Kyou Kara Maou: "Rhythm Peace"
Notes: Hah! S/S victorious again! *drags alarielle back into the fold*
.rhythm peace.
He has said something he shouldn't have said.
Murata smiles at the shrine maidens and does all the chores that are asked of him and he doesn't let anyone know. They are perfectly at ease with him, apparently oblivious to any tension in the air. He can't imagine how they can all be so blind. The only one who seems to have any idea is Ulrike; she watches him, her brow furrowed with worry, but says nothing. Murata wonders if he complains to her.
There is no voice that reaches out to him from the insignia room, no sense of being followed. He is keeping to himself. It should have been a relief but it only keeps the agitation at a frustrated simmer.
Maybe he doesn't feel that an apology is necessary. Maybe he is too proud for that sort of thing. Maybe he doesn't care if the Sage is furious with him.
Damn him anyway.
Murata leaves the Shrine but he doesn't want to go to the castle -- there are too many people there, too many things that would normally amuse him and slide right off his studied composure, but which might now irritate him, and the last thing he needs is more irritation. Instead he goes for a ride in the surrounding forest, slow and steady.
Calm yourself. He lets the rhythmic step of the horse's hooves soothe him: it flows into his thoughts, his heart. He feels his entire being take up that beat: one, and two, and one, and two... This isn't like you. It's not his fault, it's thousands of years of frustration and loneliness and waiting all piling up on top of a minor grievance.
When the anger fades, only a deep, abiding ache remains.
He returns to the Shrine with the setting sun, but the familiar presence that usually washes over him in welcome as he passes through the gates is notably absent. Murata smiles at the shrine maidens and listens to their requests and takes his dinner to his room. As he leaves, he hears Ulrike scold the women for their rudeness, instructing them to treat him more like the Sage and less like the carpenter.
No one disturbs the young man as he eats or before he climbs into his bed. It's honestly a little depressing, to be left so alone with his already unhappy thoughts.
So very alone.
Murata places his glasses on the stand by his bedside and reclines with a sigh. His eyes fall shut, but he is not tired yet. He just lies there and wishes for sleep.
Then comes the presence: tentative, a soft brush over the surface of his mind like a wisp of silk. It is almost reflex to open to that touch, to let him know that the Sage is still awake. There's still resentment, but Murata is not so petty that he will let such an unworthy emotion control him.
A moment's hesitation meets his acceptance, and then words form like his own thoughts. If Murata could hear his own thoughts he would say that these words did not sound like him; they bear the indescribable sense of other, of him.
~I was out of line,~ are the words. Murata smiles into the pillow. ~I didn't mean to upset you. Don't be mad.~
I'm not mad anymore.
~You're more forgiving of my behaving like a jackass than I am, then.~
Some people will do anything to avoid having to say the word 'sorry'. Murata has always known that he is one of those people. The dark Mazoku rolls onto his back and keeps his public mind serene, encouraging.
For some reason, the other presence is still apologetic. ~It was wrong of me to have belittled your sacrifices. These years have been hard on both of us. Even if nothing else, I'd be long insane if not for your company...~
Murata shakes his head, although of course no one sees the gesture. Let's not talk of it. You didn't mean it and I overreacted. It's done.
If he sleeps now he will dream about a blond king, confident as if the world will bow before him, beautiful to steal the glory from the dawn. That figure always haunts his dreams, when they speak this late. The words in his mind are so familiar that they are almost heard, almost that husky, purring voice; so real that they send shivers down his spine. ~Then I will only offer you my unspecified, unconditional appreciation.~
Sometimes Murata hates him. Sometimes he hates the life that he leads, hates the way that he has been forced into this lonely perpetual existence. Even if he pretends not to notice when the Sage takes up with another, that is his Sage and they both know it. No one else has ever brought Murata to aching awareness with such simple words, or made his heart ache with hopeless longing, knowing that despite their closeness, he is alone.
He doesn't cry anymore, he hasn't cried in years, lifetimes. But he turns his face into the pillow and thinks, Do you mind if I sleep?
~Do you mind... if I stay?~
Murata smiles, and lets the rhythmic throb of his heart soothe him. His entire being takes up that beat: one, and two, and one, and two...
.rhythm peace.
He has said something he shouldn't have said.
Murata smiles at the shrine maidens and does all the chores that are asked of him and he doesn't let anyone know. They are perfectly at ease with him, apparently oblivious to any tension in the air. He can't imagine how they can all be so blind. The only one who seems to have any idea is Ulrike; she watches him, her brow furrowed with worry, but says nothing. Murata wonders if he complains to her.
There is no voice that reaches out to him from the insignia room, no sense of being followed. He is keeping to himself. It should have been a relief but it only keeps the agitation at a frustrated simmer.
Maybe he doesn't feel that an apology is necessary. Maybe he is too proud for that sort of thing. Maybe he doesn't care if the Sage is furious with him.
Damn him anyway.
Murata leaves the Shrine but he doesn't want to go to the castle -- there are too many people there, too many things that would normally amuse him and slide right off his studied composure, but which might now irritate him, and the last thing he needs is more irritation. Instead he goes for a ride in the surrounding forest, slow and steady.
Calm yourself. He lets the rhythmic step of the horse's hooves soothe him: it flows into his thoughts, his heart. He feels his entire being take up that beat: one, and two, and one, and two... This isn't like you. It's not his fault, it's thousands of years of frustration and loneliness and waiting all piling up on top of a minor grievance.
When the anger fades, only a deep, abiding ache remains.
He returns to the Shrine with the setting sun, but the familiar presence that usually washes over him in welcome as he passes through the gates is notably absent. Murata smiles at the shrine maidens and listens to their requests and takes his dinner to his room. As he leaves, he hears Ulrike scold the women for their rudeness, instructing them to treat him more like the Sage and less like the carpenter.
No one disturbs the young man as he eats or before he climbs into his bed. It's honestly a little depressing, to be left so alone with his already unhappy thoughts.
So very alone.
Murata places his glasses on the stand by his bedside and reclines with a sigh. His eyes fall shut, but he is not tired yet. He just lies there and wishes for sleep.
Then comes the presence: tentative, a soft brush over the surface of his mind like a wisp of silk. It is almost reflex to open to that touch, to let him know that the Sage is still awake. There's still resentment, but Murata is not so petty that he will let such an unworthy emotion control him.
A moment's hesitation meets his acceptance, and then words form like his own thoughts. If Murata could hear his own thoughts he would say that these words did not sound like him; they bear the indescribable sense of other, of him.
~I was out of line,~ are the words. Murata smiles into the pillow. ~I didn't mean to upset you. Don't be mad.~
I'm not mad anymore.
~You're more forgiving of my behaving like a jackass than I am, then.~
Some people will do anything to avoid having to say the word 'sorry'. Murata has always known that he is one of those people. The dark Mazoku rolls onto his back and keeps his public mind serene, encouraging.
For some reason, the other presence is still apologetic. ~It was wrong of me to have belittled your sacrifices. These years have been hard on both of us. Even if nothing else, I'd be long insane if not for your company...~
Murata shakes his head, although of course no one sees the gesture. Let's not talk of it. You didn't mean it and I overreacted. It's done.
If he sleeps now he will dream about a blond king, confident as if the world will bow before him, beautiful to steal the glory from the dawn. That figure always haunts his dreams, when they speak this late. The words in his mind are so familiar that they are almost heard, almost that husky, purring voice; so real that they send shivers down his spine. ~Then I will only offer you my unspecified, unconditional appreciation.~
Sometimes Murata hates him. Sometimes he hates the life that he leads, hates the way that he has been forced into this lonely perpetual existence. Even if he pretends not to notice when the Sage takes up with another, that is his Sage and they both know it. No one else has ever brought Murata to aching awareness with such simple words, or made his heart ache with hopeless longing, knowing that despite their closeness, he is alone.
He doesn't cry anymore, he hasn't cried in years, lifetimes. But he turns his face into the pillow and thinks, Do you mind if I sleep?
~Do you mind... if I stay?~
Murata smiles, and lets the rhythmic throb of his heart soothe him. His entire being takes up that beat: one, and two, and one, and two...