senri
in
bedlam_mix
(BotI - Mercy over Justice)
Genre: Gen
Warnings: K
Characters: Anotsu, Rin
Notes: for 31_days. "we would all be fools to pray for justice."
i.
The pain hits him at strange times, bathes his brain in a red-hot tide, full of the chatter of birds and cicadas, strange and ignored currents, masked spirits hooking their claws into his back. He can only swallow with difficulty. He cannot speak. He cannot eat. He will shortly fade, at this rate, under these circumstances.
The girl following him rests her eyes on the small of his back. Anotsu feels it like a knife between the ribs. He rasps a breath in, out, and walks on.
ii.
Walking to Edo like this - thirsty, starving, half-alive, only blearily awake, barely keeping to his feet, with deadly and implacable enemies in pursuit, and one who is very much an enemy stepping on his heels - is madness. Anotsu knows it. He thinks about turning on Rin, while he can still use his ax, swinging the blunt deadly weight of it and leaving her with her skull stove in on the path. It is not as if anyone would interfere with him, and not as if many would care for her. Except, perhaps, if a wild dog was favored by finding the corpse. Rin is a small girl, but there is still enough meat on her to feed a hungry scavenger a generous feast.
She would have to be an idiot to think that he's not thinking about it. But she is as stupidly fearless as ever, and turns her back on him as she rakes up a little pile of leaves to nest in while they take a brief rest.
Anotsu slumps back against a tree stump, massaging the tight muscles around his neck, letting his head hang back and appreciating every breath he takes.
Rin watches in silence. Her eyes burn, soft hazel with steel behind.
iii.
She peels tubers with a knife whisked out of her sleeve, a little sting turned to a farmer's purpose now, and they eat: hand to mouth, hand to mouth. Not much money, not many towns, hard for Anotsu to eat anyhow. He feeds the skinny roots into the corner of his mouth and chokes them down anyway, swallowing some of them whole; they tickle down his throat and don't rest easy in his stomach. Better than nothing, he thinks. At least a little something to sustain him. Rin wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and her knife with the tatty edge of her robe. There's a distinctive difference in shade at the nape of her neck, where the skin is coated with dust from the road, and then where it's usually covered by the back of her robe. He catches a glimpse of the difference sometimes, when she turns away from him again.
iv.
"What you need is a woman who'll watch over you," Hisoka said. Her eyes listed away from his, always; she walked demurely, tiny steps with her back as straight as a post.
He wakes. Rin is curled across the clearing from him, her eyes slitted open.
v.
It gets worse. Somehow, impossibly, it gets worse. They crouch in a ditch, listening to angry students walking on the road above them trading inventive ways to vivisect then kill him. Rin cuts her eyes in his direction repeatedly, saying see what a risk you are?
He sees. He does not shift, even though his thighs are cramping and his back is in agony. He closes his eyes, indulges himself for a second in letting his head fall forward. It smells, down here. Like rot and death. Rin's robe clings to her legs. When he looks again she is still glaring. See what you've gotten into? See?
The students move on, eventually. The both breathe a little easier.
The reason for the stench is obvious once they're out of the ditch: there's a dead dog caught in the reeds and water, upwind of both of them. Its fur roils with maggots, and the eyes are gone.
vi.
He ties back his hair, slowly, achingly. It hurts to lift his arms so high. Rin redoes her braids with nimble fingers and waits for him. He speaks to her in tracework; she speaks to him, in a voice that's low and sharp, an evil little-blood drinker if it were a blade.
She follows his footsteps like the personification of every other vengeful ghost with a reason to know his name.
His life is measured in how long she thinks he can manage to put up a halfway-decent fight against her knives. She doesn't have a sword, after all; his reach still outclasses hers. Still, if he weakens enough, he entertains no illusions that she won't introduce his throat to the business end of a blade.
He walks, and walks, and walks. Vengeful spirits trail them in hordes.
vii.
The little pellet of busu leaves oily smears on his forefinger and thumb, where he crushed it.
viii.
He walks and walks and walks and walks, and each step he thinks how can I win? Because victory, that is the Itto-Ryu's creed. Above pride and all other things; he'd prefer his followers run and save their lives then give them up in a pointless show. He must live. He must win, survive, go and lead his followers to victory, or whatever ignominious death awaits them...
The maddest pack of dogs in Edo, at his beck and call. Murderers and madmen; those, the most honest men.
He stops at the crest of the next hill and wipes his forehead with his sleeves. Sips at the evening air.
The girl huffs after him. "Are we bedding down soon?" It's like she's talking to a dog; she expects no answer. Anotsu shifts the way his sword hands against his side, watches her follow the motion with her eyes.
He's gotten so limp. So tired. In so few days.
He'd fight like hell if she came after him, and she'd probably lose. But she doesn't try. He's beginning to think she isn't going to.
Unlucky, unlucky, unlucky. This whole cursed trip.
Hilarious, that the one thing that's not failed him is the girl, her unyielding contempt, the persistent way her smaller shadow fits into his.
Blessed, he is. With a merciful enemy, and that is all.
Warnings: K
Characters: Anotsu, Rin
Notes: for 31_days. "we would all be fools to pray for justice."
i.
The pain hits him at strange times, bathes his brain in a red-hot tide, full of the chatter of birds and cicadas, strange and ignored currents, masked spirits hooking their claws into his back. He can only swallow with difficulty. He cannot speak. He cannot eat. He will shortly fade, at this rate, under these circumstances.
The girl following him rests her eyes on the small of his back. Anotsu feels it like a knife between the ribs. He rasps a breath in, out, and walks on.
ii.
Walking to Edo like this - thirsty, starving, half-alive, only blearily awake, barely keeping to his feet, with deadly and implacable enemies in pursuit, and one who is very much an enemy stepping on his heels - is madness. Anotsu knows it. He thinks about turning on Rin, while he can still use his ax, swinging the blunt deadly weight of it and leaving her with her skull stove in on the path. It is not as if anyone would interfere with him, and not as if many would care for her. Except, perhaps, if a wild dog was favored by finding the corpse. Rin is a small girl, but there is still enough meat on her to feed a hungry scavenger a generous feast.
She would have to be an idiot to think that he's not thinking about it. But she is as stupidly fearless as ever, and turns her back on him as she rakes up a little pile of leaves to nest in while they take a brief rest.
Anotsu slumps back against a tree stump, massaging the tight muscles around his neck, letting his head hang back and appreciating every breath he takes.
Rin watches in silence. Her eyes burn, soft hazel with steel behind.
iii.
She peels tubers with a knife whisked out of her sleeve, a little sting turned to a farmer's purpose now, and they eat: hand to mouth, hand to mouth. Not much money, not many towns, hard for Anotsu to eat anyhow. He feeds the skinny roots into the corner of his mouth and chokes them down anyway, swallowing some of them whole; they tickle down his throat and don't rest easy in his stomach. Better than nothing, he thinks. At least a little something to sustain him. Rin wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and her knife with the tatty edge of her robe. There's a distinctive difference in shade at the nape of her neck, where the skin is coated with dust from the road, and then where it's usually covered by the back of her robe. He catches a glimpse of the difference sometimes, when she turns away from him again.
iv.
"What you need is a woman who'll watch over you," Hisoka said. Her eyes listed away from his, always; she walked demurely, tiny steps with her back as straight as a post.
He wakes. Rin is curled across the clearing from him, her eyes slitted open.
v.
It gets worse. Somehow, impossibly, it gets worse. They crouch in a ditch, listening to angry students walking on the road above them trading inventive ways to vivisect then kill him. Rin cuts her eyes in his direction repeatedly, saying see what a risk you are?
He sees. He does not shift, even though his thighs are cramping and his back is in agony. He closes his eyes, indulges himself for a second in letting his head fall forward. It smells, down here. Like rot and death. Rin's robe clings to her legs. When he looks again she is still glaring. See what you've gotten into? See?
The students move on, eventually. The both breathe a little easier.
The reason for the stench is obvious once they're out of the ditch: there's a dead dog caught in the reeds and water, upwind of both of them. Its fur roils with maggots, and the eyes are gone.
vi.
He ties back his hair, slowly, achingly. It hurts to lift his arms so high. Rin redoes her braids with nimble fingers and waits for him. He speaks to her in tracework; she speaks to him, in a voice that's low and sharp, an evil little-blood drinker if it were a blade.
She follows his footsteps like the personification of every other vengeful ghost with a reason to know his name.
His life is measured in how long she thinks he can manage to put up a halfway-decent fight against her knives. She doesn't have a sword, after all; his reach still outclasses hers. Still, if he weakens enough, he entertains no illusions that she won't introduce his throat to the business end of a blade.
He walks, and walks, and walks. Vengeful spirits trail them in hordes.
vii.
The little pellet of busu leaves oily smears on his forefinger and thumb, where he crushed it.
viii.
He walks and walks and walks and walks, and each step he thinks how can I win? Because victory, that is the Itto-Ryu's creed. Above pride and all other things; he'd prefer his followers run and save their lives then give them up in a pointless show. He must live. He must win, survive, go and lead his followers to victory, or whatever ignominious death awaits them...
The maddest pack of dogs in Edo, at his beck and call. Murderers and madmen; those, the most honest men.
He stops at the crest of the next hill and wipes his forehead with his sleeves. Sips at the evening air.
The girl huffs after him. "Are we bedding down soon?" It's like she's talking to a dog; she expects no answer. Anotsu shifts the way his sword hands against his side, watches her follow the motion with her eyes.
He's gotten so limp. So tired. In so few days.
He'd fight like hell if she came after him, and she'd probably lose. But she doesn't try. He's beginning to think she isn't going to.
Unlucky, unlucky, unlucky. This whole cursed trip.
Hilarious, that the one thing that's not failed him is the girl, her unyielding contempt, the persistent way her smaller shadow fits into his.
Blessed, he is. With a merciful enemy, and that is all.