Saiyuki Gaiden: Tenpou/Kenren
Title: An Air upon the Wind
Author/Artist: i_am_zan
Rating:Sadly, G
Warnings:Sadly none
Word count: 394
Summary: Prompt, 3rd Feb, - Saiyuki Gaiden: Saiyuki Gaiden, Tenpou/Kenren: Reincarnation/Fealty (Medieval Europe or Feudal Japan) - "War is the human race in its truest form."
A/N: This was inspired by Yohji Yoshida's Film "Twilight Samurai". I do apologise for it not being more. Also please someone hit me hard on the head the next time I sign up for these things. *sigh* I am very apologetic to the prompter who is probably expecting... more than just this I am sure.
An Air upon the Wind by Zan
The last note trills and hangs in the air before the rustle of leaves and the wind claim again the night. The firelight cast odd stripes on your face from bamboo slats. It is time to prepare.
I kneel with my back to you, completely trusting and not fearing from being vulnerable.
I hear you wet your fingertips in a bowl of water and then you start your work. With slow deliberate movements, nothing is without purpose. Your hands massage my scalp in gentle and firm strokes, just enough to feel rejuvenate my sleepy eyes to alertness. Then the comb starts to pick its way through the snags in little sections. It is not long before the comb glides through the strands.
Your breath gusts warm and rhythmical on my neck. With two hands, you suddenly tug at a bunch and twist it, pulling on the skin a little. It does not hurt and serves again to wake me, more. It is as it must be. With skill and swiftness, you bind the hair into a twisted knot with a length of braided chord. You dip your fingers in a small dish next to the water bowl - it is clove oil. You slick back the sides of any stray strands and wipe your hands and fingers. Then you stop.
A few moments pass between us. I busy myself with the outer jacket. I check that the collar, creases and chords are in place. I stand and turn to you.
It strikes me that you are of a more slight build than I am. Your hair is long, lanky and that your eyes have a mischievous glint to them. I reach out for your hands and hold them in mine. Perhaps I want a memory of these hands. They are deceivingly strong, with the long fingers and pale skin they look fragile. It is odd the things we choose to remember on the eve of war. Perhaps it is because it is something to hold onto before we breathe our last.
“I will take my leave now.” I am curt because I am holding on to a steadiness I do not feel.
“Come back safe to us,” is all he says.
A few moments pass between us. Time is both long and then short. We bow to each other and I turn to go.
Owari
Author/Artist: i_am_zan
Rating:Sadly, G
Warnings:Sadly none
Word count: 394
Summary: Prompt, 3rd Feb, - Saiyuki Gaiden: Saiyuki Gaiden, Tenpou/Kenren: Reincarnation/Fealty (Medieval Europe or Feudal Japan) - "War is the human race in its truest form."
A/N: This was inspired by Yohji Yoshida's Film "Twilight Samurai". I do apologise for it not being more. Also please someone hit me hard on the head the next time I sign up for these things. *sigh* I am very apologetic to the prompter who is probably expecting... more than just this I am sure.
An Air upon the Wind by Zan
The last note trills and hangs in the air before the rustle of leaves and the wind claim again the night. The firelight cast odd stripes on your face from bamboo slats. It is time to prepare.
I kneel with my back to you, completely trusting and not fearing from being vulnerable.
I hear you wet your fingertips in a bowl of water and then you start your work. With slow deliberate movements, nothing is without purpose. Your hands massage my scalp in gentle and firm strokes, just enough to feel rejuvenate my sleepy eyes to alertness. Then the comb starts to pick its way through the snags in little sections. It is not long before the comb glides through the strands.
Your breath gusts warm and rhythmical on my neck. With two hands, you suddenly tug at a bunch and twist it, pulling on the skin a little. It does not hurt and serves again to wake me, more. It is as it must be. With skill and swiftness, you bind the hair into a twisted knot with a length of braided chord. You dip your fingers in a small dish next to the water bowl - it is clove oil. You slick back the sides of any stray strands and wipe your hands and fingers. Then you stop.
A few moments pass between us. I busy myself with the outer jacket. I check that the collar, creases and chords are in place. I stand and turn to you.
It strikes me that you are of a more slight build than I am. Your hair is long, lanky and that your eyes have a mischievous glint to them. I reach out for your hands and hold them in mine. Perhaps I want a memory of these hands. They are deceivingly strong, with the long fingers and pale skin they look fragile. It is odd the things we choose to remember on the eve of war. Perhaps it is because it is something to hold onto before we breathe our last.
“I will take my leave now.” I am curt because I am holding on to a steadiness I do not feel.
“Come back safe to us,” is all he says.
A few moments pass between us. Time is both long and then short. We bow to each other and I turn to go.
Owari