Demon of the Mountain Part Four: Epilogue By: Shutani Houkiku The sun was a sullen smudge across the sky. How long has it been that he's laid there? Ten, twenty hours? Days? Weeks? It felt like eternity. The war is over now, finally. Finally, he can rest. That's all it has been these years, hasn't it? Going onto the battlefield, waddling zombie-like in corpses and blood, hoping for death or the end, whichever came first. She was right, Harada, you -ARE- pathetic. The blood-splattered corpse of Harada Sanosuke stirred and pulled itself to a sitting position. It started to stand, considering a new destination, and dropped back to the rusty dust a few steps later. What was the point? There was nowhere he could go, nowhere he =wanted= to go; save one, Hell. It is the only place he knew he can find her and the only place he wanted to go was to her. Even if she had left. Even if he had been telling himself he needed her less than she needed him, which apparently wasn't much to begin with. He had almost forgotten her. The wine and the women helped. But sometimes, and he could afford to be honest with himself now that he is dying, when the moon was feverish pale and the wind blade-sharp and chilling, he could almost fancy a clear fragrance of chrysanthemums in the careless spread of dark hair next to him or a familiar shadow, beautiful and horrific at the same time, on a distant rooftop. A bold young crow ventured adenturously up his shoulder and began a valigant pecking at his ear, unnoticed. The cakes of old blood fell to a hungry beak and renewed bleeding. It was a sluggish trickle, desire-less, lethargic, an exact reflection of himself. He fell back against two fallen men and closed his eyes to the sky. The bird squawked its indignance and flapped off to complain to his parents. Ishin and Shinsen lay dead on the barren battlefield, across one another. In death, all man are brothers. Idly he wondered what the vast plain will become in another decade or two. They said, where he grew up, that the most beautiful flowers, in particular the fiery mandala, bloom on the nourishment of human blood. "I wonder what flower my blood will grow." He sighed to his ghastly companions, letting his hand fall from the gut-gush he had been holding. Really, there is no point in holding on. It was merely a bad habit. It seemed all so clear now, all the little mysteries that had plagued him through life. The reasons, the inevitability, the solutions, what could have been done, the acceptance. He let his life passed before the inside of his lids, content to be swept away in its ebbing tide. More time passed. The wash of red light that was the sun's eye over the mutilated land blended perfectly to the stains upon the earth. A soft crunch of sand broke his trance. Someone stood before him, someone with a blade, if his failing senses told him right. He didn't bother to look. "If you're here to kill me, hurry up so I can get back to rest." His lips cracked and bled; not that he cared. "I fear your penance is not so kind." Harada jerked upright, eyes opening with a snap: that voice! The quiet mockery, the husky rasp, a hallucination? Even so, a happy one indeed! A hand gripped his heart with an intensity he had not thought he would ever experience again. The familiar white kimono, glowing through his swollen vision like the pure divine moon, patterned in its comforting mint green, edges tainted in the rusty brown-red of blood. He gulped and lifted his eyes. The setting sun peeked through the fiery mane tangled amidst an ebony black waterfall, a brilliant flag to this apparition of the bone-pale, stone-hard face of the most hideous and sinister kind of nightmare. Beautiful and horrific at the same time. He started to reach out, and stopped himself, falling back defeated against his backrest. She was here to clear the battlefield, it seems, as were the other figures further in the field. Some were hired assassins to give a quick death to those who lived and suffered. Others were bandits, hoping to get some pickings before the burial began. It was the custom, a required service, for the victors of the war to see to the burial of the dead as respect, allies and foes. There is no distinction. They're both dead. Silence passed, broken only by the caw of crows startled in a distance. His throat went drier. His voice cracked and his lips stuck a little from the thick blood welling there. "So... what is it, then?" There was another pause, and she sheathed the curved metal that was her Tenshotou. "To live with the deaths you have committed in the sullied name of Righteousness." The Arashi- Yasha delivered. Harada closed his eyes with a slight nod. The Mountain-Gods know. For all their purposes, the noble ideals, They knew, as he knows, the truth of his actions as a member of the Shinsen-gumi. Now, he must live with it. "And one Shutani Houkiku." Again the harsh voice of the demon broke him from reverie. He stared back at the towering figure of traditional lore, the message had some trouble sinking in. "That is, if you'll have her." Her demeanour betrayed nothing, if the voice was less grating. Harada gaped and wet his dry lips twice, and smiled as much as he could, keeping his voice quietly steady with effort he had not thought was in him before. "I wouldn't call that a punishment." And slowly, the Yasha reached to behind her head and drew off the twisted countenance of vengeance and fury. "No," Replied the gentle, mellow sound that had once been his favourite in the world, unrealised till he lost it. "No," She said, quieter and softer now, meeting his eyes. "It is mine." He laughed the best he could and was cut off in a fit of coughs that left his sleeve bloodier. "Oh Kiku," He laughed again, more carefully this time for the sake of his health, now that he had to ensure keeping a long one again. His voice, as he reached out to draw her down to him, was thick with emotion. "Come here, woman." She obliged, still as composed as ever, except, perhaps for the little bit of savage force in her returning embrace. It felt good to have her in his arms again, to bury his head in the crook of her neck and shoulder, to find hers resting against his shoulder and clasp it closer. How could he ever have let her go, knowing the way she filled him thus? But never again. NEVER. His heart trembled and bubbled over. Kiku, I... And caught in his throat. He choked back a sob and clutched her closer. Nevernevernevernever. Near bursting with an emotion he knew but cannot name, he finally managed to work the single phrase that has been running wild in his mind, getting lost and restrained by manly pride, around the lump in his throat. "... Aishiteiru..." * * * Much as she declined to admit it, she had ached for him far too long. A voice reprimanded her sharply, for allowing emotions to dictate her actions. This will never work, you know that. It said, not unkindly. There are far too much scars and thorns between you. But oh, indulge me, She pleaded of her logical self and was left to with a sigh, not completely unhappy; and she wondered briefly, too, what manner of punishment was this of the Mountain's upon her. His sudden whisper startled her, but not so much as the words. "... Aishiteiru..." -- I love you. Words that were her heart's desire that she had no idea was. It bypassed her mind, straight to her lips, a quivering "Hondou no..." -- Really? What is he saying? What am =I= saying?? His response was to hold her out at arm's length, staring deep into her eyes like he never did before. "Hai. Jettai." He surprised even himself with the intensity of that emotion of absolution. And as the tears began their silent course down her cheeks, she placed a stunned hand to them and -knew-. This is the ultimate judgement, the cruellest and greatest unmaking: to deliver the weary warrior his brightest hope, and the self-despising, an all-encompassing love. To make this judgement willingly accepted, even desired. She can never walk away now. And that was just fine by her. * * * [End Part Four/Epilogue] [End "Demon of the Mountain"]