Sacred Romance
Title: Sacred Romance
Author: lyrasoren
Pair: Tezuka and Ryoma
Summary:Tezuka is an alchemist in search of an apprentice. AU
Words: 2000
Note: The basic idea of this story derived from Jorge Borges: The Rose of Pracelsus, to which I added my own idea. The result, surprises even me...
“True Knowledge is daily awareness, that, in the end, one learns nothing! ‘Nothing’ is also knowledge being the reverse of all, as the air is reverse of the wing.” He read these words out loud to the vast and empty chamber of his laboratory. ‘It is true in a sense,’ he continues ‘every day we strive to unravel the truths of the physical world we live in, yet we are limited by our incapacity to comprehend that there is no bound to it.’ He takes off his glasses, rubbing them on his robe in order to clean them. To whom should he pass down his knowledge?
Up until then there was no need for any disciple. He self-trained for what he knew was his purpose in life. Somewhat intricate, his initiation had been no less difficult than his decision to retire to a more secluded hut near the woods. As the word and he were strangers, the perpetual silence fell on his shoulders like a second layer of clothing. Rumors of his talent had reached the citizens’ ears. The uproar waned rapidly, though it was obvious he was being overseen with an outspoken distrust. He couldn’t denounce them for being cautious when so many knaves plagued the streets. No, he couldn’t. He settled on taking upon himself to leave, before he was chased away.
Day in, day out his eyes forgot to blink, to sleep, while his hands were firm on flasks of mixed potions and alkaloids. His fingertips would continuously paint in a shade of green or blue or any other color the element he was using had. The stone had never been his ambition. Neither gold, nor eternal life. He wanted to cure people. He read books upon books of written word, until one day he held a red rose in his hand and stopped. To him, the conclusion didn’t seem to consist of something new, nor did it come as an unexpected result. That didn’t mean he didn’t consider it impossible up to some point. Who wouldn’t have, when it contradicted every common sense? Of course he was a levelheaded person who would not give the benefit of a doubt to anything that defied logic. His perception of things altered slightly, after that moment. Now he doesn’t have to see, to know, to believe. He held the answer.
***
As night’s victory upon daylight becomes conspicuous, there are insistent knocks on the door. Instead of answering it, he traces his fingers over the cover of a worn out book. ‘The door is opened,’ he says. The creak sounds discordant like the cracking of a plate, resonating against the void of the room. For a thousand of heart beats silence lingers over them. He and the stranger. There are signs such as the rustling of the leaves and the obscurity of the windows that foretell the imminence of a storm.
‘You should close that door,’ he instructs. He doesn’t wait to see if he is listened to. The door closes with a click. He appraises the newcomer with a sidelong glance. Black hair with tinges of green, golden eyes, a face too unguarded and juvenile to be more than an apprentice, scrutinizing under a mask of indifference. Hmm. He has never seen such a face before. Nowhere on his travels.
‘Who are you and what do you wish of me?’ he asks not without formality. Although he already knows the answer.
‘Who are you? It’s impolite to ask for people’s names without giving yours first.’ The voice is one of a child, though the sullen tone makes it low and hard to estimate the exact age of this person. He evaluates it between ten and thirteen. This inquiry unsettled him. If this stranger doesn’t know who he is, then with what purpose did he enter his hut?
‘Tezuka Kunimitsu.’ he replies, closing his eyes in thought.
‘So you’re the one,’ he quirks a brow. This boy has effectively refused to give his name.
‘The one? What are you talking about?’ He senses the other’s eyes wander to his back, and almost tenses.
‘That depends. Can you truly revive a rose after being nothing more than ashes? Because if you can…’ He impolitely, but rather reasonably, interrupts his interlocutor.
‘So you’ve heard. People talk all the time. There is no certainty that what they are saying is true.’ He pinches the apex of his nose. He hates being dishonest, especially with himself, not to mention to others.
‘Demo…’ the young voice trails off. There is disappointment and hope, melting together to form something different from misgiving. Confusion.
‘Ne, this doesn’t work on me. I came here to become your disciple. So you‘d better give me a proof.’ He does turn around and gazes reproachfully to the other.
‘You will become no one’s apprentice with that attitude of yours.’ He says sternly, receiving a glare in return, until the eyes are glaring at the floor instead, as if blaming it for his misfortune. Then, as unexpected, the boy turns around and unties his knapsack and holds out a white fuzzy bundle of fur.
‘Take him, he is my treasure, I have nothing more worth than him to offer to you. ‘Tezuka looks at the cat from the young’s hands and in the eyes of its owner. The boy’s blunt honesty astounds him. There is more to this boy than meets the eye. He takes the offering. As if on cue, a red rose appears in the palm of the youth. Exasperated, he puts the cat down, then takes the rose and throws it into the fire of the oven. It scorches until there is nothing left of it, but ashes.
‘Can something be completely destroyed?’ he asks, expecting no answer in return. He watches carefully for any reaction out of the boy. The unnatural golden eyes are closed; the hands are folded to his chest, the perfect image of pensiveness.
‘Hmm. Is this a test or something?’ He measures Tezuka up and down with disinterest, as if his ability is substantial enough and doesn’t need to be probed. Tezuka lets a sigh escape from him. Credulity is innocence in itself, he thinks. ‘No,’ he responds with patience, while he kneels to caress the cat,’ What’s his name?’
‘Karupin.’ The confusion persists in the depths of the voice. ‘Karupin,’ he whispers tasting the name. He stands and walks to a pot and hangs it over the fire. ‘I suppose you’re both hungry.’ He takes out three spoons and plates.
‘Hey, you can’t be serious! I am still waiting for my proof!” the boy exclaims reluctant, even though his stomach is rumbling.
‘There is no need to hasten. It’s not as though you will leave before you have your doubts confirmed.’ he says, rising an inquisitive brow.
‘As long as we agree.’ The response is petulant, as is the mood of the boy. Tezuka stares at him expectantly and he takes a few steps forward towards the table in the right corner of the room. Tezuka clears his throat while he offers him a bowl full of clear water. The boy gives him a questioning glance, then stares down at his smeared hands, and mouths an ‘oh’. Tezuka suppresses a smile.
He starts on wolfing his food, sharing twice his half with Karupin. When he finishes he mumbles a soft: ‘Thanks for the meal.’ Tezuka stares for a moment too long at the way he greedily gulps his water, at the successive rises and falls of his neck, until bashful, he looks away. What is this boy doing to him?
***
‘Ne, are you going to revive the rose, or what?’ The fire has extinguished completely since then. He hasn’t delayed this out of sense of concealing his inability, or to avoid embarrassing himself. No. He did it so that he can see this boy’s true nature. As it turns out, he is honest, caring for his cat, obedient (to him at least), reserved and perceptive. These qualities are, of course, overshadowed by flaws: he is petulant, defiant, and conceited. His character is inclining towards the good side, though. Tezuka is certain that he will make a good disciple, if pointed in the right direction.
‘Patience.’ he asserts. He virtually doesn’t anticipate the boy will be sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the stove, looking up at him from underneath his lashes. Tezuka looks back steadily, thinking of the cold ashes that once formed the rose and that the yellow of those eyes shines opaque in the absence of light, almost green. The appearance is always misleading.
‘Close your eyes. Concentrate; envision the rose as a whole with its details: the red petals, the stem, the thorns, and the leaves.’ he emphasizes, sitting beside the boy, leaving at least half a meter between them.
‘You won’t fool me, will you?’ he quires giving Tezuka a curios side-long glance. Tezuka doesn’t avoid his eyes, as he states:’ No, I won’t.’
‘Oh, then will you close yours too?’ the boy quips, gazing with contained anticipation at the grey remnants of the fire.
‘Yes,’ he retorts, ‘we both are.’ He directs one last warning glance at the other, so that he will comply. He receives a smirk in return. Which is not very reassuring. Nonetheless, he shuts his eyes partially, just to see the other squint one eye.
‘No peeking.’ he urges. He is gratified with a sulky: ‘Tch’ and, finally, both eyes are closed.
***
He remembers the knowledge he was passes down by his parents, and his mentors. He remembers that he once read: “I write: ‘I am going to join you my love….’ And instantly, I am wings which give me back my beloved.” Why does he remembers this, he isn’t sure. Yet, there is a purpose. He only needs to utter a word for the rose to be revived. What he requires is not credulity, but belief. It’s not enough for him to have faith, they both ought to believe. Otherwise, nothing will happen.
‘Hold out your hand.’ he says, as he deposits something on the outstretched palm. ‘Can you feel it?’ he inquires, and then he places his hand over the other’s eyes. ‘No. Don’t open them yet.’ There is a small hesitation, a small huff of protest; nevertheless, the eyes remain motionless, blind. The fingers fumble over soft petals, nearly prickling in thorns. Tezuka guides them over the leaves and corolla, the scent of roses permeating through the air.
‘My detractors claim I’m an impostor.’ he remarks, ‘Who do you think I am?’
‘Heh. You’ve given me proof enough. You’re a true alchemist.’ The voice is clear and genuine.
‘Do you believe without having seen anything?’ he argues; maintaining his palm over the boy’s eyes.
‘Che, of course. If it is you.’ he doesn’t need any other evidence, thus he removes his hand. The boy blinks, rubbing at his eyes. He doesn’t have to glance on his palm, to know the rose is there, he looks Tezuka in the eyes, with unyielding confidence.
‘Am I your disciple, yet?’ the boy scuttles closer to him, practically touching the back of Tezuka’s hand with his fingertips. Tezuka takes an unnecessary intake of breath. His pulse rising at the closeness.
‘No, not yet. I still don’t know your name.’ Tezuka's mouth straightens in a line, as the boy barely realizes now that he hasn’t introduced himself.
‘Really? Mada mada da ne, ‘he reproofs himself. ‘Echizen Ryoma.’ He eyes Tezuka warily, for a second, before he returns, ‘Now?’ Tezuka is torn between laughing and reprimanding. A disciple needs to learn what ‘patience’ is. But there is plenty of time.
‘Yes.’ The echo of his answer resonating across miles of seconds towards a common future, where everything is beyond logic.
Author: lyrasoren
Pair: Tezuka and Ryoma
Summary:Tezuka is an alchemist in search of an apprentice. AU
Words: 2000
Note: The basic idea of this story derived from Jorge Borges: The Rose of Pracelsus, to which I added my own idea. The result, surprises even me...
“True Knowledge is daily awareness, that, in the end, one learns nothing! ‘Nothing’ is also knowledge being the reverse of all, as the air is reverse of the wing.” He read these words out loud to the vast and empty chamber of his laboratory. ‘It is true in a sense,’ he continues ‘every day we strive to unravel the truths of the physical world we live in, yet we are limited by our incapacity to comprehend that there is no bound to it.’ He takes off his glasses, rubbing them on his robe in order to clean them. To whom should he pass down his knowledge?
Up until then there was no need for any disciple. He self-trained for what he knew was his purpose in life. Somewhat intricate, his initiation had been no less difficult than his decision to retire to a more secluded hut near the woods. As the word and he were strangers, the perpetual silence fell on his shoulders like a second layer of clothing. Rumors of his talent had reached the citizens’ ears. The uproar waned rapidly, though it was obvious he was being overseen with an outspoken distrust. He couldn’t denounce them for being cautious when so many knaves plagued the streets. No, he couldn’t. He settled on taking upon himself to leave, before he was chased away.
Day in, day out his eyes forgot to blink, to sleep, while his hands were firm on flasks of mixed potions and alkaloids. His fingertips would continuously paint in a shade of green or blue or any other color the element he was using had. The stone had never been his ambition. Neither gold, nor eternal life. He wanted to cure people. He read books upon books of written word, until one day he held a red rose in his hand and stopped. To him, the conclusion didn’t seem to consist of something new, nor did it come as an unexpected result. That didn’t mean he didn’t consider it impossible up to some point. Who wouldn’t have, when it contradicted every common sense? Of course he was a levelheaded person who would not give the benefit of a doubt to anything that defied logic. His perception of things altered slightly, after that moment. Now he doesn’t have to see, to know, to believe. He held the answer.
***
As night’s victory upon daylight becomes conspicuous, there are insistent knocks on the door. Instead of answering it, he traces his fingers over the cover of a worn out book. ‘The door is opened,’ he says. The creak sounds discordant like the cracking of a plate, resonating against the void of the room. For a thousand of heart beats silence lingers over them. He and the stranger. There are signs such as the rustling of the leaves and the obscurity of the windows that foretell the imminence of a storm.
‘You should close that door,’ he instructs. He doesn’t wait to see if he is listened to. The door closes with a click. He appraises the newcomer with a sidelong glance. Black hair with tinges of green, golden eyes, a face too unguarded and juvenile to be more than an apprentice, scrutinizing under a mask of indifference. Hmm. He has never seen such a face before. Nowhere on his travels.
‘Who are you and what do you wish of me?’ he asks not without formality. Although he already knows the answer.
‘Who are you? It’s impolite to ask for people’s names without giving yours first.’ The voice is one of a child, though the sullen tone makes it low and hard to estimate the exact age of this person. He evaluates it between ten and thirteen. This inquiry unsettled him. If this stranger doesn’t know who he is, then with what purpose did he enter his hut?
‘Tezuka Kunimitsu.’ he replies, closing his eyes in thought.
‘So you’re the one,’ he quirks a brow. This boy has effectively refused to give his name.
‘The one? What are you talking about?’ He senses the other’s eyes wander to his back, and almost tenses.
‘That depends. Can you truly revive a rose after being nothing more than ashes? Because if you can…’ He impolitely, but rather reasonably, interrupts his interlocutor.
‘So you’ve heard. People talk all the time. There is no certainty that what they are saying is true.’ He pinches the apex of his nose. He hates being dishonest, especially with himself, not to mention to others.
‘Demo…’ the young voice trails off. There is disappointment and hope, melting together to form something different from misgiving. Confusion.
‘Ne, this doesn’t work on me. I came here to become your disciple. So you‘d better give me a proof.’ He does turn around and gazes reproachfully to the other.
‘You will become no one’s apprentice with that attitude of yours.’ He says sternly, receiving a glare in return, until the eyes are glaring at the floor instead, as if blaming it for his misfortune. Then, as unexpected, the boy turns around and unties his knapsack and holds out a white fuzzy bundle of fur.
‘Take him, he is my treasure, I have nothing more worth than him to offer to you. ‘Tezuka looks at the cat from the young’s hands and in the eyes of its owner. The boy’s blunt honesty astounds him. There is more to this boy than meets the eye. He takes the offering. As if on cue, a red rose appears in the palm of the youth. Exasperated, he puts the cat down, then takes the rose and throws it into the fire of the oven. It scorches until there is nothing left of it, but ashes.
‘Can something be completely destroyed?’ he asks, expecting no answer in return. He watches carefully for any reaction out of the boy. The unnatural golden eyes are closed; the hands are folded to his chest, the perfect image of pensiveness.
‘Hmm. Is this a test or something?’ He measures Tezuka up and down with disinterest, as if his ability is substantial enough and doesn’t need to be probed. Tezuka lets a sigh escape from him. Credulity is innocence in itself, he thinks. ‘No,’ he responds with patience, while he kneels to caress the cat,’ What’s his name?’
‘Karupin.’ The confusion persists in the depths of the voice. ‘Karupin,’ he whispers tasting the name. He stands and walks to a pot and hangs it over the fire. ‘I suppose you’re both hungry.’ He takes out three spoons and plates.
‘Hey, you can’t be serious! I am still waiting for my proof!” the boy exclaims reluctant, even though his stomach is rumbling.
‘There is no need to hasten. It’s not as though you will leave before you have your doubts confirmed.’ he says, rising an inquisitive brow.
‘As long as we agree.’ The response is petulant, as is the mood of the boy. Tezuka stares at him expectantly and he takes a few steps forward towards the table in the right corner of the room. Tezuka clears his throat while he offers him a bowl full of clear water. The boy gives him a questioning glance, then stares down at his smeared hands, and mouths an ‘oh’. Tezuka suppresses a smile.
He starts on wolfing his food, sharing twice his half with Karupin. When he finishes he mumbles a soft: ‘Thanks for the meal.’ Tezuka stares for a moment too long at the way he greedily gulps his water, at the successive rises and falls of his neck, until bashful, he looks away. What is this boy doing to him?
***
‘Ne, are you going to revive the rose, or what?’ The fire has extinguished completely since then. He hasn’t delayed this out of sense of concealing his inability, or to avoid embarrassing himself. No. He did it so that he can see this boy’s true nature. As it turns out, he is honest, caring for his cat, obedient (to him at least), reserved and perceptive. These qualities are, of course, overshadowed by flaws: he is petulant, defiant, and conceited. His character is inclining towards the good side, though. Tezuka is certain that he will make a good disciple, if pointed in the right direction.
‘Patience.’ he asserts. He virtually doesn’t anticipate the boy will be sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the stove, looking up at him from underneath his lashes. Tezuka looks back steadily, thinking of the cold ashes that once formed the rose and that the yellow of those eyes shines opaque in the absence of light, almost green. The appearance is always misleading.
‘Close your eyes. Concentrate; envision the rose as a whole with its details: the red petals, the stem, the thorns, and the leaves.’ he emphasizes, sitting beside the boy, leaving at least half a meter between them.
‘You won’t fool me, will you?’ he quires giving Tezuka a curios side-long glance. Tezuka doesn’t avoid his eyes, as he states:’ No, I won’t.’
‘Oh, then will you close yours too?’ the boy quips, gazing with contained anticipation at the grey remnants of the fire.
‘Yes,’ he retorts, ‘we both are.’ He directs one last warning glance at the other, so that he will comply. He receives a smirk in return. Which is not very reassuring. Nonetheless, he shuts his eyes partially, just to see the other squint one eye.
‘No peeking.’ he urges. He is gratified with a sulky: ‘Tch’ and, finally, both eyes are closed.
***
He remembers the knowledge he was passes down by his parents, and his mentors. He remembers that he once read: “I write: ‘I am going to join you my love….’ And instantly, I am wings which give me back my beloved.” Why does he remembers this, he isn’t sure. Yet, there is a purpose. He only needs to utter a word for the rose to be revived. What he requires is not credulity, but belief. It’s not enough for him to have faith, they both ought to believe. Otherwise, nothing will happen.
‘Hold out your hand.’ he says, as he deposits something on the outstretched palm. ‘Can you feel it?’ he inquires, and then he places his hand over the other’s eyes. ‘No. Don’t open them yet.’ There is a small hesitation, a small huff of protest; nevertheless, the eyes remain motionless, blind. The fingers fumble over soft petals, nearly prickling in thorns. Tezuka guides them over the leaves and corolla, the scent of roses permeating through the air.
‘My detractors claim I’m an impostor.’ he remarks, ‘Who do you think I am?’
‘Heh. You’ve given me proof enough. You’re a true alchemist.’ The voice is clear and genuine.
‘Do you believe without having seen anything?’ he argues; maintaining his palm over the boy’s eyes.
‘Che, of course. If it is you.’ he doesn’t need any other evidence, thus he removes his hand. The boy blinks, rubbing at his eyes. He doesn’t have to glance on his palm, to know the rose is there, he looks Tezuka in the eyes, with unyielding confidence.
‘Am I your disciple, yet?’ the boy scuttles closer to him, practically touching the back of Tezuka’s hand with his fingertips. Tezuka takes an unnecessary intake of breath. His pulse rising at the closeness.
‘No, not yet. I still don’t know your name.’ Tezuka's mouth straightens in a line, as the boy barely realizes now that he hasn’t introduced himself.
‘Really? Mada mada da ne, ‘he reproofs himself. ‘Echizen Ryoma.’ He eyes Tezuka warily, for a second, before he returns, ‘Now?’ Tezuka is torn between laughing and reprimanding. A disciple needs to learn what ‘patience’ is. But there is plenty of time.
‘Yes.’ The echo of his answer resonating across miles of seconds towards a common future, where everything is beyond logic.