[Dream][Mildly backdated, week 24, day 7, early morning]
The boy sitting on the ground is not dressed in a school uniform, or in the neat sweater vest that he preferred to wear at that age. No, despite the fact that the child is eight - and a rather small eight at that! - he is dressed in the robes of a priest, with a faint cherry blossom pattern.
He sits with head bowed, shoulders relaxed, spine straight, legs crossed beneath the robe, out of sight. One hand touches a sheathed sword resting across his lap, the other holds a small charm, a red spider lily, upturned in his palm.
Long moments pass. The time stretches and stretches.
The pains that come from sitting in one place for so long ebb and flow, that stiffness of joint, cramping of muscle, awkward tingling of skin and flesh. Tiny shifts begin to happen, and each small fidget - a finger here, a knee moving under the robe, a wrinkling of the nose and flip of the head to move a hair - causes wind, in no way in proportion to the movements themselves.
And so when finally, what seems like hours later, the boy stands. There's a whirlwind around him, blowing at his robes and causing his curly hair to be pressed close against his head, the small charm clenched in one fist, and the sword - too heavy for such a child to hold - going pointfirst into the ground, the tip of the sheath cutting as if it were steel itself, making a place for itself in the earth, so that it can stand, his hand still resting against it.
Now, finally, it is revealed where the boy is sitting.
The small park appears to be filled with picnic-goers. They are dressed in the clothing of his own home's modern age, the people themselves mostly Japanese, many in their early twenties. In fact, they seem to be celebrating a graduation, if the various cakes and signs and balloons and other paraphernalia can be trusted as a sign.
And there, among the party, there's a young man - slightly younger than the rest - dressed in a sweater vest and tie, dress pants instead of jeans marking the special occasion. He's smiling and laughing and waving away compliments about his early degree, but the way his chest is puffed up with pride shows that he's loving every one of them, however he tries to claim otherwise.
At his side, there is a woman taller and stronger and broader than himself. She's in her forties, but seems older, bent from years of hard work. Green eyes are slightly unfocused, and when she turns to speak to him, she reaches out, sets a hand on his face and tilts her own accordingly, as if to make up for loss of eye contact.
"I'm so proud of you, Gau."
Her voice is slightly rough, not at all delicate. Her voice is the most beautiful voice in the world, filled with love and affection, with pride and respect.
The young man's arm slides out, around her shoulders, and suddenly - figuratively and literally - the entire rest of the gathering disappears, leaving only mother and son, standing in a half-embrace, the shorter young man looking up at his mother (as he always shall) and speaking quietly to her.
The voices can't be heard. They're eaten by the whirlwind around the young boy, by the force of the changes taken place in himself. So. He steps forward. Again and again, small measured steps toward the scene.
As he enters it, the wind stops. Completely. There's nothing but the boy, the man, the woman. And as the blind woman turns toward the small child, there's a step backward from the new graduate in his sweater vest, as if exiting the scene.
And as he steps toward the modestly dressed woman, his green eyes focused on her work-weary form, the boy himself grows, becoming almost the same age as the one still standing a few feet behind his mother. He wears the same robes, and the sword? It's at his side, now, fitting him properly as it hadn't before.
"I wanted to be this for you."
He says the words quietly, and his eyes stray from the beloved face of his mother to the man behind her, then back. It's no longer important, he realizes, but it had been quite important just a few days ago, when he had been willing to give up everything he had been instead just to see her again.
She smiles, nods, and reaches out, sets a hand on his head - and it's then that he realizes that he is as tall than her, finally. Unlike the young man standing behind her, the one that is his dream future image of himself, Gau has finally become as tall as his mother.
"You are what you are. You are my son."
She leans in, places a single simple kiss upon his cheek, and then holds out a hand silently, palm up, waiting.
"I wanted to be that for someone else."
He hands over the small charm, the higanbana flower that to him had symbolized part of what he wanted to become as well.
She nods again, and in her hand, the flower shifts and changes, real petals springing from it. A laugh, shared between the two of them, and then the flower is tucked behind her own ear, as if a present.
"I want to be what I am now, for me."
And this time, rather than a smile and a nod, he gets a roll of those sightless eyes, and then both of her hands are moving, straightening his robes for him, as if exploring and making him presentable all at once. There's no sound at all, for a moment, as the loving gesture passes from mother to son. Then she leans in, whispers softly...
"Wake up, Gau."
[And the young man awakens, in a familiar bed, in a familiar cave, with tears in his eyes. He stumbles out of bed, his yukata gaping a little as he moves awkwardly, as if his limbs are stiff, and then reaches for the Hitomi, even as he makes his way across the room, another bed shown briefly before the feed shuts off.]