Submission #2 -- Arae, "From Whence We Have Fallen"
.
Title: From Whence We Have Fallen
User ID: Arae
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairing: Subaru Sumeragi
Warnings: Descriptions of the nuclear blast at Hiroshima and recollections of canon violence.
Summary: The Japanese built to withstand earthquakes. Subaru reflects on those things that remain.
Author's note: Thanks to Drew for betaing this.
The Japanese built to withstand earthquakes. But all that strength built by human hands could never withstand the forces of destiny, of malevolent angels.
The Industrial Promotion Hall in Hiroshima was not the chosen target of the first atomic bomb to be used against humanity. The true target was the Aioi Bridge several hundred metres away, but the Genbaku Dome, as it came to be known, was the closest structure to survive the blast which levelled an area several kilometres in radius and started fires that spread throughout the remains of the city, claiming the lives of nearly a hundred thousand people in an instant. The fireball scorched the flesh off the living and irradiated those who survived so that cell mutations and cancer would finish the job the explosion had started.
As the fighting will of the Japanese started to crumble, a kekkai fell.
Somehow, amid all that destruction, the Genbaku Dome stood still. Its windows shattered, some walls and the roof fell, and everything inside burned, but some of the beautiful brickwork remained, stained by the ashes of collateral damage, and the framework for the crowning dome itself was left naked and bare as though it was still under construction. The building was to become a symbol of the world's desire for peace, though for many years it was simply a memorial to the dead in the centre of the empty land that had once been the heart of the city.
Thousands would visit each year, to add their prayers to the collective wish for a better future and to say their farewells to the innocence of a world that could not have imagined such violence. And for fifty years, despite the cold war and the actual conflicts that tore countries apart and ruined families forever, humanity believed that the worst was behind them, that someone, something, maybe just a benevolent emptiness filled with the all-too-human desire for control over one's own future, was listening to the whispered wishes cast on origami birds and would somehow save them from themselves.
At the turn of the twenty-first century Tokyo came to be a site of pilgrimage, for the planet kept turning even after the cataclysmic events that changed the world forever spun out as destiny had ordained, and the destruction of one of the largest and greatest cities in the world was a potent symbol of all that might befall humanity in the future if they were not aware and careful of their place in this new world.
As time went on, the survivors tried to rebuild around the ruins of the world that had been, and each year they would gather at the remains of the once-sacred places of their city to marvel at all that had survived the destruction that had claimed so very many lives. Tokyo Tower was home to the best-attended memorial; people would gather from all around the world to pay their respects to the dead in that holy place, casting five yen pieces and wishes into the shrine that had once been housed on the observation deck (and which had been housed in Shiba Park before the tower) as they asked the kami to hear their prayers.
Ginza was rebuilt, one shopping district over the other, as happened in the past whenever fire tore through the area and burned the shops to the ground. Once a year a traditional market takes place, with the closed north-south road given over to stalls selling all manner of traditional crafts and food, and as with the more traditional festivals the people of Tokyo attend in yutaka, commemorating the explosive death of capitalism by spending what little money they have on ointments and frankincense and wine.
The Rainbow Bridge had been left as they found it after the collapse: a mass of twisted metal and cracked concrete, a handful of abandoned cars on either end, some crushed by falling debris. It was something of a miracle that no trains had been crossing at the time of the collapse, when the cables supporting the Bridge snapped as if supernaturally sliced and the central span fell into Tokyo Bay beneath. A thousand people had died that day, but the body count was near-insignificant compared to what happened at Shinjuku and on the Yamanotesen. Still, the Bridge remained as it had fallen, and though there was some talk of someday building another beside it, should there ever be enough of a demand, it was acknowledged by all who spoke of it that the Rainbow Bridge would remain a memorial to the fallen, a tribute to the fall of a bridge so many earthquakes had left unharmed.
Each year, on the day before the anniversary, one man comes to pay his respects to the fallen of the Bridge. He cannot bear to face the mourners who will come after him, with their sad eyes and the knowledge that his own expression mirrors their own. His coat whispers in the breeze, and he climbs the fence that marks the point at which it is no longer safe, for the weather erodes at the edges of the concrete, dust and debris washing away with every rainstorm. One day the planet will reclaim this part of the city, this relic of the cage of unclean birds, and there will be nothing left, but until that day he will come each year, to walk carefully, as though he does not trust his faulty depth perception, to the edge of the broken span and pay his respects to those who left him behind.
He bends and collects a handful of broken concrete pieces, holding them silently in his bare hand, gripping so tightly that the scar on the back of his hand prickles and stretches. This tenth year is the first time he has come without gloves, as if he is finally coming to terms with the loss of who he once was, bearing the scars for all to see. It is not as if there is any point hiding anymore, everything has been stripped away and lost, and only he remains to understand the meaning of the inverted pentagrams that are now his curse. He supposes that the more superstitious in the city might interpret them as a sign that he is a child of the morning star, but there are so many other symbols and dreams for the determined to be deciphering that one set of scars would never distract for long.
Realising that he has stood for far too long at the edge of destruction, he casts the handful of rubble into the bay, hearing the largest piece fall with a plop to join with the rest of the Bridge in the water. He is not casting off his shyness or his own inherent flaws, nor even the smell of cherry blossoms that still drift through his dreams echoing the words of a dying man. He's now older than that one had been at his death, more or less (for he'd never shared his true date of birth), and the memories seem softer and tinged with pink where before they had been black as the night on which Hokuto had died.
He lights a cigarette, but does not inhale, content to hold it between his fingers and breathe in the faint smoke that reaches up to caress his face like a lover. Of all the things that trigger his memories, the faintest hint of tobacco on the breeze brings the strongest memories of all that had been, in a way that a stronger scent could never accomplish. For a moment he can hear the crashing of the Bridge shattering around him, feel the blood of that one seeping through his fingers, and the world seems to fall away again until he is able to forcibly remind himself that these are only memories, that the world fell a long time ago and he with it. He steps back involuntarily from the edge, the cigarette falling from his fingers like the last of the cherry blossoms, and the memories fade once more to assume their rightful place in the past with his naïveté and gentleness.
Like the mourners who will visit the Bridge tomorrow he wishes more than anything else for a return to those peaceful days before the end of the world, when it seemed that nothing could go wrong and precious little of their destiny was foreordained. The world has changed too much for such wishes to be accommodated anymore, its broken heart is too damaged to ever be repaired, but some part of him longs to believe that the sacrifices made in the name of humanity were somehow worth it, that the price paid was enough to balance the scales of judgement. The people he loved most may have left him behind, but on his good days he wonders if he still senses them with him. He tries to hold on to that as his own memorial.
As the sun starts to set, he walks back along the broken road, under the sign that still clearly says that Shibaura lies ahead, though no car has driven here since that day. Some part of him wonders if he should visit the shrine at Tokyo Tower on his walk home. It is out of his way, and he lost his faith ten years ago, but some part of him is still aware that the symbolism of a gesture is sometimes more important than the belief behind it. The scars on his hands prickle, and the ground beneath his feet trembles as the first stars come out, welcoming him home.
Title: From Whence We Have Fallen
User ID: Arae
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairing: Subaru Sumeragi
Warnings: Descriptions of the nuclear blast at Hiroshima and recollections of canon violence.
Summary: The Japanese built to withstand earthquakes. Subaru reflects on those things that remain.
Author's note: Thanks to Drew for betaing this.
The Japanese built to withstand earthquakes. But all that strength built by human hands could never withstand the forces of destiny, of malevolent angels.
The Industrial Promotion Hall in Hiroshima was not the chosen target of the first atomic bomb to be used against humanity. The true target was the Aioi Bridge several hundred metres away, but the Genbaku Dome, as it came to be known, was the closest structure to survive the blast which levelled an area several kilometres in radius and started fires that spread throughout the remains of the city, claiming the lives of nearly a hundred thousand people in an instant. The fireball scorched the flesh off the living and irradiated those who survived so that cell mutations and cancer would finish the job the explosion had started.
As the fighting will of the Japanese started to crumble, a kekkai fell.
Somehow, amid all that destruction, the Genbaku Dome stood still. Its windows shattered, some walls and the roof fell, and everything inside burned, but some of the beautiful brickwork remained, stained by the ashes of collateral damage, and the framework for the crowning dome itself was left naked and bare as though it was still under construction. The building was to become a symbol of the world's desire for peace, though for many years it was simply a memorial to the dead in the centre of the empty land that had once been the heart of the city.
Thousands would visit each year, to add their prayers to the collective wish for a better future and to say their farewells to the innocence of a world that could not have imagined such violence. And for fifty years, despite the cold war and the actual conflicts that tore countries apart and ruined families forever, humanity believed that the worst was behind them, that someone, something, maybe just a benevolent emptiness filled with the all-too-human desire for control over one's own future, was listening to the whispered wishes cast on origami birds and would somehow save them from themselves.
At the turn of the twenty-first century Tokyo came to be a site of pilgrimage, for the planet kept turning even after the cataclysmic events that changed the world forever spun out as destiny had ordained, and the destruction of one of the largest and greatest cities in the world was a potent symbol of all that might befall humanity in the future if they were not aware and careful of their place in this new world.
As time went on, the survivors tried to rebuild around the ruins of the world that had been, and each year they would gather at the remains of the once-sacred places of their city to marvel at all that had survived the destruction that had claimed so very many lives. Tokyo Tower was home to the best-attended memorial; people would gather from all around the world to pay their respects to the dead in that holy place, casting five yen pieces and wishes into the shrine that had once been housed on the observation deck (and which had been housed in Shiba Park before the tower) as they asked the kami to hear their prayers.
Ginza was rebuilt, one shopping district over the other, as happened in the past whenever fire tore through the area and burned the shops to the ground. Once a year a traditional market takes place, with the closed north-south road given over to stalls selling all manner of traditional crafts and food, and as with the more traditional festivals the people of Tokyo attend in yutaka, commemorating the explosive death of capitalism by spending what little money they have on ointments and frankincense and wine.
The Rainbow Bridge had been left as they found it after the collapse: a mass of twisted metal and cracked concrete, a handful of abandoned cars on either end, some crushed by falling debris. It was something of a miracle that no trains had been crossing at the time of the collapse, when the cables supporting the Bridge snapped as if supernaturally sliced and the central span fell into Tokyo Bay beneath. A thousand people had died that day, but the body count was near-insignificant compared to what happened at Shinjuku and on the Yamanotesen. Still, the Bridge remained as it had fallen, and though there was some talk of someday building another beside it, should there ever be enough of a demand, it was acknowledged by all who spoke of it that the Rainbow Bridge would remain a memorial to the fallen, a tribute to the fall of a bridge so many earthquakes had left unharmed.
Each year, on the day before the anniversary, one man comes to pay his respects to the fallen of the Bridge. He cannot bear to face the mourners who will come after him, with their sad eyes and the knowledge that his own expression mirrors their own. His coat whispers in the breeze, and he climbs the fence that marks the point at which it is no longer safe, for the weather erodes at the edges of the concrete, dust and debris washing away with every rainstorm. One day the planet will reclaim this part of the city, this relic of the cage of unclean birds, and there will be nothing left, but until that day he will come each year, to walk carefully, as though he does not trust his faulty depth perception, to the edge of the broken span and pay his respects to those who left him behind.
He bends and collects a handful of broken concrete pieces, holding them silently in his bare hand, gripping so tightly that the scar on the back of his hand prickles and stretches. This tenth year is the first time he has come without gloves, as if he is finally coming to terms with the loss of who he once was, bearing the scars for all to see. It is not as if there is any point hiding anymore, everything has been stripped away and lost, and only he remains to understand the meaning of the inverted pentagrams that are now his curse. He supposes that the more superstitious in the city might interpret them as a sign that he is a child of the morning star, but there are so many other symbols and dreams for the determined to be deciphering that one set of scars would never distract for long.
Realising that he has stood for far too long at the edge of destruction, he casts the handful of rubble into the bay, hearing the largest piece fall with a plop to join with the rest of the Bridge in the water. He is not casting off his shyness or his own inherent flaws, nor even the smell of cherry blossoms that still drift through his dreams echoing the words of a dying man. He's now older than that one had been at his death, more or less (for he'd never shared his true date of birth), and the memories seem softer and tinged with pink where before they had been black as the night on which Hokuto had died.
He lights a cigarette, but does not inhale, content to hold it between his fingers and breathe in the faint smoke that reaches up to caress his face like a lover. Of all the things that trigger his memories, the faintest hint of tobacco on the breeze brings the strongest memories of all that had been, in a way that a stronger scent could never accomplish. For a moment he can hear the crashing of the Bridge shattering around him, feel the blood of that one seeping through his fingers, and the world seems to fall away again until he is able to forcibly remind himself that these are only memories, that the world fell a long time ago and he with it. He steps back involuntarily from the edge, the cigarette falling from his fingers like the last of the cherry blossoms, and the memories fade once more to assume their rightful place in the past with his naïveté and gentleness.
Like the mourners who will visit the Bridge tomorrow he wishes more than anything else for a return to those peaceful days before the end of the world, when it seemed that nothing could go wrong and precious little of their destiny was foreordained. The world has changed too much for such wishes to be accommodated anymore, its broken heart is too damaged to ever be repaired, but some part of him longs to believe that the sacrifices made in the name of humanity were somehow worth it, that the price paid was enough to balance the scales of judgement. The people he loved most may have left him behind, but on his good days he wonders if he still senses them with him. He tries to hold on to that as his own memorial.
As the sun starts to set, he walks back along the broken road, under the sign that still clearly says that Shibaura lies ahead, though no car has driven here since that day. Some part of him wonders if he should visit the shrine at Tokyo Tower on his walk home. It is out of his way, and he lost his faith ten years ago, but some part of him is still aware that the symbolism of a gesture is sometimes more important than the belief behind it. The scars on his hands prickle, and the ground beneath his feet trembles as the first stars come out, welcoming him home.