[WIP] untitled;

music: sara's death // nanase hikaru (angel sanctuary soundtrack)
mood: thoughtful

prompts: katana, nightingales and fireflies;


He would have wished for singing in the trees, but what nightingales there might have been were silent and only the wind sighed while fireflies lingered around and over the flowers, flickering embers clinging still to dissipating ash.

You should have died before you allowed them to take her. The words rang in his mind as clearly as they had three days before. I was a fool to believe that you were worthy, the voice continued. That you could protect her. In the nearby pond, something splashed, possibly one of the fish feeding upon poor insects who wandered too near the water's surface. Even in a garden as beautiful as this the vicious cycle of predator and prey followed it's course; it was nature at it's finest, yet Isawa Seiichiro could not appreciate the beauty of it.

Fortunate, these animals, he mused, his heart heavy in his chest. They kill and pillage to survive. Men are far less honorable.

It was midnight and he was awake in a house that did not welcome him. Years ago it might have been different, for the mistress and former master of the house thought of him kindly as a second son, and their son he called friend at the least, brother at the most. The privilege, it appeared, was his no longer.

He curled his fingers into a fist and tilted his head to the side, aware of the figure watching him from the shadows. "This belongs to you, Hideaki," he murmured, one hand falling over the hilt of the beautiful katana that lay on the floor beside him. "I was honored when you gave it to me, but you are right," he breathed, his breath shuddering in the cold. He had not yet recovered from his ordeal in the snow. His wounds were bandaged and his bruises fading, but the cold that had crept into him still lingered in his bones. "I should have died before I let the nobuseri take Kotori."

The crickets greeted him, singing their songs while the fog crept over the walls. What had begun as a beautiful winter had now dwindled down into a bleak season of regret. "Say something, please." But his only answer was silence and the hollow beating of his own heart.

[WIP] untitled;

music: rey zaburrel's piano - kiseki // kenji nojima (gundam seed sountrack)
mood: inspired


prompts: moonflowers, "I would know you, even if the world was remade.";


It is their third night on the road and the winds are not as harsh. Guards garbed in both Crane and Phoenix armor take turns watching the camp, but they all turn a blind eye when two particular figures sneak out into the night for a few moments of peace, together.

It is something that would equate to trouble and they know that. Though they are betrothed they have yet to be wed, and stolen moments like these are tainted with the thrill of defying propriety.

She lets him lead her across the grounds and can hardly hold back the smile on her lips when he pulls her close, his lips grazing her cheek to move to her ear. "We're looking for moonflowers tonight," he murmurs huskily the excuse that they will use for the night, and her eyes flutter just the slightest. "Did you miss me," he teases, his fingers threading through her hair. "Then again, you have your attendants to keep you company in the palanquin, you wouldn't have time to think of me."

She kisses him then, just slightly hesitant that her lips might miss their mark. Her hands slide up the cloth covering his chest, fingers seeking the flesh of his neck, the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheek. For a moment, a heartbeat, a whisper in time, she stops; her hands tremble as the regret comes, swift like the truest knife.

"It is... not fair,"

He knows what she refers to and there is no hesitation in his actions. His arms enfold her in their warmth and he inhales the scent of her, freshly fallen snow and the faintest whiff of wildflowers. "You see me more than any, my love," he murmurs, catching her chin with the tips of his fingers and tilting her face up to allow him another kiss.

It is always like the first time. There is a newness that never seems to leave. Perhaps it is because he has seen her in the key points of her life: on her first day in this living world, as a little girl -- vulnerable but oddly brave despite injury; on the day she was presented to the imperial court and then again when she had surrendered her sight for a higher purpose. Perhaps it is simply because she is who she is.

Her hands ghost over his features and he shuts his eyes, giving over to the sentation of fingertips trailing cold kisses over his skin. "I would know you," she murmurs then, her words halting as if the cold were robbing her of breath. He pulls her to him again, his large hands cupping her small, pale face.

"I would know you," she states the words again, shuddering because of the cold. Her eyes are the pale moon reflected in the water of a porcelain cup. "I would know you, Seiichiro, even if the world was remade."

[WIP] untitled;

music: here to stay // shiro sagisu (bleach soundtrack #2)

mood: inspired

prompts: honor, broken string;


She could feel their gazes upon her, the heat and chill of them intermingling with the many buzzing sounds of speculation that seemed to slither from one end of the hall to the other. Her fingers, cold as her palms were, struggled to maintain their casualness on the wooden banister, even as the fear of falling demanded that they clutch tightly as though her life depended upon it.

She had never realized just how numerous the steps were and she resolved it within herself to never take such things for granted ever again.

It was strange, being blind. She had imagined it to be eternal darkness like the deadest of nights without any sign or sight of a moon. Instead, it seemed to be both the lack and presence of all colors; and most curiously, she found that she could still identify darkness from light. It was seeing and not seeing at the same time, for shapes and form had abandoned her to a landscape as barren as a desert that extended over and above to where a sky should have been.

"What on earth was she thinking?" Someone voice hissed to a silent companion, and Kotori tightened her hold on the neck of her koto as if to relieve the tension that had been slowly building in her breast. Honor. She told herself, repeating the word over and over as gravity danced at her feet, suspending the next step as though she would tread next onto nothing. I was thinking of honor. Her jaw tightened just a little and her heartbeat spiked as surely as a broken string snaps. She had never been given to temper, as bouts of such would be beneath a Kakita, but now the feeling seemed to stalk and claw within her, like an unsettled falcon freed from it's hood, desperate for the great blue sky. I have done something that none of you would ever understand, for you all would see my family in ruin and my mother shunned fr--

Her footing failed. In her mind it seemed the ground yawned to claim her. She had no time to think and yet at the same time all the world to think. She would fall, she thought numbly, and she would rise. The speculations later would do as they would, circulate amongst the fools of this court.

"Kotori-dono," the voice broke into her thoughts cleanly, though the murmur was no louder than a breath. Then and only then did she notice the feel of a strong arm bracing her by the stomach, cradling her -- though not too close -- to the warmth of a body. The hand that held hers seemed oddly familiar, firm and gentle, and her mind raced to put a face to the feeling.

She straightened with dignity, regaining her lost balance and then tilting her chin up the slightest to make known that she was unfazed. She would not know it, but though her eyes stared on as though dead, her features were serene and regal, making both her mother and brother proud. The figure stepped to her side, his fingers still curled around hers. "Come," he murmured, his breath inches from her cheek, and the sounds of conversation resumed as the silent world once her captive audience faded into the noise.

She bowed her head slightly, her hair falling to shield the sides of her face like a curtain.

"Arigatou, Seiichiro."

[WIP] untitled;

music: sadame for piano // sato naoki (xtv soundtrack)
mood: accomplished



prompts: blood, snow;


His eyes stare up blankly at the sky, and the clouds are thinner now than they had been hours before. There is no more snow -- none at least that might fall on his face or his body, and the silence is broken only by the rush of wind as it plays in the branches of the trees or the sound of some animal crying out into the night. At another time he might have blinked, but hours of exposure to the cold has robbed him of that, and all he can do now is lie and wait while the stars glitter like drops of water against the blue-black sky.

Ice crusts on his cheeks and around his eyes, under his fingernails and inside his clothes. His body is whole and few cuts mar his skin, but he is defeated and useless, much like a still sturdy wheel attached to a now broken carriage.

The smell of blood is around him, and it coats the air that passes over and through him as he breathes, little as he does. The scent is both elusive and concrete, and it snakes it's way into his nostrils and down the pathway that allows air to kiss the back of his tongue. The smell stains the walls of his throat, and from there it crawls up like a thousand insects to coat his mouth like paint would a canvas. He is no longer sure if the blood he seems to swallow is his; the chill of the night can dry anything.

Something flits across his vision, and for a moment the world blurs causing what little light there is from the stars and the moon to bleed into the shadows that lurk all around.

So many, he hears the sound of his own voice echo emptily at the back of his head. They had been so many -- a caravan traveling from the bright city towards the destination of home, the men singing atop their horses while the women joined in from where they sat. He is unaware that the ice on his skin are the tears that his eyes have shed, and it matters little as his thoughts are elsewhere now, in a place where her laughter rings in his ears and her hand is warm and safely held in his. Indeed, they are still many, though the road is now silent and still, and all but he is slain in the middle of a half-forgotten road.