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    Beloved: A Moribito Fanfic

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    Guardian Enzo

    Posts : 29
    Join date : 2009-05-08

    Beloved: A Moribito Fanfic

    Post  Guardian Enzo on Sat May 16, 2009 2:07 am

    Hello, all. I don't know yet where I'm going with this fic, but my love for these characters is such that I feel like I have no choice but to write and see what happens. Here's a little appetizer...



    BELOVED


    PART I


    CHAGUM






    I just want to say "Thank you" to my beloved
    As many times as my voice will allow me to
    Will this reach out
    To my beloved, who is irreplaceable to me?

    I was thinking that when you grow up, it must be lonely
    But right now I understand that I can't live my life alone, so it's fine

    "Thank you" to my beloved, for having given me courage
    I want to give those words to her as a present, from my heart
    And this time, I wonder if
    I can do something in return for my beloved
    The unchanging connection to a person, in this changing world
    I want to treasure it




    The summer sun shone brilliantly overhead, causing the jade leaves of the cherry trees and cobalt ponds of the imperial grounds to radiate an almost preternatural glow. The Misty Blue Mountains far off in the distance did not live up to their name on this day, even their highest white-tipped pinnacles clearly visible from the palace grounds. In the vast plain between the peaks of the Aoigiri and the smaller but more lush eastern range, Ogi-no-Shimo sprawled in a bustling span of small shops and huts on the far side of the Aoyumi, stretching into the rice paddies at the foot of the mountains.

    Among the trees in the west garden a boy sat on a small arched bridge spanning a tiny pond, legs dangling over the side. He was small, still, clearly a child – hair tied back in a pony tail and dressed in a summer yukata of white and vermillion, simple in design though fringed at the cuffs and sleeves with gold. There was a depth to his eyes and stern set to his face, however, that looked out of place in one so young. And where his forearms emerged from his sleeves there was a surprising ripple of corded muscle.

    The piercing blue eyes were fixed firmly on the silent waters of the little pond, perhaps following the mottled koi that swam purposefully below its surface. The eyes took in none of the majesty of the mountains and paddies that spread out below the hillside perch on which the palace sat, and certainly not the distant bustle of the town. The eyes never looked there – not when the boy could help it. And when the robed, sad-faced young man with long white hair approached to inform him that he could no longer delay the audience with his father, a glint of moisture was reflected in the depths of their cool blue brilliance.


    Though far, far too distant for the eyes of a child in the Imperial Palace to discern even had they been directed towards the Aogiri, a lone figure was moving among the mountains. The high pass that cut through them and offered the only route to the Yogo Peninsula was cold, even in midsummer. Wind screamed down through the pass, carrying the bitter cold of the glacial heights with it. For the woman than moved along the Kanbal road today, however, such things were a trivial matter. Raised as she had been in the harsh landscapes of Kanbal, the air felt almost balmy – though for even a hardened warrior like herself the pass would have been impassible in any other season, the journey suicide.

    In sharp contrast to the small figure of the boy in the valley far below, the woman was dressed in simple, utilitarian attire – faded red woolen cloak and leggings, rough boots, a sturdy pack across her broad shoulders. Her face was rough and chapped by the wind, cheeks reddened. Fine lines spider-webbed at the corners of her eyes – eyes which were dark and intelligent, seeming to contain a latent fire which might burst forth at any moment. And on her back, a spear – tied in place and capped by a leather scabbard.

    She knew the route well, by now – she had travelled it several times, from her early childhood. Every crag was increasingly familiar, every switchback an old companion as she drew closer to the cut in the rock where the Kanbal road would break through at Misty Blue range and her eyes would fall on the vast, fertile land on their far side. And when at last the final switchback was behind her and the air beginning to take on the scent of green, she knew the end of her journey was near.

    The warrior stood impassively gazing down at the Yogo below, closing her eyes after a moment to feel the warm wind rising off the plains, a sharp contrast to the icy gusts of the Aogiri. When she opened her eyes it was to a view that she had beheld many times before, as child and adult, at the close of this journey. This time, however, the view seemed different, felt different – though the paddies and lakes and distant palaces were as familiar as the feel of her spear in her hand. Now, the water that nourished the rice and the green of the trees held a power it had never held for the woman before, and the spires of the palaces seemed somehow more remote and hostile. As she took in the scene before her, the warrior was surprised to feel a tickle of wetness at the corners of her eyes.

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