Gensomaden Saiyuki Fan Fiction ❯ Gesture Without Motion ❯ four: clipped wings to a bittersweet descent ( Chapter 4 )

“…here they receive the supplication of a dead man's hand

under the twinkle of a fading star…

for thine is

life is

thine is the…”

 

four: clipped wings to a bittersweet descent

 

(Konzen, Konzen, is all he seems to cry with that sinuously sinful, soft voice.)

 

“I'm not Konzen.” (Denunciation, dissent; how many times will you have to tell him this?)

 

“I can't say I agree with you completely,” he will say, “you and he share the same soul. He would be greatly disappointed to hear your absolute denial.”

 

“Where are the others?” Deliberately ignore the truth in the response.

 

A thoughtful murmur—“Being accommodated nicely. After all, we can't let the General, Marshal and itan pet be separated from you.”

 

“How lenient you are.” Display that beautifully haughty sneer, your uncertainty flickering briefly, but only briefly; make no mistake. Look down at the folded hands in your lap (almost coyly, eyelashes inadvertently fluttering), lean back slightly against the plush down pillows. Show no doubt, show no emotion. Leave everything behind, leave no ties…let me be no nearer in death's dream kingdom, let me also wear such deliberate disguises…

 

“Just for you.”

 

And there will be no ridicule in that. Only whole-hearted admiration, adulation.

 

Only love.

 

(Try not to focus on his words, on him. Bring your attention, instead, to the light drizzle starting outside as that familiar sinking feeling of failure and misery sets in. Hear the rain against the glass pane of the window; you can almost see the rivulets running down, in your mind's eye.)

 

He will blow the candle out. Footsteps in the dark. You will be startled, but almost expecting the weight on the space next to you. Cringe at the warmth of skin against skin. Cringe at the fingertips under your chin and the palm laying against your heart (feel the burning pulse of your heart speed) as he softly brushes his lips upon your forehead, temple, eyelids, tracing the road that once bore the burden of heavy sorrow-saturated tears, down to the corner of your mouth. Shallow breaths. He will stop at your lips. When the heat recedes from your side, you know he will leave. (Maintain composure and bring back that frigid façade. Do not tilt your head slightly in that request for more. Show no doubt, show no emotion. Sever all ties, including the one that joins your heart to your mind.)

 

You will sigh—in relief? In disappointment? It is hard to say—a breathy exhale that is too quiet for a human's ears. But you know he will hear.

 

“Good night.” The inflection will be that of a soft smile.

 

A click. The door will close quietly. Footsteps will tread quietly away. There will be the quiet pitter-patter of rain that will not cease. The quiet of a dreamless sleep waits.

 

Silence and the rain falling.

 

Quietly, quietly. Doom waits quietly, he waits quietly. Doom and he? He and doom? The distinction between the two will blur. Reality and surreality will collide—the fine line between the living, the dead, the divine…

 

…fate waits but time does not. And the gods are watching.

 

You sleep.

 

 

“This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper.”