[Week 5, Day 5] Dream
[The only sound that drifts across the Hitomi is that of light steps swishing through the grass, the only image that of long, slender fingers ghosting over the heavy buds of the higanbana flowers. The silver and black Wakachi band rattles softly against his wrist, jangling lightly with each wave of his hand until he comes to a slow stop in the center of the open field.
Slowly, as the young man looks around, the image seems to pan out, revealing the pink-haired samurai as he glances seemingly absently around the open field, dark eyes blank and lifeless as they land on the simple family shrine, patient and expecting.
They don’t look away until the first flower begins to bloom, long petals unfurling like blood splattering from a wound.
One after another, they open under the starry moonlight.
One flower for every life taken by his hands.
The color continues to bloom in a steady rising wave, far as the eye can see, the heavy blossoms waving in the soft breeze, carrying their gentle scent, so sweet for a flower representing death.
Something wet lands on his face, so he rises his hand, listens as the gently reassuring sound of rain fills the field, watches as the bright red drops darken pale flesh.
Everywhere, green fades to red as red rivulets trace slow paths down lean arms even as it darkens pink locks as they stick to his face, his neck.
He’s covered in it now, covered in the blood raining down, yet all he does is lift his face and stare blankly at the grey-black clouds as he’s drenched in the blood he’s spilt.]
[He wakes slowly, shivers slightly at the realization that it's raining down on him, the tree he'd fallen asleep under offering little protection from the elements. Yet all he does is blink slowly before closing his eyes once more and pushing the Hitomi off his wrist to clatter mutely to the soaked earth below before the image cuts out.]
A song to fit his self-perception here:
Slowly, as the young man looks around, the image seems to pan out, revealing the pink-haired samurai as he glances seemingly absently around the open field, dark eyes blank and lifeless as they land on the simple family shrine, patient and expecting.
They don’t look away until the first flower begins to bloom, long petals unfurling like blood splattering from a wound.
One after another, they open under the starry moonlight.
One flower for every life taken by his hands.
The color continues to bloom in a steady rising wave, far as the eye can see, the heavy blossoms waving in the soft breeze, carrying their gentle scent, so sweet for a flower representing death.
Something wet lands on his face, so he rises his hand, listens as the gently reassuring sound of rain fills the field, watches as the bright red drops darken pale flesh.
Everywhere, green fades to red as red rivulets trace slow paths down lean arms even as it darkens pink locks as they stick to his face, his neck.
He’s covered in it now, covered in the blood raining down, yet all he does is lift his face and stare blankly at the grey-black clouds as he’s drenched in the blood he’s spilt.]
[He wakes slowly, shivers slightly at the realization that it's raining down on him, the tree he'd fallen asleep under offering little protection from the elements. Yet all he does is blink slowly before closing his eyes once more and pushing the Hitomi off his wrist to clatter mutely to the soaked earth below before the image cuts out.]
A song to fit his self-perception here:
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