From: "Tin Mandigma" Hi, minna! ^_^ Back into the fic-writing scheme after, uh, a month? Anyway, this is my small opener to OLH 13b ^_^ It's a teaser (gomen, gomen, but the real thing is taking me on a wild ride) but I really want to know if it's--OK. Anyway, I think it's time I started catching up on the 'fics I missed in this list ^_^ On a note, though: Ashfae-san, glad to see "Koiji" and "Ties that Bind" ^^ Been waiting for these for some time now. More, please? Of Love and Honor by Tin Mandigma -------------------------------------------------- This is a Rurouni Kenshin-inspired fanfic written entirely for entertainment purposes only. Standard disclaimers apply. -------------------------------------------------- Part 13b: Teaser Sayuri. "Sayuri-san!" "Sayuri, can we talk? Please--" "Sayuri-san, would you like to have some dinner?" "Sayuri-san...!" She shut the door to her room with careful hands. The sound of the voices receded abruptly back into the hallway, beyond the reach of the impenetrable barrier which was the door and the rustling paper screens and the wind outside and her own ragged breathing. She was thankful for the silence. She slumped down on the floor, uncaring of the pools of water which instantly flowed out of her dripping clothes, hair, shaking hands. The rain had been harsh but when you seek shelter in the midst of a storm, you mustn't expect any less. Should you do so, instead of comfort, you feel pain. Instead of healing, sorrow. Instead of forgiveness, anger. She smiled bitterly. Bullshit. The rain had been harsh because it was never meant to be an escape route in the first place. It was meant to frighten, to alarm, to chase you back into the warmth, not lead you to it. Storms were to run away from not to embrace. You emerge only when you see the light, after the gray clouds have passed and the pounding rhythm of watery stars falling have faded away, never before. That much she had learned. And ignored. Who had she become that she would deliberately seek such a path? A whore? An opium addict? That was painful. She clung tighter to herself. And true. But that was also the past, she reminded myself painfully. She lived now, for the present. She chose to live. And yet she stood there, letting sparkling drops of water kill her slowly with their icy painful beauty. She was hoping so much, perhaps, that when she turned her head, she would see him next to her, welcoming his destruction by her side. To each his own. To each her own. Sayuri bit my lip painfully. She just wanted to be with him. Was that too much to ask? She had made up her mind to be happy. And *he* made her happy, from the time she'd known him. She couldn't even remember a time when she'd been so glad to be alive, felt so free. When you've been broken, when you've allowed yourself to fall, there is nothing so beautiful as the chance, that singular once-in-a- lifetime take-it-or-leave-it moment, to put everything right again. Was she wrong? No, she couldn't be and yet... She shifted uneasily. Or maybe, just maybe, the opportunity she craved, thought was hers, just wasn't meant to be for her, after all. And *she*? Had *she* ever made him happy? Sayuri remembered what she saw--earlier, in that painful twilight where everything had seemed to her to be in black and white. Stark. The look in his eyes. The look in her eyes. She couldn't believe it. And yet she couldn't *not* believe it either. But it wasn't meant to be. Them. Not meant to be. She rubbed her thumb angrily against the floor, leaving her moist imprint trapped within the cold wood helplessly. She stared at it for a long long time. It looked strange, forlorn even. As if it didn't belong there. As if it wasn't *meant* to be there at all. There they were again. Those words. Meant. To be. As if becoming could only begin with meaning. As if meaning could dictate existence. Who was to be with who. Who a person could become. 'Such thoughts,' she reprimanded herself in anguish. There was a time in her life when she would have simply locked herself in a room, much like this one, while remaining locked in a deeper ecstasy, in a haze of beautiful sweet smoke. But she didn't have that option anymore. She refused to take that option *now*. She could just imagine the horror, the disgust in his eyes, should she succumb once again and then he would know. But, she thought with a sudden burst of resentment, did he have the right to horror? To disgust? To even the simple act of knowing? Had he felt despair? Emptiness? Torment? Did he know what it was like to live with a sadness which ate you up, slowly, torturing you with the realization that each move you make, each word you utter, was one more step towards your own destruction? Had he ever known a life without meaning? She closed her eyes. 'No,' she whispered to herself. She would never have loved him if he had. Why was she so certain now? 'Such questions.' So maybe she was selfish. Maybe she didn't know how to love. But how was she to know? Who was to say so? Hara? Aoshi? Misao? She held up her hands against her face, feeling soft drops of rain caress her cheeks, embracing her tears. She pressed her palms closer and she felt like she was being sucked in a whirpool of darkness and moisture and the lines of her hands swelled like thin waves in a moving shoreline. She could almost see her reflection, in this distant sea of her imagination, the world of a girl weeping into herself. And she needed the question, the doubt, the torment, the escape from this memory she had so harshly invited: Or myself? "If you will excuse me, Makimachi-san." The courteous words were disconcertingly followed by the closing of the door. Misao found herself suddenly alone in the middle of the room. She stood still, her eyes darting around her surroundings nervously. Her hands clasped and unclasped beneath the sleeves of her kimono and she wanted to wipe the paint off her face, tear the pins from her hair, when she realized. 'I'm panicking,' she told herself and she found was laughing. She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound but her body convulsed, resisting her attempt at sobriety, twisting her emotions where her mind cannot. 'This is crazy. This is crazy.' 'Stop it. Sota-san said Hara-san will come soon.' The stern warning only induced more laughter and Misao was tempted to simply collapse on the floor and let the panic ebb in waves of nervous mirth. It was so tempting, to lie on that polished floor, in the middle of this rich and elegant room, to laugh and laugh and laugh in a blaze of red silken glory, crying blood-tears of joy. And she wouldn't say anything, ever. Hara would come and he would find his bride, languishing on the floor, screaming her wedding vows in peals of laughter. He would wonder who was this girl, this insanity he had let into his house, into his life and he would cast her out, she with the lies of love and honor and sacrifice, who was a coward, really, who didn't know how to love, really. And Sayuri would come, reaching out with a long white hand to touch her face and Sayuri would recoil suddenly, would hold up her hand, and there, smeared on her delicate palm was a laughing mask while beneath her, still crouched on the floor, would be a girl in the throes of faceless, mirthless despair. And Aoshi would come. And he would see. Beneath the paint, beneath the laughter, beneath the beautiful kimono, beneath the mask, he would realize her punishment: Why oh why did she ever leave him? Misao turned then and she froze. She caught a glimpse of a white face framed brightly by bright black hair drawn back in chains of sparkling combs; a red mouth still half-open in a cruelly contorted smile, like a gaping wound. She raised her sleeve against her face and watched a swathe of red silk hide that other mouth, that other face. Hers. A mirror. 'Sayuri-san? I didn't look in the mirror.' Why now? She had a memory of Haanya, suddenly. It was before he left, with Aoshi and the others, and he was in her room, asking her to sleep when she would rather go out and talk to them, especially to Aoshi. But she had burst into tears, stamping her foot in a childish fit of temper edged with sleepiness, and Haanya, in despair, had finally asked her to wish for something, anything, except take her out of her room because Aoshi would be very angry if he should do that. She had stopped then, looked at him, and with the cruel curiousity known only to children whose understanding had not yet been tempered by pain: 'I want to see your face.' Haanya had gone very still then, she remembered with a dull pang of grief, and his hand had flown to his face, to feel it beneath the mask, almost as if in fear. 'Are you sure, Misao-chan?' he had whispered. But she, of course, had persisted. Haanya had stared at her for a long time and then he'd shaken his head before drawing her near in an uneven and loose embrace. 'But Haanya, you promised!' she cried out. 'I *swear* I won't tell Aoshi-sama!' She felt him smile against her hair. 'It's not that, Misao-chan...' 'Then what is it?' she burst out frustratedly. 'I have nothing else to show you.' 'Your face!' she protested, squirming in his grasp. 'You see it now,' he murmured. She was confused. 'You're wearing a mask! Your face is different from your mask!' He shook his head and she struggled more. 'How can it be otherwise?' 'Because, Misao-chan,' he said gently, 'I've long ago refused to make that distinction. My mask and my face are one and the same. *We* create the differences, the separateness. We are afraid to see that when we choose facets of ourselves, to display and to hide, in the surface and beneath, we only drive ourselves--and others--to madness later on, looking for something where it should be, finding something else where it shouldn't.' 'Madness?' she asked, almost fearfully. 'How--' 'We force other people to wear masks, to believe in their very existence and then later, to force them to remove what is really irremovable,' he answered sadly. 'We split each other up.' Now as she stared at herself, she wondered with a dawning sense of clarity, if she had driven Aoshi into the 'madness' Haanya spoke of and, for the first time, she felt guilt coupled with a strong sense of desolation. But what had driven *her*? What was driving her now? She wanted to look away, but she couldn't. This is madness. 'Love,' she whispered to herself. 'Haanya, what about love? What I see in the mirror right now? What I've chosen for myself? This is love, then, for me? No masks. No faces. Just love. One and the same. Driven by love, driven to madness. One and the same.' "Misao-san." Her eyes widened in shock and she swung around, feeling ashamed, embarrased, defiant, all of a sudden. Hara stood in the doorway, dressed in elegant gi and hakama, and she thought distantly that this was the first time she had ever seen him in Japanese clothes. He smiled at her suddenly and she found herself smiling back, bitterly, and she withdrew it almost immediately, suddenly conscious of his dark gaze. All at once, the panic fled. She wondered why. "I see you've made yourself at home," was all he said. There was no trace of mockery in his voice. In fact, he sounded--sad? Misao frowned slightly, watching him as he watched her, and it struck her that she shouldn't looking at him with such equanimity when she'd only known him this morning. And asked him for the impossible. But then... It seemed so far away now, broken into tiny pieces of jagged remembrance. Even the image of herself, laughing, moments ago, was rapidly fading. She wanted to chase after these memories, to thread them together. None are fakes, none deceptive. Everything was real and true. Including this. Including this. 'Aoshi, I'm sorry.' "Yes," she answered evenly. "You have a beautiful house." Silence. And then, "Would you like to see the gardens?" he asked casually. She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she glanced around her quickly and her breath caught in her throat when she saw it--a scroll, hanging beside the mirror, like a beautiful preserved ornament. Instinctively, she moved closer and then stopped as she saw... 'Do not go, my love.' She held the tears fiercely at bay. There is no distinction between love and goodbyes. They mean the same thing. They mean one thing. There was no sense, no sense at all, in deluding herself now. "I see you also like the inscription," Hara said quietly behind her. 'Also?' she asked silently. "It's my favorite, too," Hara continued and he sounded strangely subdued, wistful even. He paused, as if hesitating, but his tone was measured as he said, "My--wife made it for me." Misao smiled, through her shock. "Yes," she murmured. Yes to everything. End Teaser *NOTE: If you're wondering about Haanya's 'words' to Misao and how they seemed a bit, well, complex for an eight-year old child, Misao's thirteen in this 'fic ^^;; Gomen for the inconsistency with what was stated in the original storyline but I had to stick with this since I worked with this misconception at the beginning of the 'fic. Thanks! ^_^ --------------------------- ONElist Sponsor ---------------------------- Get EXPERT CONTENT at ONElist! Join PROS&PUNDITS. 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