I'm tossing out punchlines that were never there ...
Well, p-day is drawing closer! ;) I'm planning to post the ending to ITFOTN either late today (Wednesday), Thursday, or Friday. I haven't quite decided yet, but everything has finally been edited to a somewhat readable level, and I finally finished typing the end notes as well as the numerous author notes. Imbrium has given me the thumbs up, so all that remains is the twenty four hours mandatory wait period. That's where I let the thing sit to make sure that I really want to post it. If I don't, then there's another twenty four hours where I doodle a bit with the text, then I wait again. But sometime soon. I'm more nervous than a cow in a steak factory. Mooo.
Anyway, since a lot of you came in through the whole ITFOTN fiasco, I thought maybe you'd kinda be interested in looking at this. It's actually going to be a super secret link in the end of the notes section of the story, but it's a bit that didn't quite fit in. It's basically what happened when I ask the muse the question : "What in the World was Touya Akira doing during the story?" He answered "sleeping." Unfortunately, he didn't keep his answer at a one word level.
Title: Rivers and Rain
Fandom: Hikaru no Go
Rating: G
Disclaimers: Not mine ... in fact, they're trying to escape my grasp as I type. Run, Akira, run!
Warnings: Torachan, um ... it still doesn't make sense if you read it here. Actually, if you haven't read Forests, none of it makes much sense, so errr ... I wouldn't if I were you. ;)
It's also the sewer edition of the story ... that is, Imbrium knows of its existence, but she hasn't really given me a thorough edit, since she was busy helping me with the main monster. I bet you can tell the quality drop right off. >_o. Ow. There's a reason I don't show rough drafts. *meh* But I would like some help, so stab me with those pointy editing sticks! Woot. I'm cutting straight from another program, so I might miss a few italics.
Also, I really shouldn't be doing this. *sigh* I have a feeling it'll be embarassing.
In the Forests of the Night : Rivers and Rain
A Touya Akira Parallel story
___________________________________________________
It had been of rivers and the rain. Or something rushing, quick and silver swift.
And it had ended abruptly, leaving him wide awake and staring at the ceiling, with the eerie sense of something left behind, like thunder after a storm. It had been cold.
He definitely remembered that. It had been cold, in the dream, but not a real kind of cold. Perhaps a coldness of being, if that could exist.
He rubbed his eyes, trying to smudge away the thought. Thoughts of ceilings and storms still scattering about in his head, he turned over in his bed. Staring at the blank wall, however, had about the same effectiveness as staring at the ceiling. He threw off the top covers to his bed. For a moment, he lay there shivering.
The room lay dark with shadows and silence. The red display of the alarm clock read 4:44. It ever there was a unholy hour to be wide awake, four forty four was definitely it. He had a match at nine.
He swung his legs over the edge of his bed then stood. He balanced his weight on his left foot, right foot ready shuffle forward. But to where? The light switch beckoned as the most logical destination, but for some reason -- perhaps the same one that had him standing puzzled, cold, and barefoot in the middle of his room -- he did not want to turn on the light.
Instead, he padded over to the window and raised the shade. The moon was not out, but there was just enough light to make out the faint outline of the yard outside. The clouds hung low in the sky. His breath made a fine mist against the pane. He watched the glass cloud for a moment, feeling inexplicably lonely. Was anything else awake now? Anything alive?
He leaned his forehead against the chilled glass, feeling the cold seep through his skin. His mind spun and spluttered with images of rushing rivers and silver rain, images that wouldn't let go. It clung to him, wrapping around -- something withering but not yet ready to drop.
One by one, he methodically sieved through his memories, looking for patterns. The Go ones were carefully set aside, and the ones of school, and of Tokyo. Still nothing. What could it be?! Rivers and rain ... what was it about --
Oh.
The memory was warm though; that was what confused him initially. From the most dusty corners of his mind came a memory of summer -- one week in summer, to be exact, one sweltering, blistering, peel your skin off week in summer, when he, his mother, and his father had traveled to a small village to the north of Tokyo, to visit his cousins. He had been much younger then ... his first time out of the city.
His first impressions, though, had not been of how the ground seemed to stretch itself into endless fields or how the trees had lost their carefully enforced distances to sprawl in every which way to the wind. It wasn't even the discovery that there could be noise out of the city traffic -- the whispering of the breeze through the tall grass, the frizzing hum of one single airplane across the ever-blue sky, or the low croaking baritone of the frogs among the reeds.
What he remembered most was that his father had not brought a goban nor any of the kifus. And when he had asked his father why, his father merely looked at his mother, who had folded her arms and had glared at the both of them. His father shook his head.
And he would not talk about Go, not even when asked.
A small village to the north of Tokyo -- Hell certainly came in the most strangest of forms. His cousins had taken one look at his unscuffed shoes, his crisply ironed shorts and linen shirts, and they had not even bothered to ask him to join their play. They were also much older than him (but not wiser, no ... they hadn't even known what Go was!) and thus had little time for a small, shy child, even if he had been inclined to follow them.
But they had not been cruel. They left him a ball, a bat, a handful of cars with most of the wheels missing, and a new pinwheel. For some reason, they thought it would be enough. After staring at the pile, he had left the ball with the bat and had used the plastic end of the pinwheel to draw a nine by nine square in the dust at the shaded edge of the house. He had used the cars as pieces.
It wasn't quite the same.
Though it had been challenging, yes -- the cars were all different colors, so he had to remember which piece belonged to which side (even if he played both sides). And there were only a few pieces, so he had to capture himself in so many moves. If he couldn't beat himself, he figured, then he could never get to the point where he could play his father.
Though he had wished he had a real goban. Or kifu. Or anything but the open sky and the relentless sun.
And his father hadn't wanted to talk to him. Not about Go.
But then night came, and the stars had appeared one by one. He had never seen so many stars before, never knew there could be ones brighter than the others. And such patterns, such beautiful patterns, pictures in the sky! He had run inside and had gotten both his father and mother. And his father had followed him, and his mother had put her arm around him. He remembered that her touch had been warm. Real warm, but not too bad, even given the sticky heat of the night. And the stars . . .
"It's like the best game of Go ever!" he had said. "It's like father's Go!"
"Go?" his mother had asked. "Is that all you see?" She had looked at his father, but his father had said nothing.
Finally, after a long while, his mother had chuckled, and her hand came to rest on the top of his head. "Very well. I give up. You and your father ... you're both the same ... it's the only thing you'll ever think about, isn't it? Even when you look at the heavens. But that's okay."
And his father had smiled. His father smiled rarely, but when he did, the smile was always the same -- slow and edged with secrets.
But the way his father had smiled that night was different. Sad somehow.
He rubbed his head, breaking away from the memory. His breath misted against the glass. He couldn't see any stars from his window now; Tokyo itself was too bright, even at night. Ever waking, ever changing, never sleeping, the city had no eyes for the night.
But in a small village to the north of Tokyo, every night, the stars would appear. Even as his cousins vanished every day in amongst the long grasses and the tall trees, leaving him to the dust and the nine by nine square, he kept practicing, hoping to become better, hoping to play a game worthy of the night sky. The second day passed that way, then the third, then the fourth -- until the fifth day, one cousin, while returning from some late afternoon jaunt, stopped to watch.
"That's not how you play cars."
"Um. Sorry," he had apologized contritely. "But it's how you play Go. Do you want me to show you? It's fun! It'd be better, if we had real stones. But there aren't any good ones here."
"Well, I don't have time right now. But if it's stones you want ... well, go to the river, kid. Plenty of stones there."
Go to the river. He rubbed his arms at the thought. Unease swept through him. The dream of the rushing river and silver rain had been cold. His real memory insisted that the heat of summer had persisted through all seven days of that week, so much so that the ground had cracked with drought. So why do I remember being cold?
"Go to the river, kid. Plenty of stones there. But stay away from the river bend, you hear me? Say, aren't you tired of just playing by yourself? Don't you ever do anything else?"
He had looked at his cousin and thought of his father, smiling sadly under the stars.
"But I have to practice. I just have to, if I want ..."
"Yeah, yeah, to be like you dad. Look kiddo, it's just seems you're not having fun. And even if it's not the city ... there's stuff to do here. I know me an' the others haven't been around much, but if you look around, there's plenty of kids your age. Try the riverbank ... there usually bunches there. It's better than being by yourself. You look lonely."
The memory stopped for a moment, and he pressed one hand against the glass. Lonely? Was I lonely then? He tried to remember if his cousin's words had hurt. He did remember the way his cousin's lips had twisted together, and the exaggerated sigh. He finally dismissed the thought. That part of the memory did not matter.
The river. The way his cousin had said the word, whirling it out like sweet mochi candy, he had expected some torrid, bursting, whitewater affair. It had been smooth, its surface like glass. He avoided the calm, shallow part, where most of the neighborhood's children played. What he was looking for hadn't been there.
What he wanted was much further downstream, where the river curved around like a serpent and where the water ran deep and quick. At the middle, three feet down, he spotted stones that he could use. They had been washed round and tumbled smooth by the current-- and would have worked so much better than the cars (though they still were not of the right colors, unfortunately. Most of the stones had been deep brown, like mud). He remembered kneeling at the bank, reaching forward --
He shuddered suddenly, backing slightly away from the window and the memory. But his mind, used to the relentless pursuit of a single goal, persisted in ferreting out both dream and reality.
Rushing river and the silver rain ... no, that wasn't right. It wasn't silver rain, but a spray of water and a splash of droplets, bright in the air. And cold -- yes, that's where that part came from -- the river had been cold, and the smooth stones farther away than he had thought. And he was being tumbled, fast and far and away --- and he remembered opening his mouth to scream, only to have water rush in to silence him. He had been all alone and he would die that way ...
But then .... then came something rushing, quick and silver swift. His hands had held something hard and stone slick, almost like scales. And he was on riverbank again, shaking, spluttering, with wet drops falling from his hair and clothes. Terrified, he looked down, to where the ripples had already calmed back into a surface like glass ...
... and found a reflection that was his face but not. A reflection that looked back at him. And frowned slightly.
And ... winked.
It was the wink that did it. He could dismiss a frown, dismiss the look of intelligence, but the wink ... his feet had slipped backward in shock, and he had landed with a great dust jarring thump on his rear. He must have sat for quite a while on that riverbank, staring at his sopping shoes until the heat dried his not-so-crisp-anymore clothes. It also took quite a while before he gathered enough courage to peek over the edge one more time ...
Only to find his own reflection, normal as ever ... and a pile of stones neatly stacked within his reach. And such stones they were ...milky white and ebony black instead of brown ... ones of the most perfect size and shape, as if they had been hand sculpted from the bones of the river itself. There had been just the right amount for a nine by nine board. He had stared at the stones for a long while too, but not as long as he stared at the river. It had been nearly dark when he had headed back.
And it was dark in his room now. There was no reflection from the glass of the windowpane; there wasn't enough light. A faint sense of relief filled him; he didn't want to see his face. Though he would never admit it, he wasn't quite sure what might look back. Shuddering, he let out a long breath then drew the shade back down.
Only then did he turned on his desk lamp. The soft yellow glow leant solid shape to the objects in his room. His bed. His bookcase full of kifus. His desk with the game schedules neatly taped down on it surface. And the goban in the corner. He wondered briefly at what the other players would think of the sparse surroundings. Not that he cared. Go was a wondrous thing; he could forgive people for deciding he had no other life outside the game.
Yet ... a reflection that had frowned then winked at him, from a small river with a deceptively powerful current, the unexpected gift of stones -- he wondered why he had dreamed of a memory so long ago, on this night of all nights?
He rummaged around in his desk, finally finding the old candy tin with its odd assortment of broken cars and smooth stones. That day, he had returned to his cousin's house without a single kifu or goban coming to mind. And when he had looked at the stars that night, he found they had been splendid beyond the patterns they formed.
The feeling had remained for many weeks before finally succumbing and vanishing under his usual pursuit of the perfect game. The closest thing he had come to recapturing those breathless moments of wonder and magic had been when he had met Shindo Hikaru.
He blinked in surprise at the random thought. But at least with Shindo Hikaru, the mystery was a plain, down to earth one that had nothing to do with strange, unexplainable, almost supernatural things.
He tucked the stones back into the box. He had never actually played a game with them, not even during the rest of his days at the little village to the north of Tokyo.
Somehow, it was better that way.
It was his secret mystery, the one beyond Go, the one that no one else would ever know about but him. It was that fact, perhaps, that made him smile now.
With a sigh, he snapped the desk lamp off and headed toward his bed. He had a game tomorrow.
Rivers and rain. Stones and gobans in the dust. No matter what others might think, there was wonder in Go, for sure, but that wasn't the only wonder he held within him. It wasn't the only magic.
And that thought followed him into his dreams, where something silver waited in welcome.
Owari
______________________________________
You can see why I cut it. *meh* It doesn't have a great plot, I think I have poor Akira being all out of character, and it has no place in the whole Forests time line. I actually took the best ideas in the story and incorporated the into the Touya Akira epilogue in the story (the themes repeat themselves, so this part was rendered useless).
I really have no idea why I wrote this. It's so weird. How can the main story spawn so many babies?!
Though really, I blame everything on that secret urge of mine to have Touya Akira meet his own double from Spirited Away. I don't know if I managed to pull it off, but hey. Aishuu is the only one I've seen that actually can pull off a crossover. Wargh.
Also, the idea that Touya has his own supernatural secrets kinda appealed to me. I dunno why.
Oh well. Short stories have never been my forte. So, what do you all think? Should I include a link to this story from the notes section of the main story? Or should I just bury it in the archives again? The problem is, the muse kept spawning side stories to the main one, and this is one of the best of the lot, frighteningly enough.
I still can't believe I'm letting people see this though. Imbrium should've put a muzzle on me before she left. Wargh. I swear it was a sudden urge. Warrrrrgh! Someone help me before the other short stories escape! (I can hear them scratching at the gate now.)
-muri
Anyway, since a lot of you came in through the whole ITFOTN fiasco, I thought maybe you'd kinda be interested in looking at this. It's actually going to be a super secret link in the end of the notes section of the story, but it's a bit that didn't quite fit in. It's basically what happened when I ask the muse the question : "What in the World was Touya Akira doing during the story?" He answered "sleeping." Unfortunately, he didn't keep his answer at a one word level.
Title: Rivers and Rain
Fandom: Hikaru no Go
Rating: G
Disclaimers: Not mine ... in fact, they're trying to escape my grasp as I type. Run, Akira, run!
Warnings: Torachan, um ... it still doesn't make sense if you read it here. Actually, if you haven't read Forests, none of it makes much sense, so errr ... I wouldn't if I were you. ;)
It's also the sewer edition of the story ... that is, Imbrium knows of its existence, but she hasn't really given me a thorough edit, since she was busy helping me with the main monster. I bet you can tell the quality drop right off. >_o. Ow. There's a reason I don't show rough drafts. *meh* But I would like some help, so stab me with those pointy editing sticks! Woot. I'm cutting straight from another program, so I might miss a few italics.
Also, I really shouldn't be doing this. *sigh* I have a feeling it'll be embarassing.
In the Forests of the Night : Rivers and Rain
A Touya Akira Parallel story
___________________________________________________
It had been of rivers and the rain. Or something rushing, quick and silver swift.
And it had ended abruptly, leaving him wide awake and staring at the ceiling, with the eerie sense of something left behind, like thunder after a storm. It had been cold.
He definitely remembered that. It had been cold, in the dream, but not a real kind of cold. Perhaps a coldness of being, if that could exist.
He rubbed his eyes, trying to smudge away the thought. Thoughts of ceilings and storms still scattering about in his head, he turned over in his bed. Staring at the blank wall, however, had about the same effectiveness as staring at the ceiling. He threw off the top covers to his bed. For a moment, he lay there shivering.
The room lay dark with shadows and silence. The red display of the alarm clock read 4:44. It ever there was a unholy hour to be wide awake, four forty four was definitely it. He had a match at nine.
He swung his legs over the edge of his bed then stood. He balanced his weight on his left foot, right foot ready shuffle forward. But to where? The light switch beckoned as the most logical destination, but for some reason -- perhaps the same one that had him standing puzzled, cold, and barefoot in the middle of his room -- he did not want to turn on the light.
Instead, he padded over to the window and raised the shade. The moon was not out, but there was just enough light to make out the faint outline of the yard outside. The clouds hung low in the sky. His breath made a fine mist against the pane. He watched the glass cloud for a moment, feeling inexplicably lonely. Was anything else awake now? Anything alive?
He leaned his forehead against the chilled glass, feeling the cold seep through his skin. His mind spun and spluttered with images of rushing rivers and silver rain, images that wouldn't let go. It clung to him, wrapping around -- something withering but not yet ready to drop.
One by one, he methodically sieved through his memories, looking for patterns. The Go ones were carefully set aside, and the ones of school, and of Tokyo. Still nothing. What could it be?! Rivers and rain ... what was it about --
Oh.
The memory was warm though; that was what confused him initially. From the most dusty corners of his mind came a memory of summer -- one week in summer, to be exact, one sweltering, blistering, peel your skin off week in summer, when he, his mother, and his father had traveled to a small village to the north of Tokyo, to visit his cousins. He had been much younger then ... his first time out of the city.
His first impressions, though, had not been of how the ground seemed to stretch itself into endless fields or how the trees had lost their carefully enforced distances to sprawl in every which way to the wind. It wasn't even the discovery that there could be noise out of the city traffic -- the whispering of the breeze through the tall grass, the frizzing hum of one single airplane across the ever-blue sky, or the low croaking baritone of the frogs among the reeds.
What he remembered most was that his father had not brought a goban nor any of the kifus. And when he had asked his father why, his father merely looked at his mother, who had folded her arms and had glared at the both of them. His father shook his head.
And he would not talk about Go, not even when asked.
A small village to the north of Tokyo -- Hell certainly came in the most strangest of forms. His cousins had taken one look at his unscuffed shoes, his crisply ironed shorts and linen shirts, and they had not even bothered to ask him to join their play. They were also much older than him (but not wiser, no ... they hadn't even known what Go was!) and thus had little time for a small, shy child, even if he had been inclined to follow them.
But they had not been cruel. They left him a ball, a bat, a handful of cars with most of the wheels missing, and a new pinwheel. For some reason, they thought it would be enough. After staring at the pile, he had left the ball with the bat and had used the plastic end of the pinwheel to draw a nine by nine square in the dust at the shaded edge of the house. He had used the cars as pieces.
It wasn't quite the same.
Though it had been challenging, yes -- the cars were all different colors, so he had to remember which piece belonged to which side (even if he played both sides). And there were only a few pieces, so he had to capture himself in so many moves. If he couldn't beat himself, he figured, then he could never get to the point where he could play his father.
Though he had wished he had a real goban. Or kifu. Or anything but the open sky and the relentless sun.
And his father hadn't wanted to talk to him. Not about Go.
But then night came, and the stars had appeared one by one. He had never seen so many stars before, never knew there could be ones brighter than the others. And such patterns, such beautiful patterns, pictures in the sky! He had run inside and had gotten both his father and mother. And his father had followed him, and his mother had put her arm around him. He remembered that her touch had been warm. Real warm, but not too bad, even given the sticky heat of the night. And the stars . . .
"It's like the best game of Go ever!" he had said. "It's like father's Go!"
"Go?" his mother had asked. "Is that all you see?" She had looked at his father, but his father had said nothing.
Finally, after a long while, his mother had chuckled, and her hand came to rest on the top of his head. "Very well. I give up. You and your father ... you're both the same ... it's the only thing you'll ever think about, isn't it? Even when you look at the heavens. But that's okay."
And his father had smiled. His father smiled rarely, but when he did, the smile was always the same -- slow and edged with secrets.
But the way his father had smiled that night was different. Sad somehow.
He rubbed his head, breaking away from the memory. His breath misted against the glass. He couldn't see any stars from his window now; Tokyo itself was too bright, even at night. Ever waking, ever changing, never sleeping, the city had no eyes for the night.
But in a small village to the north of Tokyo, every night, the stars would appear. Even as his cousins vanished every day in amongst the long grasses and the tall trees, leaving him to the dust and the nine by nine square, he kept practicing, hoping to become better, hoping to play a game worthy of the night sky. The second day passed that way, then the third, then the fourth -- until the fifth day, one cousin, while returning from some late afternoon jaunt, stopped to watch.
"That's not how you play cars."
"Um. Sorry," he had apologized contritely. "But it's how you play Go. Do you want me to show you? It's fun! It'd be better, if we had real stones. But there aren't any good ones here."
"Well, I don't have time right now. But if it's stones you want ... well, go to the river, kid. Plenty of stones there."
Go to the river. He rubbed his arms at the thought. Unease swept through him. The dream of the rushing river and silver rain had been cold. His real memory insisted that the heat of summer had persisted through all seven days of that week, so much so that the ground had cracked with drought. So why do I remember being cold?
"Go to the river, kid. Plenty of stones there. But stay away from the river bend, you hear me? Say, aren't you tired of just playing by yourself? Don't you ever do anything else?"
He had looked at his cousin and thought of his father, smiling sadly under the stars.
"But I have to practice. I just have to, if I want ..."
"Yeah, yeah, to be like you dad. Look kiddo, it's just seems you're not having fun. And even if it's not the city ... there's stuff to do here. I know me an' the others haven't been around much, but if you look around, there's plenty of kids your age. Try the riverbank ... there usually bunches there. It's better than being by yourself. You look lonely."
The memory stopped for a moment, and he pressed one hand against the glass. Lonely? Was I lonely then? He tried to remember if his cousin's words had hurt. He did remember the way his cousin's lips had twisted together, and the exaggerated sigh. He finally dismissed the thought. That part of the memory did not matter.
The river. The way his cousin had said the word, whirling it out like sweet mochi candy, he had expected some torrid, bursting, whitewater affair. It had been smooth, its surface like glass. He avoided the calm, shallow part, where most of the neighborhood's children played. What he was looking for hadn't been there.
What he wanted was much further downstream, where the river curved around like a serpent and where the water ran deep and quick. At the middle, three feet down, he spotted stones that he could use. They had been washed round and tumbled smooth by the current-- and would have worked so much better than the cars (though they still were not of the right colors, unfortunately. Most of the stones had been deep brown, like mud). He remembered kneeling at the bank, reaching forward --
He shuddered suddenly, backing slightly away from the window and the memory. But his mind, used to the relentless pursuit of a single goal, persisted in ferreting out both dream and reality.
Rushing river and the silver rain ... no, that wasn't right. It wasn't silver rain, but a spray of water and a splash of droplets, bright in the air. And cold -- yes, that's where that part came from -- the river had been cold, and the smooth stones farther away than he had thought. And he was being tumbled, fast and far and away --- and he remembered opening his mouth to scream, only to have water rush in to silence him. He had been all alone and he would die that way ...
But then .... then came something rushing, quick and silver swift. His hands had held something hard and stone slick, almost like scales. And he was on riverbank again, shaking, spluttering, with wet drops falling from his hair and clothes. Terrified, he looked down, to where the ripples had already calmed back into a surface like glass ...
... and found a reflection that was his face but not. A reflection that looked back at him. And frowned slightly.
And ... winked.
It was the wink that did it. He could dismiss a frown, dismiss the look of intelligence, but the wink ... his feet had slipped backward in shock, and he had landed with a great dust jarring thump on his rear. He must have sat for quite a while on that riverbank, staring at his sopping shoes until the heat dried his not-so-crisp-anymore clothes. It also took quite a while before he gathered enough courage to peek over the edge one more time ...
Only to find his own reflection, normal as ever ... and a pile of stones neatly stacked within his reach. And such stones they were ...milky white and ebony black instead of brown ... ones of the most perfect size and shape, as if they had been hand sculpted from the bones of the river itself. There had been just the right amount for a nine by nine board. He had stared at the stones for a long while too, but not as long as he stared at the river. It had been nearly dark when he had headed back.
And it was dark in his room now. There was no reflection from the glass of the windowpane; there wasn't enough light. A faint sense of relief filled him; he didn't want to see his face. Though he would never admit it, he wasn't quite sure what might look back. Shuddering, he let out a long breath then drew the shade back down.
Only then did he turned on his desk lamp. The soft yellow glow leant solid shape to the objects in his room. His bed. His bookcase full of kifus. His desk with the game schedules neatly taped down on it surface. And the goban in the corner. He wondered briefly at what the other players would think of the sparse surroundings. Not that he cared. Go was a wondrous thing; he could forgive people for deciding he had no other life outside the game.
Yet ... a reflection that had frowned then winked at him, from a small river with a deceptively powerful current, the unexpected gift of stones -- he wondered why he had dreamed of a memory so long ago, on this night of all nights?
He rummaged around in his desk, finally finding the old candy tin with its odd assortment of broken cars and smooth stones. That day, he had returned to his cousin's house without a single kifu or goban coming to mind. And when he had looked at the stars that night, he found they had been splendid beyond the patterns they formed.
The feeling had remained for many weeks before finally succumbing and vanishing under his usual pursuit of the perfect game. The closest thing he had come to recapturing those breathless moments of wonder and magic had been when he had met Shindo Hikaru.
He blinked in surprise at the random thought. But at least with Shindo Hikaru, the mystery was a plain, down to earth one that had nothing to do with strange, unexplainable, almost supernatural things.
He tucked the stones back into the box. He had never actually played a game with them, not even during the rest of his days at the little village to the north of Tokyo.
Somehow, it was better that way.
It was his secret mystery, the one beyond Go, the one that no one else would ever know about but him. It was that fact, perhaps, that made him smile now.
With a sigh, he snapped the desk lamp off and headed toward his bed. He had a game tomorrow.
Rivers and rain. Stones and gobans in the dust. No matter what others might think, there was wonder in Go, for sure, but that wasn't the only wonder he held within him. It wasn't the only magic.
And that thought followed him into his dreams, where something silver waited in welcome.
Owari
______________________________________
You can see why I cut it. *meh* It doesn't have a great plot, I think I have poor Akira being all out of character, and it has no place in the whole Forests time line. I actually took the best ideas in the story and incorporated the into the Touya Akira epilogue in the story (the themes repeat themselves, so this part was rendered useless).
I really have no idea why I wrote this. It's so weird. How can the main story spawn so many babies?!
Though really, I blame everything on that secret urge of mine to have Touya Akira meet his own double from Spirited Away. I don't know if I managed to pull it off, but hey. Aishuu is the only one I've seen that actually can pull off a crossover. Wargh.
Also, the idea that Touya has his own supernatural secrets kinda appealed to me. I dunno why.
Oh well. Short stories have never been my forte. So, what do you all think? Should I include a link to this story from the notes section of the main story? Or should I just bury it in the archives again? The problem is, the muse kept spawning side stories to the main one, and this is one of the best of the lot, frighteningly enough.
I still can't believe I'm letting people see this though. Imbrium should've put a muzzle on me before she left. Wargh. I swear it was a sudden urge. Warrrrrgh! Someone help me before the other short stories escape! (I can hear them scratching at the gate now.)
-muri