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destinyfell2016-07-18 12:16 am
meteorrains) wrote in destinyfell2016-07-18 12:16 am
» Action Four | Cloud And Tifa «
[It seemed as if the world was spinning impossibly fast, twirling rapidly around it's axis in such a way that made time seem to move much quicker than average. Somehow, without truly realizing it as he had lived it, the entirely day had passed within the blink of an eye. Party after party, all which absolutely required his attendance. Each with a multitude of people who had not seen in years, all welcoming him home, all congratulating him on leading their army to victory. All praising him for managing to make it through a nasty war which had claimed many lives unscathed.
Learning that he was being gifted his own household located in the city as a present from his father had come just as dinner was about to begin, everyone raising a glass and cheering as the news was announced. He had nodded in acceptance, had thanked his father profusely for this grace and generosity, had listened to endless speeches of how lucky he was to have such a noble and wealthy family.
All he wanted in the entire world was a soft place to lay his head, to sleep knowing that peace had fallen over the land, that despite the previous years of suffering, he was finally safe.
Slipping his shoes off, he placed them upon the mat directly inside the door, closing it behind him and moving further into the house his father had chosen. It was well decorated, tasteful and bright, perfect for someone who would soon be searching for a wife. His chamber was easy enough to locate, the door slide back into place carefully. Each garment was peeled from his body slowly, until nothing the pants remained. Something cracked along his spine as he moved, muscled sore and stiff and for once, he wished he had stayed at his fathers estate. At least there he would be able to take a warm bath, or have one of his fathers servants message the area for him.
Sighing softly, he lifted a hand to rub gently at his neck, stretching slightly, before resuming the motion, trying to ease away the ache.]
Learning that he was being gifted his own household located in the city as a present from his father had come just as dinner was about to begin, everyone raising a glass and cheering as the news was announced. He had nodded in acceptance, had thanked his father profusely for this grace and generosity, had listened to endless speeches of how lucky he was to have such a noble and wealthy family.
All he wanted in the entire world was a soft place to lay his head, to sleep knowing that peace had fallen over the land, that despite the previous years of suffering, he was finally safe.
Slipping his shoes off, he placed them upon the mat directly inside the door, closing it behind him and moving further into the house his father had chosen. It was well decorated, tasteful and bright, perfect for someone who would soon be searching for a wife. His chamber was easy enough to locate, the door slide back into place carefully. Each garment was peeled from his body slowly, until nothing the pants remained. Something cracked along his spine as he moved, muscled sore and stiff and for once, he wished he had stayed at his fathers estate. At least there he would be able to take a warm bath, or have one of his fathers servants message the area for him.
Sighing softly, he lifted a hand to rub gently at his neck, stretching slightly, before resuming the motion, trying to ease away the ache.]
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Even his mother now hesitated to speak about that moment, choosing to leave it well and truly buried within the past. It was best to forget that which was lost, to count their blessings and thank whichever deity's had chosen to spar them and move on. To embrace life.
A blessed life, filled with blessings and pleasures and wealth and power and promise.
A life bought with the ashes of lost souls who deserved it far more than those who were left behind.
Knowing mass devastation at such a young age had instilled a deep respect for life, of those who were innocent, who had not asked to swept up into someone else's war. Perhaps that compassion made him a less effective soldier, choosing mercy over annihilation. There was no guarantee that those who had been saved wouldn't still suffer such a terrible fate. War was a savage beast that ravaged everything within it's path.
But enough had died by his hand. He refused to have more blood spilled upon them.
He should speak. Should say something. Should tell her to go back, to not worry over him. That it's alright. That he's alright.
But the words become trapped within his throat like a immovable lump, lodging it's self firmly into place. Chest tight, lungs burning, eyes sweeping in wide berths back and forth across the valley. Ghost danced among the ash, shuddering and wailed and begged for their agony to finally cease.
They were only figments of his imagination. Figments that she couldn't see. How could she possibly understand that he was still haunted by things that had happened so long ago? That he could still see them burning each time he closed his eyes?
It was impossible to know how much time had passed, how long he stood there, silent and still. Until the water and air no longer hold any chill. Until the sun was setting low in the sky behind them, bathing rolling green hills and dark, hidden woods in eerie red and orange light.
Normally fire bright eyes had dimmed with the pain of remembrance, of loss, brilliant color dulled from a exhaustion so deep it had seeped into his very core.]
I did not know how else to honor them. [Voice barely above a whisper, as if he intended it only for her, as if he did not want the sound to be carried on the wind towards those who were still alive, caught up in the bustle of preparing the nights meal.
As if he did not want to disturb the ghost who will hovered near by.] There is no one else to remember them. No one who wishes to remember. [It's said almost bitterly, resentment at years of having his pain and grief being shoved down and away by force. Until it had hardened within him, settling like a weight inside of his heart that he would never be rid of.]
It had to be impossible. That everyone I had ever known could be gone. That we were the only ones to escape. There to had to be other's, hiding away somewhere, waiting.
[A deep intake of breath, eyes shifting downwards and falling closed.]
But there wasn't. There's no one left alive who claims being from this place. In all of my searching, no one even remembered it's name.
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[It comes out, smooth pebbles dropping into dark water, falling from her lips, said the way the people that lived here used to say it, amoung themselves, late at night around cook fires and barefoot children. She can taste the ash against her tongue.]
It was Nibohime.
[The second time her soft voice carries the word its the way it was called in the capital a lifetime ago, rounded and elegant, far more than the cozy little village had deserved but that was the way the consensus takers and tax collectors and the nobles that had lived above the village and known it only as a source of income and prestige had pronounced it. His father said in such a way.
Her dark eyes stayed on the field across the stream and for just a moment, she could almost overlay the familiar houses that had once been there. Could almost see the main street and the silly little 'inn' and the iron smith and the - she could almost see her own family's house. But there was too much ash in her minds eye and the house was gone and even the new houses that had sprung up, sparse and small, weren't there. Just - ash. So much ash and she would never be able to sift through it all to find the haunting bones of her parents to try to lay them to rest.
She wondered if the plows ever turned up bones when the fields were tilled. If there were skulls hidden in people's vegetable gardens, eye sockets full of beet roots.
Her face gave nothing away, calm and distant as the moon and her eyes were obsidian.
Her lord should not be here. Mourning ghosts. If they knew they would try to visit him tonight. She should be the only one with lonely ghosts whisping about the edges of her world, always seeking a way past the person she had become that did not belong to them anymore. She swallowed, pale throat moving, eyes on the field. He came here to mourn them at least. Something lords did not do for fallen peasants. What punishment was there for a daughter that had never even done that?]
Come away, my lord.
[She should remind him that their world was full of ghost villages. That this one was not the first to build on top of the ash of another and that, in time, someone else would build on top of the ash of this one. This was only one of a hundred others that had disappeared, wiped off the map like a careless ink spot, lost to time and finally only memory. War never left their shores for long. This was not a spot that knew pain any more than another.
But it did. It was her pain. Her heart's blood. The little girl she had been had died in agony here. And... it was his pain too. She had not expected him to remember but - he stood all day in the ice of the stream and watched for ghosts. He remembered their name when no one else would. He still tried to be their lord even in their death. It was his pain too. Twin dragons should not share heart's blood - but they did. Her head bowed, slipping midnight hair across pale moon paint and she turned. But her geisha voice slipped across her.]
A shrine would house them. The fields are cold in the winter. A shrine would give them a warm place to rest.
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A shrine would give them a warm place to rest, a place tucked away from the icy chill of the winter wind. Away from the pain of remembrance, or ash ans soot and dirt.
But how could they build a shrine when there were no bones? When there was nothing to place within it except the memories of one singular person? Did he even recall enough to be worthy of such a thing? Would he be able to some how, some way, draw up each of the names of those who had been lost so that they could be honored? Now, after so long, he could often only remember the barest hint of their faces, blurred and marred by fire and heat.
Everything within him wanted to protest, wanted to reply with biting words that would allow her to see her folly. But she did not know. She may have thought she knew, may have thought she had learned enough from the stories and tales of others, but she would never truly understand. How could she possibly?
It wasn't her fault, and so she did not deserve his anger, his bitterness, his anguish and loss. She had stood there waiting, feet covered up to the ankles in the same icy waters as he had, suffering in silence, all to pay penance for the loss of those she had never even known.
And so he only lowers his head once, a soft sort of nod that's an unspoken agreement to her suggestion.] See that it is done. [It is not a command - never a command, not with her. Nor an order. But he knows that they share the same vision, their hearts and minds intertwined so perfectly that she is the only one who he can trust with such an important task.] It should be simple, small, and the stone a brilliant white. With a fire that is never allowed to go out, so that those who look upon it will remember, and will not fall to the same fate.
[It's only once he has finished speaking that it feels as if the dense fog that had surrounded him since the very moment he had set foot within the village lifted, ghost seemingly satisfied with his offering leaving him in weary peace. And it's only then that he finally turns to her fully, feet barely able to move after standing upon them for so long, stiff and cold and blue. But he moves across the slippery bed with the practiced ease of someone who has visited those rocks before, of someone who once knew them intimately.
It's only once he reaches her that he offers her his hand, intent on helping her back to the shore line, not realizing that she too had moved with the same practiced grace.] Come, let us eat together.
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but it is more than she has ever done and it will give him peace as well as them. She remembers the names. Each and every one, burned across her soul like a hot brand on a traitor's skin. She will make the list for the priests to call in each night. Give the dead back their names and perhaps his gift will give them the release they need to start the Wheel and be reborn into life again.
Perhaps her parents will forget enough and forgive...
She only bows her head to his words though, acknowledgment that what he asks will be done and done by her hand, in her design, to his specifications. The fire is a sweet touch. Though they died by it, so much of peasant life revolved around the hearth fire. It would comfort them to have one again.
Her eyes lifted, saw his offered hand and her own slipped into it, slim fingers curling, cold as ice. Here, in this place, in this time, she wondered, again, if she had really survived when everyone else had died. Or if she was only a ghost cut loose and unaware she was dead.
She would not sleep tonight.
Better to not take the risk.
But she stepped forward when he did, feet sure on the rocks, hem of her dress held out of the water with her other hand. Ghost or not, she had no where to go but forward and her lord needed warmth and life and food to drive away the soul cold of his vigil. She had always known he was different. More. From the time they were children. No matter what the wars had done to him - he still was.
And she was grateful.
And yet, like a loose thread on a silk coat, she could not help but pluck, just a little, because different or not - ]
Why this village, my lord?
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Was there any possible way to answer such a question without some semblance of the truth? Would it be possible to force out a lie when his entire being was screaming at him to finally allow it to be heard? How long had his mother and his father forced him to forget, to not mention it by name, to not mention them, to not think of their faces, to not picture them within his mind and dreams.
To not look back on that little girl with whom he used to sit for hours in blissful silence, who smelled like sun and rain and happiness?
Only once they reached the shoreline did he begin to form any sort of answer, to contemplate each and every story he had ever told about his origins, how they all weaved together, how each one contained some piece of truth. If anyone had ever bothered to put all of them side by side, light would finally be shown upon the darkest of secrets.
And yet he could not bring himself to tell her the same lie, to use one that had already been given, or to come up with some new ordinary tale. He had once visited as a young boy. He'd had a friend who once lived here. His father had business to attend to and would often bring him with.
Fingers squeeze the ones they held gently, carefully, before slipping away, taking a calculated step to the side, putting a sense of distance between them as his eyes peered out over the bustling village, once more full of life and laughter and joy.
It felt so wrong.]
I was born here. [It sounds so simple, so plain, like the beginning of a tale that will lead to nothing.] My father was once the lord of this land, although he is content to forget it's existence. I - myself and my mother were witness to the fire that destroyed it. We were lucky to have lived near this river, and that my mother was quick thinking and brave. I do not think we would have survived if it had not been for her.
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He did answer though, after that brief squeeze to her fingers, answer as much in the respectful space he put between them as in his words.
She was not sure what she'd expected to hear.
A lie.
A truth.
A denial.
A dismissal.
He gave her a truth.
And her heart, selfishly, fell. She caught it before it could fall far. Chided it back into place for being so foolish, so childish, as to think he would ever remember a little barefoot nobody child out of the dark ash of the past. Of course he would remember the fear and the terror and his mother and the day of death much brighter and sharper. She supposed she did as well and one hand rose, pale, to press light against the center of her chest. Old ache, old scar. Her eyes lifted as well, looked at the village as well. Reminded herself she was here for him, not for her own old dreams.]
It must have been a very dark night for you. Childhood does not forget terror as quickly as we wish it would as adults.
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Hadn't forgotten her face nor her name. Hadn't forgotten her laughter nor the sound of her voice. The way she looked when she smiled, as if the sun shone through her instead of upon her. It had been nothing more than a silly childhood crush then, something that could never turn into anything. She was a barefoot nobody child who had been born to dirty nothing parents. That was her lot in this life and it was his to be more, to rise above and act as if it all, as if they all, meant nothing.
But they had.
She had.
She was the one who had had looked for the most, the one who he had always asked and requested about. Once, someone said they thought they had heard the name, recalled it from somewhere, but couldn't seem to remember how.
Another dead end.]
No, I suppose it doesn't. [Or as quickly as his mother and father would have liked for it to. They had been the ones constantly pushing him to forget, to let go, to stop searching. Yet he could never find it within him to stop.] There is one name that I have always remembered above above the rest. A girl who lived at the other end of the road, near the forest. I had hoped that perhaps she too would have found a way to escape, but no one I have ever asked has been able to tell me anything about her.
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it took her a moment. One of those eternally long moments, between the sound of ice cracking under your feet and the actual realization of what it means, when the hair rises on the back of your neck and your heart skips forward too fast before your mind tells you why. Just one of them but it seemed to last forever, somewhere between the words 'a girl' and 'I had hoped'. She frozen entirely, went as still as a deer in the woods when it hears the snap of a branch under a hunter's boot and her heart kicked up, fluttering against the side of her pale throat as any deer's would. What she had hoped to hear only seconds ago was suddenly a terrible thing.
He had remembered her.
He remembered her still.
He had sought after her, somewhere in all these lost years.
A great wave of something, dark and wailing and lost, rose up inside her chest. He had remembered her. As she had remembered, all these years, him. And he with so much less reason than her to remember. The flurry of it, leaves in a wind, spun through her, almost - happy. Happy as she'd been as a child and forgotten since. Except then the wind turned cold and she remember - it did not matter. Nothing changed. Noting but that her place below him sank to dirt level if she was the girl he remembered, peasant and no one from a dirt village of no ones. Not the shining height of the Willow District and his match in all but social authority. Her hand crept up from the hidden scar to the necklace at her throat with its twin dragons and she was glad her cake paint white makeup hid her face's loss of color so well.
Of course she knew what she should tell him. Leave the ghosts in the past. Let the dead girl lie in peace. Even if she had lived she would have nothing to give you but ash from her mouth and cold hands. No man should be bound to a memory from so many years ago.
And yet she had carried his memory without hope or chance of fulfillment for just as many years. And now look at where she stood. Her eyes lifted to look at him, black pools, empty and dark as the frozen river they had just stepped from.]
What would you do? What would you ever do if you found her now, so many lost years later with the world between you?
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Throughout all of those lost years, filled with pain and grief and war, he had always believed that he knew precisely what he would do if he were ever to find her again. That her beginnings did not - would not matter, that she were so far beneath him it was a wonder he could even see her from his lofty status. Even the dirt from which she had arisen held it's own value, if only one took the time to look, for from it grew beauty and wonder.
But then he had been nothing more than a low ranking soldier and being the son of a noble did little to earn him advancement or better treatment, and it did not matter who he would have taken as his bride.
Until he had earned his place and his title and had won each battle in which he engaged, until he became worthy of respect and the honor which accompanied his name. Until he returned a hero of war, celebrated and decorated and now landed and titled by the man who would sooner have him forget his past then embrace and remember it.
What could she be to him now? What would be fitting for him to bestow upon her? A place within his household? The gift of being his maid and servicing a kind and benevolent master without ever truly being free?
Once upon a time he had dreamed of making her his equal, of giving her his name and the position and power that came along with it.
Now too many years stood between them, the entire world as well as class and station. Would she understand how he had changed? How fighting another man's war had molded him into someone he barely recognized? How he was no longer that gentle, soft spoken little boy?
The woman who fate had meant to be at his side currently stood there, his equal, his twin dragon, his most trusted confident and adviser. His life had been woven as it had for a reason, difficult as it was to always remember and accept.
Gaze lowering as his mind worked, thoughts flickering through at lightning pace, trying desperately to formulate the proper answer, despite not truly knowing the honest one himself.]
I am not sure. [It's soft, barely above a whisper.] Once, I had thought that if I should find her, I would take her as my wife, if she would have me. But now I am no longer certain. I already have all that I could need in you.