Prompt 185, Use a line or stanza of poetry, "Spring Begins to Darken"
Title: Spring Begins to Darken
Author: seta_suzume
Series: manga/Brotherhood
Word Count: 745
Rating: PG
Characters: Master Hawkeye, Riza, Roy
Summary: Master Hawkeye knows he's nearing the end of his life.
Warnings: Sort of dark/depressing.
Author's note: I used a variety of lines from translations of tanka by Masaoka Shiki (full list and links under the cut to spare you).
Most tanka don't have titles, so I can't identify them that way, but here are the lines and links to places where you can read the ones I used online:
-"I had the rain shutters opened"
-"The man/I used to meet in the mirror" & "I do not know the day/my pain will end yet" & "I had them plant/seeds of autumn flowers"
-along this darkling/country road/ comes the lonely voice
...and there are a few more references to other tanka, but that's it for the exact lines.
----
Our house is set apart from the rest of the town. I like it that way. Just me and my work and Riza. She cooks and cleans; learns and grows. For my part, I study. The world is full of mysteries. Flame is a difficult thing to harness. The snow covering our house melts away, bit by bit. The season changes slowly. Everything in my life happens slowly.
In the early morning along this darkling country road that runs past our house comes the lonely voice of the milkman, every so often whistling to himself. Then in the kitchen, Riza whistles the same tune. It's not a song that I know. Maybe it's a popular tune. I don't know. I was never the type to keep up with that sort of thing.
But it must be, because when winter fades and the boy comes, he knows the song too and sings it. Riza won't sing with him. She says she doesn't know the words. I'm not sure that is true, but I am glad that she refrains. I'm not sure about the boy. Not when it comes to my daughter and not when it comes to my research either. It's Chris I am sure of.
I never become sure of him. Which of us is at fault for this is difficult to say. I am not the type to easily admit when I am wrong. Maybe it would be easier if I were more frequently wrong. I don't have much practice.
I like the boy, but in a different sort of way than I do Riza. He is a bright one, so I work him hard, both academically and around the house. I put him to some of the hard tasks instead of burdening Riza with them. I had the rain shutters opened and let natural light gain a foothold in my study for the first time since the summer before. He didn't complain about the task, but I can see the way he holds himself now that he is aching.
I am hurting on the inside. My lungs have rebelled against all efforts at home remedies. A rare visit to my doctor confirms my worst fears. The place I slept has become more than just a place to put my fevered mind to rest at night. A sickbed. A future deathbed. I do not know the day my pain will end yet, but I admit, only to myself, that my life has an expiration date. I don't believe the boy suspects. Riza, who always noticed the little things, might have. The man I used to meet in the mirror (a man with a face a wife had loved) has wasted down to this drawn and weary shadow (a man with sunken eyes that children feared). I imagine my late wife's tears. I have none to spare for myself. I have few to spare for anyone else either. This is the way I am. I don't see this as a failing. It's merely a trait I possess.
Thinking of nothing else, I let the sun rise against my back and set on the other side of the house as I worked. No visitors have come since the beginning of the year, which is just as I like it, and spring, it's passing. Will the heat of summer ease my illness for the time being?
I refuse to die with my work unfinished. I believe I have the strength left in me to make that choice. If Riza knows, she does not say. Perhaps she wants to deny it, but I think she knows by this point. There is something in the way she looks at me. She knows me, though she may not like what she sees.
She and the boy are friendlier now. What she sees in him, she likes better. I tell myself it should give me no complaint if I am allowed more time to work on my own, but my feathers are ruffled regardless. He's a clever boy. Too clever, maybe, but who am I to lecture to the reckless youth of today?
In the front yard, just inside the dilapidated fence that seemed to resist all efforts to stand straight and tall for longer than a week or two, on day when Riza and the boy had completed their afternoon's scholastic efforts, I had them plant seeds of autumn flowers. I let them believe I will live to see them.
Author: seta_suzume
Series: manga/Brotherhood
Word Count: 745
Rating: PG
Characters: Master Hawkeye, Riza, Roy
Summary: Master Hawkeye knows he's nearing the end of his life.
Warnings: Sort of dark/depressing.
Author's note: I used a variety of lines from translations of tanka by Masaoka Shiki (full list and links under the cut to spare you).
Most tanka don't have titles, so I can't identify them that way, but here are the lines and links to places where you can read the ones I used online:
-"I had the rain shutters opened"
-"The man/I used to meet in the mirror" & "I do not know the day/my pain will end yet" & "I had them plant/seeds of autumn flowers"
-along this darkling/country road/ comes the lonely voice
...and there are a few more references to other tanka, but that's it for the exact lines.
----
Our house is set apart from the rest of the town. I like it that way. Just me and my work and Riza. She cooks and cleans; learns and grows. For my part, I study. The world is full of mysteries. Flame is a difficult thing to harness. The snow covering our house melts away, bit by bit. The season changes slowly. Everything in my life happens slowly.
In the early morning along this darkling country road that runs past our house comes the lonely voice of the milkman, every so often whistling to himself. Then in the kitchen, Riza whistles the same tune. It's not a song that I know. Maybe it's a popular tune. I don't know. I was never the type to keep up with that sort of thing.
But it must be, because when winter fades and the boy comes, he knows the song too and sings it. Riza won't sing with him. She says she doesn't know the words. I'm not sure that is true, but I am glad that she refrains. I'm not sure about the boy. Not when it comes to my daughter and not when it comes to my research either. It's Chris I am sure of.
I never become sure of him. Which of us is at fault for this is difficult to say. I am not the type to easily admit when I am wrong. Maybe it would be easier if I were more frequently wrong. I don't have much practice.
I like the boy, but in a different sort of way than I do Riza. He is a bright one, so I work him hard, both academically and around the house. I put him to some of the hard tasks instead of burdening Riza with them. I had the rain shutters opened and let natural light gain a foothold in my study for the first time since the summer before. He didn't complain about the task, but I can see the way he holds himself now that he is aching.
I am hurting on the inside. My lungs have rebelled against all efforts at home remedies. A rare visit to my doctor confirms my worst fears. The place I slept has become more than just a place to put my fevered mind to rest at night. A sickbed. A future deathbed. I do not know the day my pain will end yet, but I admit, only to myself, that my life has an expiration date. I don't believe the boy suspects. Riza, who always noticed the little things, might have. The man I used to meet in the mirror (a man with a face a wife had loved) has wasted down to this drawn and weary shadow (a man with sunken eyes that children feared). I imagine my late wife's tears. I have none to spare for myself. I have few to spare for anyone else either. This is the way I am. I don't see this as a failing. It's merely a trait I possess.
Thinking of nothing else, I let the sun rise against my back and set on the other side of the house as I worked. No visitors have come since the beginning of the year, which is just as I like it, and spring, it's passing. Will the heat of summer ease my illness for the time being?
I refuse to die with my work unfinished. I believe I have the strength left in me to make that choice. If Riza knows, she does not say. Perhaps she wants to deny it, but I think she knows by this point. There is something in the way she looks at me. She knows me, though she may not like what she sees.
She and the boy are friendlier now. What she sees in him, she likes better. I tell myself it should give me no complaint if I am allowed more time to work on my own, but my feathers are ruffled regardless. He's a clever boy. Too clever, maybe, but who am I to lecture to the reckless youth of today?
In the front yard, just inside the dilapidated fence that seemed to resist all efforts to stand straight and tall for longer than a week or two, on day when Riza and the boy had completed their afternoon's scholastic efforts, I had them plant seeds of autumn flowers. I let them believe I will live to see them.