within a month. (￢‿￢ )
***Crrshhkt!***
***Crrshhkt!***
Hel—
***Crrshhkt!***
—llo…?
***CRACK…!***
…Hello?
Finally…! Two whole days, but it finally works…!
Ah. That means I need to actually talk to… whoever is listening. Godverdomme ( ˈɣɔtfərˌdɔmə ).
So basically, to explain this entire clusterfuck, it all started when I went to install some guy's cable television. Guy seemed a bit weird: wouldn't stop talking about some 'blood' gamey-thing and Japanese cartoons… Nothing out of the ordinary.
Obviously I didn't want to get stabbed—it's just part of the job—so I played along with the… let us say… interesting… fellow. He seemed nice, but a bit lonely. He even gave me a drink.
Next thing I know, I'm in this… basement, I think? This empty concrete room with a bunch of old junk, some of which I used to make this abomination. A PSP running GNU/Linux. Luckily I had my bootable USB with me, right?
While I was rummaging through the garbage to find some food, I also found a torn out page of someone's notes, a certain 'Mr. D.' He goes on about several 'rules' for where I am:
Rule One: Type to survive. There are typewriters everywhere in the building, and editing the papers right by the ones you find gets you food.
I think he is talking about Teleprinters. There's one in the room with me.
Rule Two: Never stop moving. The typewriters are only safe for as long as you're using them, and everywhere else is bad.
A bit weird, I think.
Rule Three: The building moves. Don't bother trying to map it out. You can't. Spend your time editing and looking for a way out… If there is one.
I don't know what this man is talking about, but I feel like he's on some shit, but at least he seems to know something. The Teleprinters work like he said. I tried editing one of the papers but it seems a bit strange to me, but it's clearly written by that guy living upstairs. It's all about the things he was talking about before. I don't know what he wants, but it doesn't seem good. Please send help. He lives at—
***Crrshhkt!***
Oh, kut (kʏt )...!
***CRACK…!***
Connect… Fading…!
***Crrshhkt!***
***Crrshhkt!***
***Crrshhkt!***
—
—