十七 · keep dreaming your dreams of war
The silhouette of the cat is large through the moonlit, paper-paneled doors. He watches as it in turn sits to watch them, tail twitching.
He is looking out the window to see himself-but this is a dream, and he does not question why he can watch as he would through a mirror. He sees himself, strolling with Hisoka-dono. He knows that she is dead, but there she is, in flesh and blood, a picture of serene acceptance as she walks alongside her soon-to-be husband.
“I know full well I’m a man who knows nothing about making a woman happy,” he says to her as he peers across the bridge, ever a picture of straightforward, self-depreciating arrogance, cynical even to himself even as he is ambitious, and ruthless-a paragon of authority, ambition, and power. He just simply won’t let his flaws stop him-he scoffs at them, but the look in Hisoka-dono’s eyes makes him still in his determined tirade.
“Still . . . I wonder what kind of woman really is suited for a husband like you,” she says calmly, a melancholy smile upon her lips. He watches her curiously.
“Perhaps she’ll simply turn out to be . . . a woman who can see you to the conclusion of your journey. Someone to watch over you . . . to the end.”
The world melts away, and when he glances out the window once again, he is lying under a canopy of trees. The sunlight scorches his skin, but the pain is nothing compared to the tetanus strangling his muscles. His breathing is harsh, and sleep is only a temporary respite, but he cannot sleep any longer. The world of his making awaits, and he cannot leave it, like a potter cannot leave his clay as it spins to create his masterpiece.
The girl is standing some distance away. Her flame-patterned kimono is bright in his dreams, and he calls her closer, to which she agrees. He is holding her hand. Her palms bear calluses, but her skin remains soft in his fogged mind. He observes as she hands him a pill of poison, watches as he crushes it in a streak of black across his fingertips.
“So be it,” she whispers, her smile one of understanding. “Then I’ll watch over you . . . to your end.”
He smiles in return, closes his eyes.
There is blood, and pain, and he is borne away by Makie-he does not question why she is there, only clings to her as a parched man holds on to the thread of hope that there is an oasis in the distance.
However, his eyes are on the girl’s, their gazes locked as she calls his name.
“Anotsu Kagehisa!”
The fires of Edo burn in the distance, and as he sits in silence, he remembers the feel of her hands on his as she bandaged his wounds.
He is looking out the window to see himself-but this is a dream, and he does not question why he can watch as he would through a mirror. He sees himself, strolling with Hisoka-dono. He knows that she is dead, but there she is, in flesh and blood, a picture of serene acceptance as she walks alongside her soon-to-be husband.
“I know full well I’m a man who knows nothing about making a woman happy,” he says to her as he peers across the bridge, ever a picture of straightforward, self-depreciating arrogance, cynical even to himself even as he is ambitious, and ruthless-a paragon of authority, ambition, and power. He just simply won’t let his flaws stop him-he scoffs at them, but the look in Hisoka-dono’s eyes makes him still in his determined tirade.
“Still . . . I wonder what kind of woman really is suited for a husband like you,” she says calmly, a melancholy smile upon her lips. He watches her curiously.
“Perhaps she’ll simply turn out to be . . . a woman who can see you to the conclusion of your journey. Someone to watch over you . . . to the end.”
The world melts away, and when he glances out the window once again, he is lying under a canopy of trees. The sunlight scorches his skin, but the pain is nothing compared to the tetanus strangling his muscles. His breathing is harsh, and sleep is only a temporary respite, but he cannot sleep any longer. The world of his making awaits, and he cannot leave it, like a potter cannot leave his clay as it spins to create his masterpiece.
The girl is standing some distance away. Her flame-patterned kimono is bright in his dreams, and he calls her closer, to which she agrees. He is holding her hand. Her palms bear calluses, but her skin remains soft in his fogged mind. He observes as she hands him a pill of poison, watches as he crushes it in a streak of black across his fingertips.
“So be it,” she whispers, her smile one of understanding. “Then I’ll watch over you . . . to your end.”
He smiles in return, closes his eyes.
There is blood, and pain, and he is borne away by Makie-he does not question why she is there, only clings to her as a parched man holds on to the thread of hope that there is an oasis in the distance.
However, his eyes are on the girl’s, their gazes locked as she calls his name.
“Anotsu Kagehisa!”
The fires of Edo burn in the distance, and as he sits in silence, he remembers the feel of her hands on his as she bandaged his wounds.