I shoot you~
Inappropriate title I know butyeah - just felt like it. And it somewhat relevant, yes?
For hydrangea as a birthday gift o;
Fandom: Bakumatsu Kikansetsu Irohanihoheto (otherwise known as Iroha)
Characters: Kanna Sakyounosuke (otherwise known as Kanna there's-no-way-I'm-typing-out-that-name-after-typing-bakumatsu ki....)
Rating: PG
Summary: Kanna's confusion. An interlapse between the beginning and the end.
Author's Note: flailflail sorry for the fail maybe I write better fic on second try?
Kanna. This is before sensation leaves him, metallic; before his vision dissolves into a dyed swirl of reds, purples and blacks on the inside of his eyelids. This is before he kneels at his mother's feet, the smell of dirt before him, begging forgiveness. This is before the other chess pieces crowd around him, the red and white a blur. This is before he touches Queen's cheek with a finger and pulls her down beside him. This is before that.
He is sitting on one of the small cliff ledges that surround the harbour in what can be said to be his leisure time. He sits with his knees drawn up to his chest, blond head resting upon his folded arms. It is an unusual position for him. It is an unusual for any bodyguard, spy or samurai. Instead of alertness, there is restlessness in how his hands clench and unclench and instead of focusing upon his present environment, Kanna's attention seems shift from the nearby to the distant and then back again.
He thinks that he saw someone today, some resemblance.
He looks down at his watch, the photograph inside it. Its colour are sepia, brown and yellow if he tilts towards the light, but Kanna remembers blue and black and violet and green.
The weight of the Remingtons at his side are also solid, certain. Yet, now, as he glances at them, he seems to remember words, and another time of both sepia and colour. 'I wonder if you will grow up to see these as common. They call them pistols, hand-pistols.' Thin hands sketch an outline in the air before wide eyes. A strange shape with corners and broken curves. 'These are to be used as weapons and it's said that when they're fired there's an explosion of powder and dust and haze. Like a miniature cannon. Like a new magic of smoke and lead.' A lulling voice. He's not sure where this memory comes from or if it is memory. There's a murkiness when he tries to pinpoint its origins. His mind returns with more vague images and sounds that must be false - the face in the photograph distorted with some kind of shock that he refuses to name, his own hands, and a tearing in his throat. Must be false. This remembered time of unfamiliarity about the Remingtons must also be false. The impossibility of ignorance. He and these pistols with their corners and broken curves have already left their imprints upon each other - there are crosshatched calluses on his fingers and palms and on the pistols there are scratches and sheens, scents and bruises that are reminders of some shared endurance. The immediacy of them offers him definition and he grasps it.
He realises - or perhaps it is less of a realisation than an uncovering of previous knowledge - that he can't access some of his memories concerning both the photograph and the Remingtons. He isn't sure where to place the false not-memories of - penance and forgiveness, infinite mercy. But he is certain that saw someone today. He is certain that it is more than some resemblance.
Sakyounosuke.
Before the end, Kanna tries to remember the beginning.
For hydrangea as a birthday gift o;
Fandom: Bakumatsu Kikansetsu Irohanihoheto (otherwise known as Iroha)
Characters: Kanna Sakyounosuke (otherwise known as Kanna there's-no-way-I'm-typing-out-that-name-after-typing-bakumatsu ki....)
Rating: PG
Summary: Kanna's confusion. An interlapse between the beginning and the end.
Author's Note: flailflail sorry for the fail maybe I write better fic on second try?
Kanna. This is before sensation leaves him, metallic; before his vision dissolves into a dyed swirl of reds, purples and blacks on the inside of his eyelids. This is before he kneels at his mother's feet, the smell of dirt before him, begging forgiveness. This is before the other chess pieces crowd around him, the red and white a blur. This is before he touches Queen's cheek with a finger and pulls her down beside him. This is before that.
He is sitting on one of the small cliff ledges that surround the harbour in what can be said to be his leisure time. He sits with his knees drawn up to his chest, blond head resting upon his folded arms. It is an unusual position for him. It is an unusual for any bodyguard, spy or samurai. Instead of alertness, there is restlessness in how his hands clench and unclench and instead of focusing upon his present environment, Kanna's attention seems shift from the nearby to the distant and then back again.
He thinks that he saw someone today, some resemblance.
He looks down at his watch, the photograph inside it. Its colour are sepia, brown and yellow if he tilts towards the light, but Kanna remembers blue and black and violet and green.
The weight of the Remingtons at his side are also solid, certain. Yet, now, as he glances at them, he seems to remember words, and another time of both sepia and colour. 'I wonder if you will grow up to see these as common. They call them pistols, hand-pistols.' Thin hands sketch an outline in the air before wide eyes. A strange shape with corners and broken curves. 'These are to be used as weapons and it's said that when they're fired there's an explosion of powder and dust and haze. Like a miniature cannon. Like a new magic of smoke and lead.' A lulling voice. He's not sure where this memory comes from or if it is memory. There's a murkiness when he tries to pinpoint its origins. His mind returns with more vague images and sounds that must be false - the face in the photograph distorted with some kind of shock that he refuses to name, his own hands, and a tearing in his throat. Must be false. This remembered time of unfamiliarity about the Remingtons must also be false. The impossibility of ignorance. He and these pistols with their corners and broken curves have already left their imprints upon each other - there are crosshatched calluses on his fingers and palms and on the pistols there are scratches and sheens, scents and bruises that are reminders of some shared endurance. The immediacy of them offers him definition and he grasps it.
He realises - or perhaps it is less of a realisation than an uncovering of previous knowledge - that he can't access some of his memories concerning both the photograph and the Remingtons. He isn't sure where to place the false not-memories of - penance and forgiveness, infinite mercy. But he is certain that saw someone today. He is certain that it is more than some resemblance.
Sakyounosuke.
Before the end, Kanna tries to remember the beginning.