Long lost days of you and me

[vermicompost]

Characters: Kariya Matou and open
Setting: The dormitories and the meadow (or anywhere else, if anyone would like to take him somewhere, as he isn't very mobile on his own– he likes visitors, and trips.)
Format: Action to start, but prose is fine, too
Summary: It's only been a year or so, by Kariya's reckoning (when he can remember), but time and magical parasites have taken their toll.
Warnings: blood and possible body horror or angst



Kariya's Room:

[It's difficult for him to move at all, yet he has his wheelchair, and he can push it a little ways. It's hard for him to leave the dormitories, yet sometimes he still tries. Not now. For the moment, he's resting in his room, his eyes closed, even though he isn't sleeping. It's hard for him to fall asleep.

His body is smaller than it used to be. He's shrunk. Both his eyes are oddly whitish, both sides of him equally affected by what lives within him. His pale skin is all lines and veins, and the movement of the worms within him is evident beneath it, where it shows. His skin appears so thin, it seems it might break at any moment. All of him seems like it might break. Sometimes it does. His skin cracks in lines where it's thinnest, and the blood seeps out. He hardly notices when that happens. Maybe it's because it happens all the time, or maybe he simply isn't thinking clearly enough to realize.

He mutters to himself sometimes, and today is no exception. Sakura, he says often, or he mumbles something about going back home. Back home. He's going to get there. He'll go back to the War, he'll fight and he'll win, and he'll make everything all right again. Suddenly, he speaks, his voice firming, loud enough to be heard clearly.]

I'll help everyone go home.

[That's what he'll do.]

The Dormitory Hallways:

[Kariya wheels himself slowly along. He probably won't get very far, but he likes the feeling of moving forward. (He hasn't told anyone he was going.) He likes to travel. He used to travel once, didn't he? He feels so confined when he's in his room too long, trapped in one place. It's better to get out and around. Unfortunately, the corridors are so confusingly, frustratingly similar.

When he's gone a certain distance, he forgets how far he's come and where he was headed. He stops in the middle of the hallway, not sure whether to go forward or back. Maybe if he waits here long enough, he'll remember. Or maybe it wasn't so important. This is a change of scenery, isn't it? He sits back and gazes down the corridor, a wasted figure with white hair, waiting for someone or something interesting to arrive. He can't see very well, but his expression, if anyone were close enough to read it, is a hopeful one.]

The Meadow:

[It's a good day when he can get to the meadow. Some days, he's stronger, if only a little. The meadow is his favorite floor. It's beautiful there. It makes him smile. The grass and the flowers remind him of the park where he used to play with the children. Sometimes he thinks it is that park. But not today. No, he's thinking more clearly today. He moves a thin arm and manages to take out his photograph, from where he always keeps it, in the pocket of his jacket. It's wrinkled and torn and stained with blood, but it's his. His picture of his family: that's Aoi standing beside him, his wife, and with them are two little girls: their two daughters, Rin and Sakura. When he goes home, he'll see them again. They'll be happy again.

He's forgotten that he never married, that he never had children. But why would he want to remember a thing like that?]

Comments

[vermicompost]

Are you? I'm so glad, Diarmuid. It's good that there's someone she can talk to about it. I hope she'll let you help her. She should. You're a good person, and I know she can trust you. [He doesn't pry about what the problem is. Rin is almost grown up now. It isn't his place to pry, but he wishes she'd tell him what's wrong.]

She's at that age, where she doesn't want to tell her father everything anymore. When she was little, she used to want to tell me all her little secrets. I wish she felt she could confide in me still.

You should have sung with your father. [He shakes his head, if with a smile.] It doesn't matter how it's sung, it's that you're singing it together that matters. That's how you feel, when you're a parent. It's like the terrible food your daughter made. All those little moments matter. You should sing for me, sometime. One of his songs. I'd like that.

You're kind, to want to listen to me. I don't know if it's much of a story, my story. I had a simple, normal life. We used to live near a park. Sakura, Rin, Aoi, and I would walk there almost every day, when the weather was nice. There were swings and a slide and all kinds of things for the children to play on. [The park is so bright and luminous in his mind. It's an idyllic place, where nothing bad could ever happen.] There were flowers, too, and I used to take pictures. I was never so happy, before or since.

But then– [He breaks off. His hand, still resting on Diarmuid's head, starts to shake. Even in his happy fantasy there's something darker lurking.] Sakura... [When he says her name, it's almost like a prayer, not that Kariya prays, not to anything like a god.] Sakura. [He can't seem to escape it, the thought of Sakura, the thought that something is and has been terribly wrong.] She went away. [He says it almost as if it's a question, but it isn't a question, because he knows something happened.]

[oathshackledbird]

Easy, Master, easy.

[Lancer sits up and takes Kariya's hand in his.]

She might have left, but she came back. She is here with you and Rin now and that is all that matters. You need to focus on going home so that you all can be with Aoi again. Don't worry about that time while she was gone. It's the past.

[He smiles gently.]

Come, if you would like, I will sing one of my father's songs for you. Will that make you feel better? You can tell me just how bad I am.

[vermicompost]

All right, Diarmuid. [Somehow, Diarmuid is able to calm him down. It's the Servant's calm strength, and his kindness. He's never quite felt he deserved such service. Who is he, after all? Just an ordinary person and a poor magus. He's never seen himself as anything special, except for the fact that he's a father who loves his children, but there's something in the way Diarmuid calls him "Master". Diarmuid seems to see something else in him, something worthwhile.

There's blood on his mouth and on his hands, but only a little. His skin is thin and splits so easily.]

It's hard to remember that time. When Sakura was gone. And the darkness, the room... [There are fragments of memories: the Matou Mansion, Zouken's face, the dark room with its sickeningly earthy smell– but he pushes them away when Diarmuid asks him to. He trusts Diarmuid] It's like a nightmare. [But it's over now, as Diarmuid said.] You're right. Now is what matters. And Aoi. I love her very much.

[He nods at Diarmuid's offer, touched by it.] I'd like that. I'm sure you're not bad. I know you must sing better than I do.

[He used to have a soft voice that people said was pleasant, but since the worms ravaged his throat, his voice is as much of a wreck as the rest of him.]

[oathshackledbird]

Then don't push yourself to remember. There is no reason to remember such a bad time.

[Lancer carefully wipes away the blood from Kariya's face and hands.]

I have to apologize, though. All of my father's songs are in our native tongue and it's not something that I can translate easily, but he always said that part of the magic of music is that it can transcend barriers like language.

[Lancer settles into a comfortable position at Kariya's feet and then shuts his eyes. After a few moments, a bittersweet song about love and loss begins to fill the air. It twists around them, the emotion in the words almost tangible as they are sung.

Aengus had been right to call his son a song bird. No matter how much Lancer might try to argue against it, there is no denying that his voice holds a beauty that few possess--a beauty that he will forever be deaf to.]

[vermicompost]

Maybe not. [Still, some part of him can't help but worry, aware that there's still something wrong, something he should be concentrating on. Something important that he shouldn't have forgotten. But he pushes it away for now, at Diarmuid's urging.]

That's all right. I don't need to understand the words. I want to hear.

[When Diarmuid sings, he sits and listens, quietly. One can listen to music in the tower media room, but this is different. This is real music, sung for him. He closes his eyes. He doesn't know the language, but he can sense the feeling in the song. It would be difficult to miss, Diarmuid sings with such emotion.

He doesn't speak right away when the song is done, allowing it to linger in the air for a few minutes. There are tears in his eyes again, but he blinks them away. He weeps so easily these days. Just as he bleeds.]

That was beautiful.

[And his own voice sounds even harsher in companion, Kariya a crow to Diarmuid's songbird.]

Your father was right. About the language being no barrier, and about your voice.

[oathshackledbird]

[Lancer shakes his head in denial.]

If you think that is good, you should have heard my father. You should have heard Oisin. They could sing. I am just a pale imitation.

[He bows his head, eyes lowered.]

I shouldn't even do it. It's an insult to them--to what they tried to teach me. A warrior like me could never hope to match them, but if it brings you some joy then that is all that matters. If you would like to hear me sing again, all you need to do is ask. You know I will do all you ask of me.

[vermicompost]

I don't think you know what you really sound like. You have a wonderful voice, that's all I know. I can't compare it to voices I haven't heard.

Why can't a warrior sing? If your father wanted you to sing, then you should. How can that be an insult? You can do it in his memory, if that was what he asked. I know I always want my girls to believe in themselves and do the things they're good at. I hope they'd listen to me, even though I'm only their silly old father. [He feels much older than he actually is.]

I'd like to hear you sing again, but if it pains you, I won't ask. [He doesn't want to cause Diarmuid any pain. Living in this place is hard enough.]

[oathshackledbird]

Perhaps...not. They would say that as well--that I don't seem to hear myself as I actually sound. I always thought they were just being kind, but if you feel the same, maybe it is more than that.

[Lancer shakes his head.]

I don't know why that would be or even how, but music is a fickle mistress. Oisin said that all of the time. Maybe I don't have the right focus or purpose. If I find that, could it be I will finally hear how I really sound?

[He suddenly seems curious and more willing to try.]

If you really don't mind, can I sing for you again sometime? I may not be your child, but your advice is good. I should have more faith in myself.

[Though even as he says it, he doubts. It's been a very long time since he had much faith in himself.]

[vermicompost]

It's hard to hear your own voice. You sing very well. I think so anyway, but I'm not musical. I never had any talent for it. [Not that playing music was exactly encouraged in the Matou Family.] I always liked writing.

That's right. You should try.

[He's pleased that Diarmuid thinks his advice is good, and he smiles at this. He's always wanted to be a good father, to give good advice.]

I miight not be your father, but I have faith in you.

You can sing for me whenever you like. There aren't enough beautiful things here. We could always use more.

[oathshackledbird]

Have you tried to write while you were here? There is no one to tell you 'no' now. You could write of the things you love and your experiences so that others might draw courage from them. And if those things are too personal, then you should write of other things.

[Lancer looks down and gently covers Kariya's hands with his own.]

If you cannot write yourself, I can record the words for you. It is the least I can do. As you say, this place needs more beautiful things.

[vermicompost]

It's hard for me to focus anymore. I used to write stories, but I don't know if I could do that now. I think that might all be in the past.

[He hasn't written since returning to his family. He smiles sadly.

The worms eat away at all the parts of him, and he's not always as lucid as he is now.]

I've never dictated a story. I'm not sure what I'd write about. Maybe I've forgotten how.

This is a nice little bittersweet spot. I'm thinking of leavng them here. What do you think?

[oathshackledbird]

Maybe and maybe it will come back to you in time if you really wish to try.

[Lancer smiles at him gently.]

And if you do wish to try, I will be here for you. Just ask. It is the least I can offer after all the encouragement you have given me on my music.

I agree. That sounds good to me.

[vermicompost]

Do you think so? I don't know... [He seems only to get worse rather than better, inching his way toward death but never reaching it. In spite of that, he's able to smile at Diarmuid once again.] But it can't hurt to try. I should follow my own advice. Maybe we can have a trade. I'll write and you'll sing.

I'll ask. When I think of an idea. Who knows, maybe I'll write a story about a singing knight.