Standard disclaimers apply. Hope you enjoy.
Duet of Silents
by Sigel Phoenix
Had she been watching just a few minutes earlier, she would have seen that her hands and feet were taking the same path that his had taken. But she saw nothing, and thought herself alone in her climb. She had always been one step behind him. Perhaps if she knew to look, she would know he had also always been waiting for her.
As her small figure raised itself onto the roof, it was immediately pinned by the gaze of the other occupant. He had heard her ascent, and been watching for her in the darkness. The backdrop of the stars was cold and still against her warm breathing.
A thrill of emotion ran through her, hesitant as to whether it would commit itself to sadness or pleasure. At this point in time, she was still uncertain as to which was awakened by him. At this moment in the night, she was uncertain as to whether there was a difference.
"Aoshi-sama ..." She didn't know quite what to say, had not known quite how to be around him for the past few weeks. Each time it was like taking two old puzzle pieces, long lost in the corner of some child's toy closet, and trying to lay them together again; seeing which parts still fit, which were torn beyond repair, and which of the new holes in one could be filled by the protrusions of the other.
She approached him with the moonlight bathing her from behind like the essence of some celestial figure. He could not help but think she was placed here purposefully for him, by the hand and will of a greater power and it was his responsibility to discern what the reason behind that act was. But to say she was a seraph, sent to Earth and appointed to guide him to the right path, seemed not to do justice to Misao and all she was.
He grasped her as something precious. He said, "You should be resting. The reopening of the Aoiya has been keeping you busy lately."
She smiled at the not-quite-audible concern in his voice, a smooth and unmarred piece of the puzzle she could feel in her mind. She wanted to share it with him, to guide his fingers along the familiar curve, but the thought hesitated before it could become words.
He could hear the rustle of her clothes as she settled herself on the edge of the roof, the warmth radiating toward him fluctuating with the movements of her body as if in a wordless language. He knew it was on purpose that she sat slightly apart from him, and knew what her distance was saying. It was still too early for him to be able to reach out on his own.
Her hands, settled lightly in her lap, were pale in the moonlight. Her voice when she spoke seemed to glow pale against the night for a moment before fading. "I couldn't sleep."
"You had a nightmare."
It was strange how the distance between them could change so swiftly. His words pulled her firmly toward him, marked her actions as being within the circle of his awareness, even as she turned to face him. "How did you ..."
"I heard you." The gap reestablished.
"Oh."
"You called my name."
And she was uncertain.
"I dreamt ..." Hesitant, hopeful, pained, she leaned toward him, drawing closer to his warmth. In the darkness he seemed almost illusory, a shadow poised to fade at any moment. "I dreamt you had left again."
Did you know to find me here? he almost asked.
Can you promise me you'll stay? she almost asked. But it might not be fair, when she wasn't even sure he was really there with them. Her eyes traced his features in the shadow, either to refamiliarize herself with them or to memorize them in case he wasn't there in the morning. She wanted to touch him, but she was afraid to ask, afraid it could frighten him and make him disappear.
He wanted her to touch him, she was close enough to; but he was afraid it would make him feel too real. He still felt adrift, lost and with no guarantee that he was headed in the right direction. To touch her would anchor him to her, and now, when all was darkness and it felt so easy to merely reach out and become one with oblivion, the temptation to remain lost was powerful.
"Have you calmed down now?"
She nodded silently, not trusting herself to speak. For a moment, she wondered what he would do if she told him everything, all her fears and anger and hopes. But that wasn't something she could burden him with right now; not when she knew he had so many of his own, which he was still struggling to uncover from the confusion in his mind. He was in need, but to give him help now when he didn't seek it on his own would be the greatest offense; even as staying away was the greatest injury to her. But the pieces could be bent and shaped together in compromise.
"Would you like me to bring tea to the temple again tomorrow?" His hand, like hers, rested against the edge of the roof. If they both stretched their fingers out, they could just touch the tips.
He turned his body to face her. The movement brushed his finger against the edge of hers, and it felt like the touch of a flower petal. A heat seized his body, and he said "Yes" without quite realizing it.
An imprint of warmth lingered on his skin after he moved away. If I melted you down, if I took all your pieces and burned away the excess, what would I find? he asked silently. Would you be made of flowers, beautiful and fickle and transitory? Or would you be made of glass, and I would see nothing but myself when I try to search inside you? His gaze was still on her, his eyes trying to pull her secret meaning from inside while his hand fled from hers and laid in his lap. He was not surprised when she shifted slightly away from him in response.
His eyes were a barely visible gleam of moonlight, and they sent her mind reeling; reflexively, she retreated to keep him from running away. Like a predator coaxing in prey ... but she hardly felt that much in control. Perhaps more like a person on a mountain, navigating the steep and unyielding face of the rock. I won't let go, she murmured, the words only audible as a soft sough of breath. The one I cherish ... She clung to the memory of four fallen others when she clung to him; to each of the ghosts of childhood who had left her, one by one; to the special person she had found too early in life to properly hold to.
Her lips moved, barely; he watched them form the silent words with the solemnity of a prayer. This strange girl-woman he had come home to was as foreign to him as the religious statues carved of blonde hair and alabaster skin, and as alluring in her resolute faith in that which eluded him.
He can remember words that were spoken over a month ago, somewhere far away from this dark little refuge; an eternity ago in hell: I'm so happy ... For the first time, I was useful in a fight ... I helped Shishio-sama in the most important fight of his life ... Such fanatic, touching devotion ... Could he see her with the same eyes full of emotion, bleeding faith onto his hands as she gave up everything for his sake?
He could tell her now, as he mentally traced the curve of her eyelashes against her cheek; he could use words to push her away from the brink of obsession with this man who had once been obsessed. Or he could watch her in silence, and see what path she would follow on her own. He felt so numb after everything, he did not want to stifle one who felt so freely.
But what would be the cost?
It wasn't that he faulted her for feeling too much; no, not when his heart threatened to recall the same intensity for her. He feared that, like Komagata Yumi, she might seek a different identity for him. She might turn from who she was to follow a man out of touch with time, who did not know quite how to let his life begin again. She might let go of her joy.
And above all, he could not bear it if she lost her smile.
A pause. Silence, colored by the fear both were feeling for a different reason, hearts beating quickly in time to a different set of possibilities. Both were aware of it, yet were unwilling to give voice to the nebulous anxiety neither was sure the other felt.
A sudden anger burned in him, the first passionate emotion he could remember feeling for a long time, as he regarded her. What does she think she's doing, coming to speak to me and offering me tea as if nothing has happened? How can she justify her belief in me, when we have had no contact for eight years? She doesn't know -- she doesn't know half the things I've done, the evil I've known; cannot fathom who I've become ... She turned to him then; her eyes, her eyes filled his vision, mirroring the image indelibly imprinted in his mind from the moment he walked away from her with her adoptive father's blood on his hands; an image viciously exploited by the Battousai. If it weren't for you, I would not have had to come back --
"Aoshi-sama," she interrupted quietly, not knowing she had interrupted; and her soft voice was jarring against the rising crescendo in his mind, which had all the while been swathed in silence.
The intensity of his gaze stirred something responsive in her, not quite from fear or excitement, but a delicate balance of both; and the question teasing at her mind rose to her lips, "Do you believe in fate? I mean ... when you meditate, what is it that you're looking for?"
Is it something I can help you find?
"... No."
Yes.
"I don't believe in a preordained path, or that there is a meaning behind everything that happens." The words did not come easily, but were pulled laboriously from the silence in which they had lain dormant. He considered ending his answer, isolating the words he had shared before they grew too much; but the emotion she had disturbed within him was captivating in its vitality, prompting its full exploration, and even inviting him to inflict it upon her. "But there must be a reason behind all our choices, though that reason comes from our own contemplation; to find those reasons, and avoid reckless action born of spurious desires, is what I seek." He let the words hang heavy in the cool air, thinking she must be aware of the implicit rebuke in them for her rash decision to embrace his return, her impulsive faith in his restoration to the man she remembered.
Reasons. That's what he needs. A surge of happiness suffused her, the first unadulterated emotion she could remember feeling for a long time, as she smiled at him. All my life I've known him to be sure in his actions, to be able to find his way despite everything. He only needs time, and he will do it again. Contented with seedling hope, she allowed the words to flow freely. "I remember when I was little and you first started leaving for training missions on your own. I was so worried you would get lost, all by yourself in the mountains, and I pestered Jiiya about it for days. But he said not to worry because you would never let yourself get lost, that you were too stubborn to back down from a challenge." Smiling wryly, she said, "He told me trying to draw a map for you wouldn't help. But he still let me help pack bento for your journey."
He was staring at her again, but it was a different look in his eyes, one that did not demand like before but questioned, that hesitantly welcomed. She let her own gaze drift over the city below them, so full of different lives and desires and possibilities, as she continued. "I've really gotten better at cooking, after spending so much time on my own. Okon-san and Omasu-san aren't afraid to let me help with the food at the Aoiya now. They used to only let me do the dishes," she added, rolling her eyes with affectionate exasperation.
As she spoke, her cheeks seemed to glow, her skin no longer seeming as pale against the night. When she smiled, her nose crinkled and when she turned to him, the moonlight caught the wisps of hair that had escaped from her braid and hung messily. She no longer seemed as remote, as much a secret to uncover.
"... And before you know it, the summer will be over," she sighed. He realized she had been talking about their plans now that everything had died down, to continue in their normal lives. And she had been including him. The moon seemed too clear, the stars too bright for him to contradict her.
Her eyes gleaming with delight, she told him, "You'll be here for my birthday this year. Did you know I'm turning seventeen?"
"No," he lied. He knew exactly how old she was; every year for eight years, he had known the day, though he had marked it with no outward ceremony. But in the weeks since his return, time had held itself suspended in his mind, the days passing uniformly and seemingly inconsequentially. He had no concrete sense of these future events affecting him so directly. Someday, he might; and someday, he might tell her.
She closed her eyes and nodded. I know. When she looked up at him again, her smile was still there, strong and undeterred. She saw the wind in him, uncontainable and defiant of warmth but still able to make her laugh as it rushed past her and flew through her hair.
His words, his breaches of the silence had failed to discourage her. In the hush, she had not been kept still, as he expected. She smiled, and bestowed her words upon him; and now, under his observation, she yawned. Gingerly wiping her eyes, she murmured, "I guess I can head back to bed now. I'll see you in the morning, Aoshi-sama."
Misao --
She moved away swiftly, even her movements continuing to speak when her words were quiet. There was no stillness, as even her shifting against the air seemed to resonate. And then she paused, her inaudible song holding in fermata; then rushing forward in accelerando as she turned back and threw her arms around him, her cheek resting against his back for a bare instant.
I think you may be my reason, he wanted to say.
"I'm glad you're here," she said.
And then she pulled away, drawing back her warmth and her words as she disappeared into the house. She left him in solitude, with no movement and no sound in the darkness; yet his own words remained vivid in his mind to hold the silence at bay.