Memory 2
Daitou was heading home after some practice at the Dojo - everything had been cleaned up, put back properly, and he slipped his geta back on as he left the building. It was only a step or two before his right shoe caught on something, though. Odd. The ground outside was usually pounded flat by all the people coming in and out. He took a step back, and then crouched down. It was a small mound of dirt - freshly made, it looked like. He dug into it, and only had a half-second glance of shining crystal as his fingers brushed it and everything went dark.
He couldn’t feel anything, as before - couldn’t see anything, either. It was disorienting - and a little frightening, like his birthdream had been. But there was a taste in his mouth - candied ginger, it seemed like - and the smell of grass. There was the sound of footsteps, moving away from him at a sedate pace, over the faint rustle of wind in the grass. And then, he spoke.
“Why won’t you let Tetsu-kun hold a katana?”
The other set of footsteps stopped, and he continued, false innocent curiosity ringing clear in his own ears.
“Why can’t he choose for himself?”
There was silence for a moment, and then the other person spoke. It was the voice from his dream. The vice-commander.
“Are you naive? He’s only fifteen-”
Daitou’s own voice cut him off, suddenly serious. “Nine.” That tone - it was designed to cut. The sweet taste was gone in his mouth now, too.“I was nine.”
Silence again, save for the wind, and the rustle of kimono fabric. Then he started walking, it seemed, the clack of his geta more distinct than the other man’s footsteps were.
“...Ah. That’s what this is about.” The false cheer was back in his voice. “You don’t want another me, do you?”
His footsteps continued on, alone, and then faintly behind him, as if the vice-commander was talking to himself more than anything - “...Souji.”
At that name, the memory abruptly threw him free, leaving him crouched on the ground outside the dojo, heart racing. Souji. His name.
He couldn’t feel anything, as before - couldn’t see anything, either. It was disorienting - and a little frightening, like his birthdream had been. But there was a taste in his mouth - candied ginger, it seemed like - and the smell of grass. There was the sound of footsteps, moving away from him at a sedate pace, over the faint rustle of wind in the grass. And then, he spoke.
“Why won’t you let Tetsu-kun hold a katana?”
The other set of footsteps stopped, and he continued, false innocent curiosity ringing clear in his own ears.
“Why can’t he choose for himself?”
There was silence for a moment, and then the other person spoke. It was the voice from his dream. The vice-commander.
“Are you naive? He’s only fifteen-”
Daitou’s own voice cut him off, suddenly serious. “Nine.” That tone - it was designed to cut. The sweet taste was gone in his mouth now, too.“I was nine.”
Silence again, save for the wind, and the rustle of kimono fabric. Then he started walking, it seemed, the clack of his geta more distinct than the other man’s footsteps were.
“...Ah. That’s what this is about.” The false cheer was back in his voice. “You don’t want another me, do you?”
His footsteps continued on, alone, and then faintly behind him, as if the vice-commander was talking to himself more than anything - “...Souji.”
At that name, the memory abruptly threw him free, leaving him crouched on the ground outside the dojo, heart racing. Souji. His name.