[fic] xanadu, upon waking / Saiyuki
i finished the first saiyuki manga series in early-ish 2003 or so, and never really got into reload, let alone gunlock. do i remember much of saiyuki canon? um, no. ._. this is probably completely inaccurate canon-wise, or would be if it actually had any sort of point. but ticking things off lists, and so on.
also, inappropriate title-refs, sigh.
Title: xanadu, upon waking
Fandom: Saiyuki
Not that it is easy to forget. Just that time does what it will. So if he remembers a voice or marble floors or a certain shade of gold then it is only in pieces, for the links between memories have rusted where others have not.
Thus: the concept of a voice is sound crafted to a purpose, which sets it apart from the blind four-note songs of the passing birds. Marble floors are a white smoothness that is not of snow. And that certain shade of gold -- perhaps it is associated with warmth, perhaps with pain, or perhaps the sunlight through the bars of his cage draws those connections for him.
The first things to go are names. But one can dream without language, so he does. And if there are voices he can tell apart, or faces to those voices, or hallways and doors and marble floors that form something close to structure, well -- dreams fade like one's past, only quicker. Things that have already left him: names of flowers; the coldness of marble; ink and the way it stains; the soft dry sound of paper; a different shade of gold; the softness of something to grasp; the taste of smoke; the taste of so many other things.
When the sunlight falls one day on that certain shade of gold, it is not that he remembers. It is nothing as coherent as recollection. But all one needs for a voice is sound and purpose, and if places seen in dreams are lost soon after, still enough remains to spark familiarity -- colour, texture, the right shade of light, the sudden smoothness of the ground, enough for one to say yes, I know this, I have been here before.
also, inappropriate title-refs, sigh.
Title: xanadu, upon waking
Fandom: Saiyuki
Not that it is easy to forget. Just that time does what it will. So if he remembers a voice or marble floors or a certain shade of gold then it is only in pieces, for the links between memories have rusted where others have not.
Thus: the concept of a voice is sound crafted to a purpose, which sets it apart from the blind four-note songs of the passing birds. Marble floors are a white smoothness that is not of snow. And that certain shade of gold -- perhaps it is associated with warmth, perhaps with pain, or perhaps the sunlight through the bars of his cage draws those connections for him.
The first things to go are names. But one can dream without language, so he does. And if there are voices he can tell apart, or faces to those voices, or hallways and doors and marble floors that form something close to structure, well -- dreams fade like one's past, only quicker. Things that have already left him: names of flowers; the coldness of marble; ink and the way it stains; the soft dry sound of paper; a different shade of gold; the softness of something to grasp; the taste of smoke; the taste of so many other things.
When the sunlight falls one day on that certain shade of gold, it is not that he remembers. It is nothing as coherent as recollection. But all one needs for a voice is sound and purpose, and if places seen in dreams are lost soon after, still enough remains to spark familiarity -- colour, texture, the right shade of light, the sudden smoothness of the ground, enough for one to say yes, I know this, I have been here before.