Fushigi Yuugi Fan Fiction ❯ Empathy ❯ Empathy ( One-Shot )

Empathy

Notes: Ahh Fusighi Yugi, how I love thee let me count the ways. Seriously this is one of the few fics that I've written about my beloved series.

Warnings: Spoilers if you haven't seen the end of the anime or read the last volume of the manga.

Disclaimer: I do not own Fushigi Yugi, character, plot, ect.

Without armor I find my reflection…unsettling. It just seems so strange to look at my body stripped of its defenses. It's a remainder that I am a woman, soft, fragile, and worthless in a world that must be conquered by brute force. Looking into the mirror I turn my right wrist over to reveal a fading scar at my pulse point from where a whip grazed tender flesh. This small scar is one of many, but it is the first so it remains, serving as a reminder that my body was never mine. From a very young age I have been nothing more than property, a slave to men's desires.

Carefully my fingers brush over the silken robe that had been discarded last night. I am not use to such luxuries; but I suppose bringing greatness to one's country can earn such pretty and useless things. The silk effortlessly slides over my fingers as I wondered if I should even bother with slipping it back on. Eventually I fold it up, placing it on a chair.

My feet pad across the wooden floor, edging closer to the bed, gently so as not to wake him I lay back. I am amazed that he is still asleep; but secretly I am glad. Weak sunlight reaches out to touch strands of his golden hair, my trembling fingers reach to touch a stray lock only to pull back. I am not known to be meek or one who easily withdraws; but for the moment I don't want to make a move, even breathing harshly seems enough to break this moment.

For a long time I dreamed of someone taking me away from life at the brothel. I hated submitting to anyone plus every time I closed my eyes hungry leers would burn into my skull. And whether Nakago knows it or not, I have found my salvation through him. I can never tell him though. Saying thank you' would open doors for me to say things he would rather not hear. That suits me just fine, since I am not one for sentiments either…but it would be a lie to say that I don't feel anything towards him.

I can feel the sunlight grow stronger, warming my back. Nakago moves slightly as I pray that he won't wake up just yet. Waking up leads to walking out, I want to be selfish and keep him in bed with me. It doesn't matter what I want though, it never has been.

Once I am sure he's still asleep I slowly pull the sheets away from him. First exposed is the back of his neck which leads to strong broad shoulders, down to his back. My fingers push locks of his hair away from the neck. It is here that I rest one finger, tracing the outline of a scar.

I noticed it the first night Nakago entered my room. I had moved to touch it, only to have my hand roughly pulled away. Not wanting to anger him I never reached to his neck or even made mention of it…while he was awake that is. In the hours between evening and dawn I find myself asking questions, mere whispers, as I would allow my fingers to dance over the scar, this exploration lead to the discovery of more.

Between his shoulder blades there is a rope like mark, as if someone had tightly cinched a whip around his chest to the point that is permanently bruised the skin. Having felt the sting of a whip on several occasions myself I can wince, knowing fully well how painful it must have been. The mark is so faded into his skin that this one must have happened when he was very young, probably no more than a kid.

Stripes along his back, there are too many of these to be battle scars. Someone either hated or, in a perverse way, loved him. As I allow my finger to trace the outline of one particularly long and vicious looking mark I recall a growing flame of hatred towards the person who did this.

I should stop. Nakago is going to wake up soon and I can't be caught with my hands wandering over the imperfections he conceals behind the blue plates of armor. By the same sentiment I can't just pull away even as my whole hand shakes. These marks along his body are bringing back too many memories of my own.

The sick sense of dread that formed in the pit of my stomach as the whip cracked just inches away, striking to miss drawing ever closer. My pleas to make it stop, promises to be good, really good, just as long as that whip didn't touch me. Tears; which flowed hot, bitter, and salty streaming from the corners of my eyes until I could taste them. And the pain…oh gods the pain.

Sitting up in bed I curl my legs up so that I can rest my chin on knees. A shudder rolls down my back in contrast to the uncomfortable heat that is constricting my throat. Squeezing my eyes shut I try to fight back a surge of emotion. I can't cry. If I cry I might as well wake Nakago up and confess everything right down to the small detail that I love him. I don't like that option so instead teeth grate against my lips.

Looking to the side I can see Nakago shift to the side. If I know him well, it won't be long before he wakes up.

Watching him I ask myself questions that will never be uttered.

Who marked your body?'

The bed shifts slightly as Nakago sits up, myself remaining utterly motionless.

Would you be offended if told that I understood the pain?'

Without so much as a glance in my direction he slides out of the bed, picking up clothing and armor as he walks to put distance between us.

Did you cry when the whip first stung? Or did you hold back, crying only when you were alone?'

Fully dressed Nakago reached for the door at the same moment I fought the urge to say…something. Anything at all…

Opportunity waits for no one and the door slid open then closes.

Now alone I suddenly feel how empty this room is. I close my eyes, in my mind an image that won't go away.

A young boy with blonde hair and dark blue eyes huddled in some dark corner. Marks open and oozing blood down his back, while he trembles.

Clenching fingers into my bare thigh I finally allow the a few tears.

He'll never know how much it pains me to think about things that must have occurred years ago. If he were here right now I would remove the armor, the clothes just so I could run my hands over the marks marring his skin. To kiss them in hopes of easing whatever suffering he had to endure.

But like the little boy, that would only occur in my imagination.

The reality is that no one can break through his armor. Not a soul can touch him and leave an impression not even me, the only person who truly understands him.

At one point he stood in the same place as me. He feared someone. He recoiled from pain. He must have cried out at least once. So even if we can not forge a union out of love…there will always be the bond of mutual pain that binds us.

Arising from the bed I walk right passed the delicate robe folded neatly on the chair. Instead I pull over a shirt and leggings before tying on my own armor. Outside my bedroom door is a world that swallows the weak alive. There is no dignity in being sympathetic. So I linger in this room, for once I step foot into the real world' my emotions must be schooled with the strictest discipline. No smiles, no tears, and certainly no sentimental words.

This is war.

Our scars, be it from battle or childhood, are just pieces of our armor that can't be removed.