24 Vhalar 718
Chimes suspended along invisible, gossamer strings hung in the empty, unmoving air, their gentle ringing tones reverberated throughout the dull monochrome landscape of stone and lazily flowing water. In the far distance, shrouded by a misty grey fog, rose mountains tall and twisted - their forms softened by the obscurity of distance. Around the small, steadily rippling pool of water, bare toes gripping the cool flagstone that lined its edge, three figures breathed slow and steady to the rhythm of the humming metal bowl and stick in the old monkey’s hands.
Its pale red lips parted, revealing massive white teeth and fangs a trill before it screamed out a series of unintelligible, grating noises, smashing the iron stick against the edge of the bowl. The irregular beat of the sudden discordant mix of the peaceful chimes, the erratic hum of the bowl, and the red-face, purple-nosed primate howling at the top of its lungs washed over the two figures who remained still, eyes closed, breath filling and fleeing from the chests and they rose and fell.
Overhead, the sky began to darken. Clouds, heavy and wet, formed in gradual swirls, yet there was no wind - only the screeching monkey as the chimes quieted and the bowl was violently tossed into the small pool with a splash. Cool, clear droplets of water spackled the plain white hempen pants both of the figures wore, damping the fabric but doing little to distract them from their focus, as the monkey began to jump up and down, its already absurdly loud voice growing all the more intense.
Then, it began to rain.
“Matiasu-kun,” The first meditating figure was a woman of short hair and sharp eyes. She wore a pink robe covered with great white lilies and soaring dragons. Her voice was not her own; it was alien to both her and the common tongue she spoke. It struggled to find words and she didn’t know why. Maybe she was feeling under the weather from a long, arduous night of intense competitive calligraphy. “Do you know why we are doing this desu ka?”
“Mochiron desune, Jippa-sensei.” The second meditating figure was a young man of loosely curled, dirty blonde locks and bright - too bright - grey eyes that slowly opened as he replied. He wore a simple dark blue pleated robe that was accented with pale white cherry blossom flowers along its bottom-most hem. His voice was not his own; it was foreign and strange and unlike either language he was meant to speak. It seemed to push too hard, finding accents where there were none and forcing those where they should not have been. Perhaps he was fatigued from his morning’s bamboo sword tournament that he had spent the last two days learning the mastery of during a colorful and musical montage of dedication and knowledge. “But… tabun… it is best you tell me what is on your mind, onegaishimasu.”
Jippa. Matiasu. Calligraphy. Bamboo tournaments.
“It is kendo, sensei.” Matiasu admonished, chiding her thoughts for their inaccuracy, his eyes suddenly, almost charicaturely, intense. “Your teachings have informed me that though the tree may bend to the wind, it cannot face its foe for that is its nature. In Nature. Is good pun, ho ho ho!”
It was not.
“Yes, it was.”
Why were her thoughts his and his thoughts hers? Where did it start and where did it end? Did he know that at the end of her intense calligraphy tournament from which she had emerged victorious, she had mounted her opponent, a man-sized celestial sparrow with attractive eyebrows, and-
“-made love to her under the half-veiled moon.” Matiasu nodded knowingly. “It was so kirei, I was overwhelmed with emotion, ē to.”
Despite herself, Jippa blushed. “In love and war, the vanquished must give way to the victor. It is known.”
“It is known.” He didn’t need to nod, it was implied in his words.
He nodded anyway.
Chimes suspended along invisible, gossamer strings hung in the empty, unmoving air, their gentle ringing tones reverberated throughout the dull monochrome landscape of stone and lazily flowing water. In the far distance, shrouded by a misty grey fog, rose mountains tall and twisted - their forms softened by the obscurity of distance. Around the small, steadily rippling pool of water, bare toes gripping the cool flagstone that lined its edge, three figures breathed slow and steady to the rhythm of the humming metal bowl and stick in the old monkey’s hands.
Its pale red lips parted, revealing massive white teeth and fangs a trill before it screamed out a series of unintelligible, grating noises, smashing the iron stick against the edge of the bowl. The irregular beat of the sudden discordant mix of the peaceful chimes, the erratic hum of the bowl, and the red-face, purple-nosed primate howling at the top of its lungs washed over the two figures who remained still, eyes closed, breath filling and fleeing from the chests and they rose and fell.
Overhead, the sky began to darken. Clouds, heavy and wet, formed in gradual swirls, yet there was no wind - only the screeching monkey as the chimes quieted and the bowl was violently tossed into the small pool with a splash. Cool, clear droplets of water spackled the plain white hempen pants both of the figures wore, damping the fabric but doing little to distract them from their focus, as the monkey began to jump up and down, its already absurdly loud voice growing all the more intense.
Then, it began to rain.
“Matiasu-kun,” The first meditating figure was a woman of short hair and sharp eyes. She wore a pink robe covered with great white lilies and soaring dragons. Her voice was not her own; it was alien to both her and the common tongue she spoke. It struggled to find words and she didn’t know why. Maybe she was feeling under the weather from a long, arduous night of intense competitive calligraphy. “Do you know why we are doing this desu ka?”
“Mochiron desune, Jippa-sensei.” The second meditating figure was a young man of loosely curled, dirty blonde locks and bright - too bright - grey eyes that slowly opened as he replied. He wore a simple dark blue pleated robe that was accented with pale white cherry blossom flowers along its bottom-most hem. His voice was not his own; it was foreign and strange and unlike either language he was meant to speak. It seemed to push too hard, finding accents where there were none and forcing those where they should not have been. Perhaps he was fatigued from his morning’s bamboo sword tournament that he had spent the last two days learning the mastery of during a colorful and musical montage of dedication and knowledge. “But… tabun… it is best you tell me what is on your mind, onegaishimasu.”
Jippa. Matiasu. Calligraphy. Bamboo tournaments.
“It is kendo, sensei.” Matiasu admonished, chiding her thoughts for their inaccuracy, his eyes suddenly, almost charicaturely, intense. “Your teachings have informed me that though the tree may bend to the wind, it cannot face its foe for that is its nature. In Nature. Is good pun, ho ho ho!”
It was not.
“Yes, it was.”
Why were her thoughts his and his thoughts hers? Where did it start and where did it end? Did he know that at the end of her intense calligraphy tournament from which she had emerged victorious, she had mounted her opponent, a man-sized celestial sparrow with attractive eyebrows, and-
“-made love to her under the half-veiled moon.” Matiasu nodded knowingly. “It was so kirei, I was overwhelmed with emotion, ē to.”
Despite herself, Jippa blushed. “In love and war, the vanquished must give way to the victor. It is known.”
“It is known.” He didn’t need to nod, it was implied in his words.
He nodded anyway.
