Disclaimer: All things Crescent Moon belong to Iida Haruko, Matsuda Takamura, Red Company, Ruby Teen Books, TokyoPop, and any number of legal/corporate entities wholly unconnected to me. This fanwork was created to entertain myself and other fans. No challenge to copyright is intended and no profit has been made.
A/N: Part of the Sublunary universe, takes place before the marina incident.
BGM: Daha No Kyoko (Wave Pounding Piece) (Tadashi Tajima)
Mikumari
by Cerise Tennyo
On nights of the full moon, the people of the Moonshine held an outdoor revel on the rooftop. Well, most of them did. Mitsuru hardly participated, but he showed up. It was, Katsura told her one night, like the moon-viewing parties of old. For Mahiru, these nights held the very definition of 'magic'.
She'd seen the members of the Lunar Race sing and dance on stage, for performance or celebration. What they did below the light of the moon... She clutched her glass and watched, amazed.
One by one--except for Mitsuru and Master Oboro--they'd come before her, as formal as the night they'd first brought her to the Moonshine. One by one, they asked for her blessing. And now, they stood in their alter forms--Katsura had changed from a man to a woman--in clothing that draped and swept in long, furling ripples. Even Mitsuru had conceded that much, and wore traditional men's clothes. Master Oboro... looked like something from a painting.
A few wisps of cloud hung in the sky, turned to silver lace by the moon. For long, long moments, the others stood still, gazing up into the sky, up at the full face of the Moon. Then Misoka raised his hands. The heavy bracelet he wore slid halfway down his lean forearm. Eyes still fixed on the moon, he began to chant.
"How often does the bright moon come?
With Wine, I ask
of the blue sky.
In the heavenly palaces,
I wish to return there,
riding the wind,
but fear that in the high places of jade halls and
eaves,
I cannot fend off the cold."
Even just reciting poetry, Misoka had the most beautiful voice she'd ever heard. The Moon seemed to shine even brighter with each word. The others began to drift away. What first seemed like random movements soon revealed themselves as deliberate.
"Rising to dance with my clear shadow,
scarcely possible that I among men,
turn around the red lacquered
pavilions,
dip below the silken-curtained windows,
shine on the
sleepless."
They didn't dance as they did on stage, but with subtle shifts in posture and stance, gestures so small and delicate, they might easily be overlooked. Yet together, they moved like the rising and falling swells of the ocean. Timeless, beautiful, and ever-changing...
Katsura turned in a half-circle, extending her hand in such a way that her broad sleeve fanned out like a bird's wing. She dipped her hand and swept down, her hand cupped. The broad length of silk fluttered wide then settled, falling like a blanket over a sleeping person.
Nozomu turned, his arms raised in a half-embrace, fingers curling towards his palms. He didn't look at Mahiru--but ne never moved far from her, either. Mitsuru stood like a statue. Mahiru flashed on a trip to a museum with her aunt: a figure of a tengu, wrought in ceramic, its glaze and paint wearing away. A guardian, just like the fox-statues outside the Inari shrines.
"There ought not be regrets, but why
so often
are you full at times of parting?
Men have sorrow and joy and
farewell and union.
The moon has clouds and clear skies, waxing and
waning."
Master Oboro did not dance, did not move from where he stood. Instead, he tipped his head back, letting the full light of the moon fall across his face. His eyes shone. Mahiru felt her own eyes fill with tears. Then, with aching grace, he lifted his fan, opening it with a slow, sweeping gesture that ended with the spread fan held before his face. A white fan, edged in silver. Silver, for the Moon. White, for mourning.
Mahiru's throat closed. If her own life depended upon it, she couldn't have spoken now. For a moment, she felt that distant, shivering hum that she associated with the Teardrops of the Moon. For the first time, she wondered if that feeling was the stones' equivalent of weeping. Teardrops. Had the jewels once had other names? It was such a sad name. The jewels were supposed to be their strength. Sorrow, Mahiru knew, didn't make people strong, it drove them to find places where strength lived--and some did not find them in time.
"Perfection is rare since days of old,
so wish
only that the years be long,
to share beauty even across a
thousand miles."
Mahiru's head spun. For a moment, she felt a spark of connection, as if she were but a single mote in a stand of light. And that light, a single moonbeam, stretched out to form a web that grounded its anchor lines deep in the souls of every member of the Lunar Race. And she knew, at that moment, every member of the Lunar Race who could speak was giving the same hymn of praise to the Moon.
Her mind seemed full of these silver thoughts. She rose, a little unsteadily, to her feet. Katsura was the first to notice her.
"Princess!"
Misoka lowered his hands, half-turned to look. Mahiru continued to walk until she reached the center of the assembled group. No-one spoke now, but she could feel the rhythm of the chanting in her blood, the slow swirl of the dance, like the hem of a heavy silk skirt about her bare ankles. She kept her eyes fixed on the Moon. You watch me, she thought, but why?
Almost forgotten, she held the stemmed glass of water she'd taken at the beginning of this revel. Obeying some nameless instinct, she raised it up past shoulder height. To her eyes, the water took on a translucent blue glow. In the water, she could see tiny shapes, schools of micro-fish that didn't quite match the images of those she'd seen photographed in any sea. Dark, ribbons of shadow rippled, sea fronds that stood as the seedlings of an undersea forest.
To hold an otherworldly sea between her hands... to see the Moon made ever more beautiful through the water, the endless dance of living creatures.
So much beauty and sorrow. There had to be something, some way, she could acknowledge what she'd seen and heard, to give honor to the Moon's lifelong vigilance. Staring up at the Moon through the eldritch sea, Mahiru opened her mouth. She could not sing, she knew, but she could speak. And the Moon that saw her heart must know these words.
"Lover of vigilance, the foe of strife,
In
peace rejoicing, and a prudent life."
Her voice sounded different, deeper, as if she spoke the words in a singer's practice room, hearing the sounds ring with depths of tone.
"Fair lady's lamp, ornament and friend,
Shine
on these who gather for Your rites,
And if they please, accept
their praise."
Where in the world did that come from, Mahiru wondered. The glass between her palms glimmered, the water silver-blue. From the corner of her eye, she saw the flutter of a familiar layered sleeve. Yume-hime... where those your words? Was it so impossible to believe that the lost Princess might still be reaching out to the people of the one she'd loved?
She lowered the glass, feeling absurd. What was she doing, standing on rooftops and holding up glasses? She must look foolish to the others, intruding on their ritual. She began to turn away-- and found them all on their knees.
Misoka was closest. Without seeming to raise his head, the kitsune lifted his hand and touched hers. "Princess..."
"Misoka...?"
As if that were an expected cue, Misoka put both hands around Mahiru's. Exerting gentle pressure, the kitsune drew the glass Mahiru still held to his own lips. He took a measured swallow, then released, bowing even lower.
Wait, what- - what was that? She looked into the water again. Through it, she saw Misoka in his human form, the image distorted somewhat because of the water. It was like that time before the WPF, when she'd watched them all through the medium of water. The water had shown her their alter-forms. And just like then, Misoka looked up at her, as if he'd felt the glance like a touch. The kitsune slid his gaze to the right, very quickly, before lowering his head again.
What? Am I supposed to- -? In a kind of fever-haze, Mahiru brought the glass to the next in line: Akira. The werewolf crouched before her. She studied him im in some dismay. In this form, there was no way he could take the glass as Misoka had, the broad lupine muzzle would shatter it, or worse, get stuck. Oh!
Struck by inspiration, Mahiru poured a small amount of the water into the palm of her hand, and held it out to him. It should have felt sort of gross, to have Akira lapping water from her hand. It should embarrass her, to see him behaving like some kind of dog. But all she saw was the moon-sheen on his pelt, the pure coil of strength he represented. He nudged her hand when he was finished, urging her on.
As her luck would have it, next was Mitsuru. He knelt, hands on his thighs, features in a tight scowl. He looked as if he wanted to grab the glass from her and dash its contents in her face. Mahiru looked down hurriedly--and almost dropped the glass herself. She saw his tengu form, eyes stormy, glittering with splinters of lightning. She'd expected that, but not the rest.
Behind him stood the demon-warrior of her dreams, one hand on Mitsuru's shoulder. Though neither showed it, it seemed as though the demon-warrior was restraining Mitsuru, just by the touch of his hand. Mitsuru took a bare sip of the water, glaring at her the entire time. Mahiru managed a quick dip of her head, not a true bow, because how could she explain that? But it seemed rude not to acknowledge the demon's presence.
Very faintly, he smiled. How could I have ever thought they had the same eyes? Mahiru wondered. The demon had dark eyes as well, but where Mitsuru's always held some dark storm, the demon's eyes were more like the cloak of shadows that hid intensely private thoughts and passions.
When she came to Nozomu, she went utterly still. In his his alter-form, his skin looked dusky, the color of the softened shadows cast by moonlight. She shivered, the water in the glass trembling in sympathy. Even without the strange connection between them, she could feel the intensity of his focus. He looked so much a part of the living night, it seemed a deep wrong to even consider him as human-seeming, under the sun.
Like Misoka, he reached out, curved his hands around hers. The very tips of his talons rested against the backs of her hands. He never looked away from her, even as she guided the rim of the glass to his lips. He drank slowly. She shivered again, all too aware of what he wished was passing over his lips just then. He didn't release her right away. Instead, he let his hands slip down, the tips of two fingers just brushing the inside of her wrist, tantalizingly near a pulse point.
She couldn't help it. She blushed.
"Nozomu..." A warning hiss from Misoka.
Her heart pounding, Mahiru turned away. She finished the rest of round in a muddled state, just aware enough to keep from tripping over her own feet or dropping the glass. When Master Oboro put the glass back in her hands, her head cleared. She blinked at him. His eyes still held a deep sorrow, softened by the faint smile.
"It has been a very long time," he said, "since we ended our rites to the Moon with the silver glass."
"Silver?" Mahiru repeated, looking down at the glass she held. "But this isn't silver."
"In your hands, Princess, it is. And for your blessing, we thank you."
With those words, the others began to stir, sliding back into human forms. It seemed the ceremony--if ceremony it was--had finished. Mahiru remained staring, holding the empty glass.
Nozomu came up, put an arm around her shoulders. Before she looked away, Mahiru caught a warning flicker in Oboro's gaze. Once again a blond, blue-eyed human, Nozomu smiled down at her.
"Have you been at Misoka's notes? Where did you learn that?"
"Learn... what?" she asked. "Those words? I- I must have learned them a long time ago, in school, or something."
It happened that way, sometimes. So many things she'd memorized in cram school remained, but their context lost. The words didn't have to have come from Yume-hime. In fact, the more she thought about it, the less likely it seemed. Leftovers from cram school made much more sense.
And with all the craziness in her life, she really needed something to make sense.
"Yeah," Nozomu agreed. "A long time ago..."
-end-
Notes:
Mikumari: Water priestess.
Misoka's chant of praise comes from a poem by Su Shih, who lived during the Song Dynasty (fitting, no?), which lasted from 1037-1101. Text is in the public domain.
Mahiru's blessing/praise is based on the "Hymn to Selene", from the Mystical Hymns of Orpheus, Translated from the Greek, by Thomas Taylor, 1824 Material is in the public domain.