Oriya sat at the edge of his room, the doors slid all the way open to let in the cool night air. He thought of nothing; emptying his mind to take in all the small movements of the garden before him, the rustling of the grasses in the wind and the steady beat from the water fountain, the bamboo spout filling and falling. Tattered clouds drifted across the moon, making slow patterns of shadows and light, silvering the leaves of the trees in pure white before hiding them in darkness.
The moon was full. Not red, though; not tonight. Sweat from kendo practice dried on his skin, chilling him, but he didn't shiver. Oriya was calm, centered. He wasn't waiting on anything.
A noise near the fence announced a presence. He stared straight ahead, not acknowledging it. Muraki's voice was low but carrying, slipping through the distant murmurs of the city like something natural and ancient. "I seem to be without lodging for the night. Perhaps, one of your rooms..." He thought this was funny.
Oriya fingered the katana next to him, the patterns of the handle as familiar to his fingers as his own body. The metal of the blade was cold. "We do not sell rooms for the night. Only guests of the family may stay."
Muraki disturbed the crickets as he walked, frightening them into stillness. Silence spread outward, like ripples in a pond, from his path. "How fortunate. I am an old friend of the owner."
Oriya turned to him, then. His immaculate clothes were splattered with gore, the thin creases of his hands lined in blood. Power glittered in his eyes like excitement or lust, and they were focused on Oriya, darkly amused and waiting to gauge his reaction. "Once." He stood, lifting his katana with the motion and dropping it behind his shoulder so that the sword curved across his back, the handle resting by his neck.
Muraki stepped closer, near enough for Oriya to smell the copper sourness of blood. A smiled curved the pale lips as Muraki tilted his head, pale hair briefly cloaking the mad eyes. "No more?"
"You are not the boy I knew."
He appeared to genuinely consider that, breathing softly for a moment before he answered. There was something of pain or confusion in his expression, or perhaps Oriya only imagined it was there, convincing himself that there was still a lingering trace of humanity. "No? Who am I, if not myself?"
"I don't know." Oriya sighed. "You may stay. Go take a bath, and I'll have clean clothes sent to your room." He moved back into the building, finding a path across the bare wood floor with ease, knowing his way so well that darkness was no barrier.
"And then?"
Oriya pretended to misunderstand. "And then what?"
"You are so angry with me. Does it displease you to see the proof of murder on my hands? You've known what I am. Perhaps you simply couldn't believe it until you saw it. What will you do now?" He paused, but Oriya said nothing to the accusations. "Do you bar me from your bed tonight, old friend?" Muraki's voice was bitter and challenging in the empty room, twisting the last two words into a mockery.
Oriya laid the katana on its stand, hands resting on its graceful curve, head bowed over the smooth blade. It had been passed down to him by his father, and his before, generations of the Mibu family represented in its fine craftsmanship, its strength and beauty. They were proud, independent and wealthy, and bound by tradition and honor, all the intricacies of politics and secrets.
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branchandroot
ORIYA?! DAMMIT, WHY DO YOU HATE ME, YOU KNOW I'VE NEVER ONCE WRITTEN HIM!
Date: 2004-11-04 12:12 pm (UTC)Oriya sat at the edge of his room, the doors slid all the way open to let in the cool night air. He thought of nothing; emptying his mind to take in all the small movements of the garden before him, the rustling of the grasses in the wind and the steady beat from the water fountain, the bamboo spout filling and falling. Tattered clouds drifted across the moon, making slow patterns of shadows and light, silvering the leaves of the trees in pure white before hiding them in darkness.
The moon was full. Not red, though; not tonight. Sweat from kendo practice dried on his skin, chilling him, but he didn't shiver. Oriya was calm, centered. He wasn't waiting on anything.
A noise near the fence announced a presence. He stared straight ahead, not acknowledging it. Muraki's voice was low but carrying, slipping through the distant murmurs of the city like something natural and ancient. "I seem to be without lodging for the night. Perhaps, one of your rooms..." He thought this was funny.
Oriya fingered the katana next to him, the patterns of the handle as familiar to his fingers as his own body. The metal of the blade was cold. "We do not sell rooms for the night. Only guests of the family may stay."
Muraki disturbed the crickets as he walked, frightening them into stillness. Silence spread outward, like ripples in a pond, from his path. "How fortunate. I am an old friend of the owner."
Oriya turned to him, then. His immaculate clothes were splattered with gore, the thin creases of his hands lined in blood. Power glittered in his eyes like excitement or lust, and they were focused on Oriya, darkly amused and waiting to gauge his reaction. "Once." He stood, lifting his katana with the motion and dropping it behind his shoulder so that the sword curved across his back, the handle resting by his neck.
Muraki stepped closer, near enough for Oriya to smell the copper sourness of blood. A smiled curved the pale lips as Muraki tilted his head, pale hair briefly cloaking the mad eyes. "No more?"
"You are not the boy I knew."
He appeared to genuinely consider that, breathing softly for a moment before he answered. There was something of pain or confusion in his expression, or perhaps Oriya only imagined it was there, convincing himself that there was still a lingering trace of humanity. "No? Who am I, if not myself?"
"I don't know." Oriya sighed. "You may stay. Go take a bath, and I'll have clean clothes sent to your room." He moved back into the building, finding a path across the bare wood floor with ease, knowing his way so well that darkness was no barrier.
"And then?"
Oriya pretended to misunderstand. "And then what?"
"You are so angry with me. Does it displease you to see the proof of murder on my hands? You've known what I am. Perhaps you simply couldn't believe it until you saw it. What will you do now?" He paused, but Oriya said nothing to the accusations. "Do you bar me from your bed tonight, old friend?" Muraki's voice was bitter and challenging in the empty room, twisting the last two words into a mockery.
Oriya laid the katana on its stand, hands resting on its graceful curve, head bowed over the smooth blade. It had been passed down to him by his father, and his before, generations of the Mibu family represented in its fine craftsmanship, its strength and beauty. They were proud, independent and wealthy, and bound by tradition and honor, all the intricacies of politics and secrets.
"No. Come as soon as can."
Behind him, Muraki laughed.