(A song begins to play. It's something vaguely somber if it weren't for you know... it being an otomatone.
What follows next is a shift of scenery, a large, open room with tatami floors. A young boy still in his teens sits at a wide table, scrolls spread out in front of him. He dips a seal into a tray of red ink and places its mark on one scroll, his actions guided by a scholarly-looking man beside him.
He stamps and stamps, leaving his mark on each document. The sun sets, the oil is burned, and when it's late, a servant comes to gather them. The scholar bows and excuses himself. The boy remains seated in his heavy, fancy silk robes, and looks over the remaining scrolls on the table, his brow furrowed and uncertain.
The memory Kaeya sees is long. The boy grows into a young man. There are days when he sits at the same table, stamping and writing with brush. He never rests. There are other days where he is gone for days, sometimes even weeks. He returns wearing armor that he eventually grows into. At first, he carries it easily with all of the strength that comes with youth.
But in time, the armor grows worn and heavy. There are evenings where he stumbles into his room and collapses in bed, exhausted, only to get up and work again. His frustration grows, he yells at those around him, he splashes ink angrily at his scrolls. He holds his head in his hands and curses. He reaches for you, placing his hand around your everything firmly and swings. He still has strength.
He returns dressed in black, wearing grief like armor. He stares in the mirror and touches his face. Though he is still a young man in his twenties, he has aged. He reaches for you again. He lacks steadiness but grips tightly and slashes at a wardrobe door. He stares at his reflection in the polished steel. You can see his desperation.
He throws his armor violently to the ground and grabs you again. When tries to set you free, you catch in his hands and fall to the ground. As he stares at his reflection in you, you can see the end approaching.
He works from bed. He barely has the strength to press down on his seal anymore. He's still young but you know he is old. To live a life in this time means to barely live past your thirties, especially when one lives like him.
A child comes to sit by his side. He is so small and unaware of what is happening. Your master looks up at him from his resting place and points to you. The boy looks in your direction, eyes filled with youthful wonder.
Behind him, you see your master watch the child somberly. This child is the future and yet, there is no hope. He closes his eyes and clenches his fist weakly. After working and fighting his entire life, there is no reward.
When he finally dies, all that is left is the impression on your soul: Futility, pointlessness, a sense that nothing matters.)
[ what a long and torturous life. kaeya watches, his body frozen in place as the boy grows into a man, a diligent man, a keen man, a man of duty, but slowly he withers the way a tree does with time. he's overcome with the length of time, finds himself itching to be free of himself, of this, but incapable of it. he is only able to watch, see the frustrating, the anger, the despair, and then the cycle beginning anew again. ]
Tsurumaru...?
[ he lifts his head up, feels the breath rushing into his lungs, cold and sharp. looking at him, his eyes are soft. ]
Was that you? [ he doesn't mean the man or the boy... he could feel it. cold, untouched, watching. ]
(As far as memories go, this one is significantly easier than some of the others he's shared and when it passes, Tsurumaru seems to already be waiting for whatever question Kaeya might ask,)
I've aged much more gracefully, don't you think?
(It's like him to tease and deflect,)
He was one of my more famous masters and my first to die slowly.
[ im not letting you fix that. but as tsurumaru gives his hand over, kaeya pulls a small wrapped piece of glass from his pocket and smiles. ]
This one's good. I promise.
[ before he carefully presses it between both of their hands and the music begins to play. you're looking out from the very top of an immense cliff, where the flowers you know as cecelias bloom. they sway now in the sharp breeze that cuts through the cliff, and you would think that their petals would fly off, but instead they cling with far more strength to their stems that anyone should give a flower credit for. the wind, however, means that the time is just right and as you look out over the cliff, there's a sharp rush.
your equipment clinks as you start to run.
and run.
you aren't stopping, a running leap is the best way to do it.
to give yourself over to the wind.
(it's just as you were taught when you were fitted for your first glider as a teenager, when you practiced off the roof at the dawn winery with crepus ragnvindr there to catch you when you fell.)
one fateful leap over the cliff, you're weightless, you're falling, but mere seconds later, out come a pair of brilliant wings that catch the wind and vault you upwards. there's a column of wind that bursts from below and at once you kick off, letting it catch the glider with its feathery construction. the wind bursts you higher and higher until finally you can see it all below, starsnatch cliff and the rest of the coastline of cape oath. the glider can take you far, and sometimes, it's nice, the weightlessness.
you glide over the water for a time, watching the waves erode away the stone, turning it into more and more sand year after year. you glide over the hills, taking note of a few hillichurl camps, but they're not doing anything at the moment, rather, they're laid in the grass sleeping, so you move onwards, banking away.
when you land, it's with a roll into the soft grass, gasping because you're at the end of your stamina, but somehow never more alive.
when the wind ruffles your hair, you close your eyes, take a deep breath, and lay down in the soft grass. in between your fingers, you can see a small lamp grass bloom.
you decide to take it home, glowing blue in your palm the entire way. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Week 2, Tuesday
What follows next is a shift of scenery, a large, open room with tatami floors. A young boy still in his teens sits at a wide table, scrolls spread out in front of him. He dips a seal into a tray of red ink and places its mark on one scroll, his actions guided by a scholarly-looking man beside him.
He stamps and stamps, leaving his mark on each document. The sun sets, the oil is burned, and when it's late, a servant comes to gather them. The scholar bows and excuses himself. The boy remains seated in his heavy, fancy silk robes, and looks over the remaining scrolls on the table, his brow furrowed and uncertain.
The memory Kaeya sees is long. The boy grows into a young man. There are days when he sits at the same table, stamping and writing with brush. He never rests. There are other days where he is gone for days, sometimes even weeks. He returns wearing armor that he eventually grows into. At first, he carries it easily with all of the strength that comes with youth.
But in time, the armor grows worn and heavy. There are evenings where he stumbles into his room and collapses in bed, exhausted, only to get up and work again. His frustration grows, he yells at those around him, he splashes ink angrily at his scrolls. He holds his head in his hands and curses. He reaches for you, placing his hand around your everything firmly and swings. He still has strength.
He returns dressed in black, wearing grief like armor. He stares in the mirror and touches his face. Though he is still a young man in his twenties, he has aged. He reaches for you again. He lacks steadiness but grips tightly and slashes at a wardrobe door. He stares at his reflection in the polished steel. You can see his desperation.
He throws his armor violently to the ground and grabs you again. When tries to set you free, you catch in his hands and fall to the ground. As he stares at his reflection in you, you can see the end approaching.
He works from bed. He barely has the strength to press down on his seal anymore. He's still young but you know he is old. To live a life in this time means to barely live past your thirties, especially when one lives like him.
A child comes to sit by his side. He is so small and unaware of what is happening. Your master looks up at him from his resting place and points to you. The boy looks in your direction, eyes filled with youthful wonder.
Behind him, you see your master watch the child somberly. This child is the future and yet, there is no hope. He closes his eyes and clenches his fist weakly. After working and fighting his entire life, there is no reward.
When he finally dies, all that is left is the impression on your soul: Futility, pointlessness, a sense that nothing matters.)
forever later....
Tsurumaru...?
[ he lifts his head up, feels the breath rushing into his lungs, cold and sharp. looking at him, his eyes are soft. ]
Was that you? [ he doesn't mean the man or the boy... he could feel it. cold, untouched, watching. ]
no subject
I've aged much more gracefully, don't you think?
(It's like him to tease and deflect,)
He was one of my more famous masters and my first to die slowly.
no subject
[ he looks at him. ]
I know that the man was there, and then the boy, but what's a sword without touch? Someone to take the hilt and step into battle...
[ oh man, this is kinda sticking with him, yikes. ]
no subject
The crane is a symbol for peace. Perhaps leaving me alone was a way to wish for it.
(To leave peace undisturbed. )
no subject
[ he... holds out his hands. ]
Could I show you?
no subject
Tsurumaru looks at Kaeya's hand and seems to consider it for a moment. He makes sure to draw it out before finally offering his hand to him,)
Surprise me.
no subject
This one's good. I promise.
[ before he carefully presses it between both of their hands and the music begins to play. you're looking out from the very top of an immense cliff, where the flowers you know as cecelias bloom. they sway now in the sharp breeze that cuts through the cliff, and you would think that their petals would fly off, but instead they cling with far more strength to their stems that anyone should give a flower credit for. the wind, however, means that the time is just right and as you look out over the cliff, there's a sharp rush.
your equipment clinks as you start to run.
and run.
you aren't stopping, a running leap is the best way to do it.
to give yourself over to the wind.
(it's just as you were taught when you were fitted for your first glider as a teenager, when you practiced off the roof at the dawn winery with crepus ragnvindr there to catch you when you fell.)
one fateful leap over the cliff, you're weightless, you're falling, but mere seconds later, out come a pair of brilliant wings that catch the wind and vault you upwards. there's a column of wind that bursts from below and at once you kick off, letting it catch the glider with its feathery construction. the wind bursts you higher and higher until finally you can see it all below, starsnatch cliff and the rest of the coastline of cape oath. the glider can take you far, and sometimes, it's nice, the weightlessness.
you glide over the water for a time, watching the waves erode away the stone, turning it into more and more sand year after year. you glide over the hills, taking note of a few hillichurl camps, but they're not doing anything at the moment, rather, they're laid in the grass sleeping, so you move onwards, banking away.
when you land, it's with a roll into the soft grass, gasping because you're at the end of your stamina, but somehow never more alive.
when the wind ruffles your hair, you close your eyes, take a deep breath, and lay down in the soft grass. in between your fingers, you can see a small lamp grass bloom.
you decide to take it home, glowing blue in your palm the entire way. ]