[MotoMoto] for Amei
whale song
Sengoku Basara, Motochika/Motonari
PG13
In response to this and this ... although um, interpretations are probably very different. Anyway. Setouchi.
Sometimes, Mouri Motonari dreams of killing Chousokabe Motochika.
He stands at the center of a labyrinth under a blanket of stars. His breaths leave as puffs because the moon occupies the highest position in the heavens, and the sun lumbers to the other side of the world. Mouri does not understand-he does not understand where he is or when he is, only that the pirate beckons at the edge of the labyrinth’s entrance. Clouds wash over the starlight and the night plunges into absolute black. Certainty tugs at his heart-certainty, drawn as a bright red string protruding from his chest, loops over the outer fold of his kimono and gently drops in the darkness to the ground.
Mouri has heard of red strings that bind lovers, but he has never given much thought about myths and even less thought about love. His heart tugs, however, even though the red string does not tremble, and slowly-ever so slowly but certainly-his fingers wind around the red string like an insect purposely flying into a web. His fingers-or he presumes, his fingers, for he cannot even see his hands-wind around the string and, with his heart pounding, he steps like a blinded child through the pitch dark labyrinth.
The red string grows into a tangled mess when he reaches the edge of the labyrinth, and Chousokabe’s neck looks so fresh. The red noose wrapped around that muscular, yet vulnerable, neck evades the cold night’s darkness and beckons him, so Mouri walks closer and closer without a thought lingering in his mind. His hands are have already drowned in a sea of red string. When he drifts close enough so Chousokabe can take his palms, the pirate lifts the tangled mess to his collar.
Mouri attempts to wrap his fingers around the pirate’s neck, that glowing neck, but his fingers refuse to move from under the red mess. His grits his teeth. His fingers flex and struggle under the red tangle, and warmth breaks out and trickles down his wrists. Chousokabe’s hidden face bends down to lick the blood from Mouri’s enshrouded arm.
“You’re despicable,” the child of the sun seethes, although he does not pull away. “Hold still so I can kill you.”
--but no matter what, no matter how long the pirate’s neck waits, Mouri cannot free his wrists from the red bonds. In frustration, he steps back-he steps back and the loop around Chousokabe’s neck tightens, tightens and deepens, and a low shiver of a haunting melancholy long ago runs up Mouri’s spine. His ankles take two more steps back. The red tangle quickens around his knuckles as well, and bright red blood pours down like torrents from both the pirate’s neck and his own shaking hands. Laughing with both excitement and pain, the child of the sun turns his heels and runs back into the labyrinth. Roses bloom when his blood drips on the ground, and so he drags the pirate’s head through his macabre rose garden-
Sometimes, he wakes up in another life and the demon of Shikoku stands before his cell. Mouri rolls up the sleeves of his onmyoji outfit only to discover that the demons have confiscated his scrolls.
“Will you join me for a drink,” the demon of Shikoku asks from the other side of the bars.
Mouri purses his lips but figures that more opportunities will arise if he is free of confinement. The onmyoji stands up and, to his horror, finds himself suddenly disrobed. The demon of Shikoku, however, does not seem perturbed-although the blushing onmyoji cannot tell with that horned white mask of his.
“You asked to be free of confinement,” the demon points out.
“Figuratively,” Mouri, forgetting rules--or lack thereof--within dreams, snarls. Nevertheless, he steps out and follows the demon.
They walk down a barren hall lit only with one candle until the demon abruptly turns and sits seiza style. Two bowls of sake appear and Mouri smashes his beneath his heel. The mask does not lift in surprise when smooth pale thighs quickly drop and push up against the demon’s knees, and the onmyoji‘s face looms close to his porcelain lips. “I can speak the word,” Mouri says, with unfounded clarity, “and I will seal you forever.”
The demon of Shikoku tilts his face. “And what will you do when I’m gone, Mouri Motonari?”
Dreams of building the strongest nation in the world hover at the edge of the onmyoji‘s tongue but a suffocating song suddenly overwhelms his throat when demon of Shikoku strokes his hands under Mouri’s thighs. His brain pauses. Collar red, the onmyoji pushes against the demon and grabs over a handful of platinum hair. He pulls and threatens, “I don’t celebrate the death of fools.”
The demon’s mask smiles. “You need this fool, you fool.”
Sometimes, the whale’s haunting melancholy fills his empty bones.
Mouri blames the pirate for that one. Once, during his several confinements aboard the imbecile’s ship, Chousokabe dragged him out in the middle of the night and forced him to sit on deck. The bewildered warlord pretended to be listening or doing whatever the pirate wanted him to do (which was, actually, just to sit there and keep his ears open, that goddamn idiot, that goddamn idiot) while eyeing all possible exit routes, when a ghostly tune suddenly washed over his bones like ice.
“Isn’t it beautiful,” Chousokabe, glancing overboard, asked.
“You’re a sentimental fool,” Mouri responded, although the slight tremor underlying his voice betrayed his lie. The haunting drew closer and closer until the aching melody swelled from the waves and swallowed the ship. The child of the sun closed his eyes, and attempted to close his mind to such dangerous influence-but his body, his bones, hummed with the lonely tune of the sleek beast who drifted from continent to continent, forever searching for others.
“He comes around here once a year,” the pirate said when the whale song died down.
The warlord swallowed, but he could not seem to clear his throat of such a suffocating heaviness. When the pirate returned him to his people the next day, Mouri still had not spoken a word.
Mouri eventually forgets about the whale song, but his bones relive that night in his dreams. Sometimes, the whale song spins into red string so he can draw Chousokabe in closer, sometimes it splatters into red roses blooming in his footsteps so the pirate is forced to look. Sometimes, even, the whale song paints a mask across the Chousokabe’s face, and then tears the robe from Mouri’s thin shoulders. However, despite his dreams and the breathless seconds after waking, the whale song manifests as its worst when the pirate turns his back-turns his back to place an arm around Mitsunari, turns his back to laugh with Ieyasu, turns his back turns his back turns his back. The haunting melancholy once again washes over his ears, and Mouri gulps for air.
“What will you will you do once I’m gone, Mouri Motonari?”
“I don’t celebrate the death of fools.”
“Will you mourn then?”
Motonari closes his eyes, and his bones remember.
fin
Sengoku Basara, Motochika/Motonari
PG13
In response to this and this ... although um, interpretations are probably very different. Anyway. Setouchi.
Sometimes, Mouri Motonari dreams of killing Chousokabe Motochika.
He stands at the center of a labyrinth under a blanket of stars. His breaths leave as puffs because the moon occupies the highest position in the heavens, and the sun lumbers to the other side of the world. Mouri does not understand-he does not understand where he is or when he is, only that the pirate beckons at the edge of the labyrinth’s entrance. Clouds wash over the starlight and the night plunges into absolute black. Certainty tugs at his heart-certainty, drawn as a bright red string protruding from his chest, loops over the outer fold of his kimono and gently drops in the darkness to the ground.
Mouri has heard of red strings that bind lovers, but he has never given much thought about myths and even less thought about love. His heart tugs, however, even though the red string does not tremble, and slowly-ever so slowly but certainly-his fingers wind around the red string like an insect purposely flying into a web. His fingers-or he presumes, his fingers, for he cannot even see his hands-wind around the string and, with his heart pounding, he steps like a blinded child through the pitch dark labyrinth.
The red string grows into a tangled mess when he reaches the edge of the labyrinth, and Chousokabe’s neck looks so fresh. The red noose wrapped around that muscular, yet vulnerable, neck evades the cold night’s darkness and beckons him, so Mouri walks closer and closer without a thought lingering in his mind. His hands are have already drowned in a sea of red string. When he drifts close enough so Chousokabe can take his palms, the pirate lifts the tangled mess to his collar.
Mouri attempts to wrap his fingers around the pirate’s neck, that glowing neck, but his fingers refuse to move from under the red mess. His grits his teeth. His fingers flex and struggle under the red tangle, and warmth breaks out and trickles down his wrists. Chousokabe’s hidden face bends down to lick the blood from Mouri’s enshrouded arm.
“You’re despicable,” the child of the sun seethes, although he does not pull away. “Hold still so I can kill you.”
--but no matter what, no matter how long the pirate’s neck waits, Mouri cannot free his wrists from the red bonds. In frustration, he steps back-he steps back and the loop around Chousokabe’s neck tightens, tightens and deepens, and a low shiver of a haunting melancholy long ago runs up Mouri’s spine. His ankles take two more steps back. The red tangle quickens around his knuckles as well, and bright red blood pours down like torrents from both the pirate’s neck and his own shaking hands. Laughing with both excitement and pain, the child of the sun turns his heels and runs back into the labyrinth. Roses bloom when his blood drips on the ground, and so he drags the pirate’s head through his macabre rose garden-
Sometimes, he wakes up in another life and the demon of Shikoku stands before his cell. Mouri rolls up the sleeves of his onmyoji outfit only to discover that the demons have confiscated his scrolls.
“Will you join me for a drink,” the demon of Shikoku asks from the other side of the bars.
Mouri purses his lips but figures that more opportunities will arise if he is free of confinement. The onmyoji stands up and, to his horror, finds himself suddenly disrobed. The demon of Shikoku, however, does not seem perturbed-although the blushing onmyoji cannot tell with that horned white mask of his.
“You asked to be free of confinement,” the demon points out.
“Figuratively,” Mouri, forgetting rules--or lack thereof--within dreams, snarls. Nevertheless, he steps out and follows the demon.
They walk down a barren hall lit only with one candle until the demon abruptly turns and sits seiza style. Two bowls of sake appear and Mouri smashes his beneath his heel. The mask does not lift in surprise when smooth pale thighs quickly drop and push up against the demon’s knees, and the onmyoji‘s face looms close to his porcelain lips. “I can speak the word,” Mouri says, with unfounded clarity, “and I will seal you forever.”
The demon of Shikoku tilts his face. “And what will you do when I’m gone, Mouri Motonari?”
Dreams of building the strongest nation in the world hover at the edge of the onmyoji‘s tongue but a suffocating song suddenly overwhelms his throat when demon of Shikoku strokes his hands under Mouri’s thighs. His brain pauses. Collar red, the onmyoji pushes against the demon and grabs over a handful of platinum hair. He pulls and threatens, “I don’t celebrate the death of fools.”
The demon’s mask smiles. “You need this fool, you fool.”
Sometimes, the whale’s haunting melancholy fills his empty bones.
Mouri blames the pirate for that one. Once, during his several confinements aboard the imbecile’s ship, Chousokabe dragged him out in the middle of the night and forced him to sit on deck. The bewildered warlord pretended to be listening or doing whatever the pirate wanted him to do (which was, actually, just to sit there and keep his ears open, that goddamn idiot, that goddamn idiot) while eyeing all possible exit routes, when a ghostly tune suddenly washed over his bones like ice.
“Isn’t it beautiful,” Chousokabe, glancing overboard, asked.
“You’re a sentimental fool,” Mouri responded, although the slight tremor underlying his voice betrayed his lie. The haunting drew closer and closer until the aching melody swelled from the waves and swallowed the ship. The child of the sun closed his eyes, and attempted to close his mind to such dangerous influence-but his body, his bones, hummed with the lonely tune of the sleek beast who drifted from continent to continent, forever searching for others.
“He comes around here once a year,” the pirate said when the whale song died down.
The warlord swallowed, but he could not seem to clear his throat of such a suffocating heaviness. When the pirate returned him to his people the next day, Mouri still had not spoken a word.
Mouri eventually forgets about the whale song, but his bones relive that night in his dreams. Sometimes, the whale song spins into red string so he can draw Chousokabe in closer, sometimes it splatters into red roses blooming in his footsteps so the pirate is forced to look. Sometimes, even, the whale song paints a mask across the Chousokabe’s face, and then tears the robe from Mouri’s thin shoulders. However, despite his dreams and the breathless seconds after waking, the whale song manifests as its worst when the pirate turns his back-turns his back to place an arm around Mitsunari, turns his back to laugh with Ieyasu, turns his back turns his back turns his back. The haunting melancholy once again washes over his ears, and Mouri gulps for air.
“What will you will you do once I’m gone, Mouri Motonari?”
“I don’t celebrate the death of fools.”
“Will you mourn then?”
Motonari closes his eyes, and his bones remember.
fin