Bakumatsu, Akizuki/Kakunojo "A Lion For Remembrance"
There are no excuses for this one. I just felt I needed to write something for the series, a sort of homage, you might say. This is definitely a vignette so there is little dialogue, a collection of flashes of Kakunojo's life after the series ends. I can't say I'm entirely happy with the way it ends, but I was afraid of overdoing it so I chose the simpler route though it may give you less closure. The title doesn't exactly please me either though I think it's very fitting. (I'm just hard to please, aren't I?)(<-- There's a joke in there somewhere about "pleasing one's self" but I am NOT GOING TO GO THERE.)
Title: A Lion For Remembrance
Series/Characters: Bakumatsu, Kakunojo, slight Akizuki/Kakunojo
Spoilers: For the entire series.
For miakamouse and our mutual confusion. ♥ You would be so proud of all the research I did for this. Wikipedia is my drug of choice.
A Lion For Remembrance
There was a lion in her dressing room.
It was small and made of stone, with two clear blue gems for eyes. Shouten had sent it to her. A trifling thing, the old man had written, and of no use to us here. It sat on its haunches beside her mirror and reminded her, which is what the priests had probably intended. It was not a painful reminder, however, and so she was thankful for it. Seldom did a day go by when she did not think of Akizuki anyway.
Lifting a slender arm draped in heavy silk, she took up one of her makeup brushes and dipped it carefully in red paint - the pigment almost powdery in texture. Tonight she was playing a geisha, a rather mysterious one, and her dressing table was littered with jars of various colors. A dark kohl for her eyes, carmine for her lips - she smiled into her mirror to judge the effect. Perfect.
Opening night of a new play usually found her a bundle of nervous excitement, but not that night. All day she had felt a strange sort of lethargy, a willingness to sit back and let things unfold as they may. Soutetsu must have felt the same, watching the game and the players from on high. The thought made her pause before she set down her brush, face expressionless.
It had been more than a year and she still thought of the author with a conflicted sadness. She had trusted Soutetsu and he had let her surrender to her destiny, stood by while it took her over and forced her to... forced her to do things she would not have done otherwise. Would that he had written another path for her, for himself, changing fate with the power of his words. Even now she still didn't understand why he had not.
Outside her door she heard a flute begin to play followed by drums and the cheers of the audience. Kakunojo Yuuyama rose gracefully, lantern light catching on the gold headpiece tucked into long, raven hair. An actor above all else, she pushed the past aside and became Chiaki, a sultry geisha soon to become tangled in a devilish murder.
And for a night, she could forget the deadly feel of a katana in her hands.
Incense burned pale smoke into the air and her lion wore a wreath of jade. It was a bracelet from an admirer and she had let it drop around the statue's neck, stumbling slightly against her dresser as the world tilted in an odd fashion. Really, she had not had so much to drink. Well, not any more than she had had at any other opening night. The play had been well received and she couldn't recall how many times her sake cup had been refilled by patrons and flirtatious viewers alike. The fact that the general public assumed her male made her a grand target for both womanly and male affections, a situation she sometimes found rather awkward. It was also somewhat hazardous, when in the middle of a chorus of drunken singing, a wandering hand slipped inside her clothes. Shiranui had extradited her quickly enough, a smooth joke to cover the movement, but it had definitely been close.
A sigh escaped her as she dropped to her knees by her futon, gazing up mildly as moonlight through her window caught her eye. She smiled softly to herself, still a little dazed from the evening, and wondered if that was why the stars looked so bright. No red star of warning, she thought fuzzily.
And then, aloud, "I wonder where you are tonight."
She slipped a half-finished letter beneath the stone lion, using it as a paperweight against the errant breezes from her open window. The weather was warm and the air was refreshing, carrying the scent of budding cherry blossoms. She could smell the sea, too, there in her room and it told her they were not so far apart, not really.
She’d been crafting a letter to Tetsunosuke, one that would never be sent, for how could she explain herself? Her memories of those last few days were hazy, seen through a red film that had made her a slave to the Lord’s Head. Looking back, she remembered Tetsunosuke speaking to her, telling her he was leaving. She remembered also her silence and grieved that she had not said good-bye. Still, it might have been for the best. He was very young and there was much before him. It might be better not to burden him with her regrets.
“Chief,” a voice called from the inner theater, beckoning.
She rose in answer, leaving her letter, lips curving despite her thoughts. She was called by many names, but that one she wore the easiest.
The lion falling to the floor with a rough clatter was what woke her. Had she slept a moment more, she would have taken a knife to the throat. As it was, the thief’s dagger flashed near her head and she rolled off her futon automatically and up onto one knee, her hand stretching out for one of the fake katanas near the wall. They were only props and had no edge, but the intruder had no way of knowing that.
Without a word or cry for help, she settled it by her side, making as if to draw four feet of gleaming steel. Her eyes were very hard.
The thief turned and ran for the window, using one hand to push himself up and over the sill. She saw a brief glimpse of jade around his wrist and then he was gone.
“Chief! Chief!”
They found her there, her family, standing impossibly still with a dull katana in her grip. Zagashira took the toy from her carefully, looking at her with not a hint of surprise.
“Some things the body remembers when the mind does not,” he said, and nothing more.
She tripped over the lion in the morning and sat it back on her dressing table, wincing at her bruised toes. The thief had taken the previous night’s earnings so she had extended the play’s run another day to compensate. Their stolen money was not what was bothering her however, but the fact that their intruder had tried to kill her. If he had come for only the money, he would not have stopped to hurt a sleeping woman. It worried her that someone had wanted to hurt her, but the reasons why worried her more.
Her anxiety faded, however, in the following days. Spring deepened and she left Chiaki behind and moved on to Arita, a palace servant in a bumbling comedy of errors. She enjoyed the role for the laughter it got and was pleased that, despite all the changes that had come to Japan, kabuki remained an art that allowed people to forget their troubles. And there were plenty to forget.
Every day she spotted former samurai, swordless and with faces that said they had just been given some great shock. The harbor saw a great many ships with foreign flags and it was not unheard of to see French or American military officers in the streets. The world was still turning and watching it, she wondered what Akizuki made of it out there, beyond the sea. There was a fear, a small one, that the wonders of far away lands would bedazzle him. She was only an actor and of no special beauty or skill except when on stage. Her destiny had come and gone.
She was simply Kakunojo Yuuyama now.
And should he never return, he would not even have her name.
That night she set her blue-eyed lion away, out of sight. If Akizuki's priests taught remembrance, Hakodate strove to forget and, in the end, she was a creature of the masses and lived only by their whims.
She must forgive herself and move on.
Rubbing the back of her hand across her eyes, she smiled sadly. "It's never easy, is it, Akizuki?"
"Fire! Fire! A house is on fire!"
It happened in the middle of the night. Kakunojo emptied the theater and ran down the street barefoot and tousled from bed, green eyes filled with the horrific sight of flames eating up the side of a teahouse. She had learned from an early age that fire was a thing to be feared. Treat it with respect and it would not destroy you, toy with it and it would take everything you loved. Now, with it not so very far from her little wooden stage, she felt a certain sort of terror in her bones. To start over only to lose it all?
She would not.
All that long night she worked, hauling water to both put out flames and drench the nearby buildings so that the fire would not spread. The streets were filled with people, some wailing, and some with their sleeves tied back and working alongside her. For once she did not notice what was different, only that all of their faces were marked with soot, their faces hard with determination.
Kakunojo bloomed.
And when the house lay smoldering and everyone stood exhausted, wearied beyond recall, she sang for them.
One, offer a prayer to the setting sun,
Two, a pair of evening primrose flowers,
Everyone stopped to listen and some clapped to the beat in place of her missing ball. Her voice soothed them, eased away their fears. Kakunojo barely noticed. The sun was rising over the ocean and there, on the edge of the crowd was Akizuki.
For those watching her, her sudden smile was a mirror of the sunrise, and if her eyes glinted with tears, it only made her beautiful.
Three, when dawn breaks in the beautiful sky.
End.
Now that this is over, I suppose this means I should be writing NejiTen next, ne, wordynessie? ;D
Title: A Lion For Remembrance
Series/Characters: Bakumatsu, Kakunojo, slight Akizuki/Kakunojo
Spoilers: For the entire series.
For miakamouse and our mutual confusion. ♥ You would be so proud of all the research I did for this. Wikipedia is my drug of choice.
A Lion For Remembrance
There was a lion in her dressing room.
It was small and made of stone, with two clear blue gems for eyes. Shouten had sent it to her. A trifling thing, the old man had written, and of no use to us here. It sat on its haunches beside her mirror and reminded her, which is what the priests had probably intended. It was not a painful reminder, however, and so she was thankful for it. Seldom did a day go by when she did not think of Akizuki anyway.
Lifting a slender arm draped in heavy silk, she took up one of her makeup brushes and dipped it carefully in red paint - the pigment almost powdery in texture. Tonight she was playing a geisha, a rather mysterious one, and her dressing table was littered with jars of various colors. A dark kohl for her eyes, carmine for her lips - she smiled into her mirror to judge the effect. Perfect.
Opening night of a new play usually found her a bundle of nervous excitement, but not that night. All day she had felt a strange sort of lethargy, a willingness to sit back and let things unfold as they may. Soutetsu must have felt the same, watching the game and the players from on high. The thought made her pause before she set down her brush, face expressionless.
It had been more than a year and she still thought of the author with a conflicted sadness. She had trusted Soutetsu and he had let her surrender to her destiny, stood by while it took her over and forced her to... forced her to do things she would not have done otherwise. Would that he had written another path for her, for himself, changing fate with the power of his words. Even now she still didn't understand why he had not.
Outside her door she heard a flute begin to play followed by drums and the cheers of the audience. Kakunojo Yuuyama rose gracefully, lantern light catching on the gold headpiece tucked into long, raven hair. An actor above all else, she pushed the past aside and became Chiaki, a sultry geisha soon to become tangled in a devilish murder.
And for a night, she could forget the deadly feel of a katana in her hands.
Incense burned pale smoke into the air and her lion wore a wreath of jade. It was a bracelet from an admirer and she had let it drop around the statue's neck, stumbling slightly against her dresser as the world tilted in an odd fashion. Really, she had not had so much to drink. Well, not any more than she had had at any other opening night. The play had been well received and she couldn't recall how many times her sake cup had been refilled by patrons and flirtatious viewers alike. The fact that the general public assumed her male made her a grand target for both womanly and male affections, a situation she sometimes found rather awkward. It was also somewhat hazardous, when in the middle of a chorus of drunken singing, a wandering hand slipped inside her clothes. Shiranui had extradited her quickly enough, a smooth joke to cover the movement, but it had definitely been close.
A sigh escaped her as she dropped to her knees by her futon, gazing up mildly as moonlight through her window caught her eye. She smiled softly to herself, still a little dazed from the evening, and wondered if that was why the stars looked so bright. No red star of warning, she thought fuzzily.
And then, aloud, "I wonder where you are tonight."
She slipped a half-finished letter beneath the stone lion, using it as a paperweight against the errant breezes from her open window. The weather was warm and the air was refreshing, carrying the scent of budding cherry blossoms. She could smell the sea, too, there in her room and it told her they were not so far apart, not really.
She’d been crafting a letter to Tetsunosuke, one that would never be sent, for how could she explain herself? Her memories of those last few days were hazy, seen through a red film that had made her a slave to the Lord’s Head. Looking back, she remembered Tetsunosuke speaking to her, telling her he was leaving. She remembered also her silence and grieved that she had not said good-bye. Still, it might have been for the best. He was very young and there was much before him. It might be better not to burden him with her regrets.
“Chief,” a voice called from the inner theater, beckoning.
She rose in answer, leaving her letter, lips curving despite her thoughts. She was called by many names, but that one she wore the easiest.
The lion falling to the floor with a rough clatter was what woke her. Had she slept a moment more, she would have taken a knife to the throat. As it was, the thief’s dagger flashed near her head and she rolled off her futon automatically and up onto one knee, her hand stretching out for one of the fake katanas near the wall. They were only props and had no edge, but the intruder had no way of knowing that.
Without a word or cry for help, she settled it by her side, making as if to draw four feet of gleaming steel. Her eyes were very hard.
The thief turned and ran for the window, using one hand to push himself up and over the sill. She saw a brief glimpse of jade around his wrist and then he was gone.
“Chief! Chief!”
They found her there, her family, standing impossibly still with a dull katana in her grip. Zagashira took the toy from her carefully, looking at her with not a hint of surprise.
“Some things the body remembers when the mind does not,” he said, and nothing more.
She tripped over the lion in the morning and sat it back on her dressing table, wincing at her bruised toes. The thief had taken the previous night’s earnings so she had extended the play’s run another day to compensate. Their stolen money was not what was bothering her however, but the fact that their intruder had tried to kill her. If he had come for only the money, he would not have stopped to hurt a sleeping woman. It worried her that someone had wanted to hurt her, but the reasons why worried her more.
Her anxiety faded, however, in the following days. Spring deepened and she left Chiaki behind and moved on to Arita, a palace servant in a bumbling comedy of errors. She enjoyed the role for the laughter it got and was pleased that, despite all the changes that had come to Japan, kabuki remained an art that allowed people to forget their troubles. And there were plenty to forget.
Every day she spotted former samurai, swordless and with faces that said they had just been given some great shock. The harbor saw a great many ships with foreign flags and it was not unheard of to see French or American military officers in the streets. The world was still turning and watching it, she wondered what Akizuki made of it out there, beyond the sea. There was a fear, a small one, that the wonders of far away lands would bedazzle him. She was only an actor and of no special beauty or skill except when on stage. Her destiny had come and gone.
She was simply Kakunojo Yuuyama now.
And should he never return, he would not even have her name.
That night she set her blue-eyed lion away, out of sight. If Akizuki's priests taught remembrance, Hakodate strove to forget and, in the end, she was a creature of the masses and lived only by their whims.
She must forgive herself and move on.
Rubbing the back of her hand across her eyes, she smiled sadly. "It's never easy, is it, Akizuki?"
"Fire! Fire! A house is on fire!"
It happened in the middle of the night. Kakunojo emptied the theater and ran down the street barefoot and tousled from bed, green eyes filled with the horrific sight of flames eating up the side of a teahouse. She had learned from an early age that fire was a thing to be feared. Treat it with respect and it would not destroy you, toy with it and it would take everything you loved. Now, with it not so very far from her little wooden stage, she felt a certain sort of terror in her bones. To start over only to lose it all?
She would not.
All that long night she worked, hauling water to both put out flames and drench the nearby buildings so that the fire would not spread. The streets were filled with people, some wailing, and some with their sleeves tied back and working alongside her. For once she did not notice what was different, only that all of their faces were marked with soot, their faces hard with determination.
Kakunojo bloomed.
And when the house lay smoldering and everyone stood exhausted, wearied beyond recall, she sang for them.
One, offer a prayer to the setting sun,
Two, a pair of evening primrose flowers,
Everyone stopped to listen and some clapped to the beat in place of her missing ball. Her voice soothed them, eased away their fears. Kakunojo barely noticed. The sun was rising over the ocean and there, on the edge of the crowd was Akizuki.
For those watching her, her sudden smile was a mirror of the sunrise, and if her eyes glinted with tears, it only made her beautiful.
Three, when dawn breaks in the beautiful sky.
End.
Now that this is over, I suppose this means I should be writing NejiTen next, ne, wordynessie? ;D