the ancient concept of rebirth finds its roots woven in religion,wherein priests and leaders breathe the comforting tale of the ouroboros snakegrasping desperately onto its own tail with an iron bite. it is an elaborateallegory symbolising the simple concept of a boundless reserve, one bearingan infinite number of chances to right the ways in which one had been wronged.as for someone with the gift of immortality, yongtae finds redundancy in theconcept of reincarnation and religion alike.
but could there, perchance, be a sliver of truth in theirpreaching?
what he means to say is this: in the darkest of nights,yongtae is haunted by recurring dreams of a vast island. yes, perhaps theisland is pretty, lush with bountiful palm trees and blue hummingbirds,but at the heart of this island is a large, hollow peak, and in this peak liesa growing threat. see, not only are there trees and birds, butthe ground is of xenolith and the air is thick with tephra. every night, it isthe same scene that wakes him: that is, the bubbling lava which spurts from itsmouth and slithers towards all that is doomed to die.
that is to say, he does not know a time when he had beenignorant of mother’s piercing screams. do not be mistaken, for he neitherinvites his wrath nor wishes to dwell in it. see, like the island, he is avictim to its spleen, and how exhausting it must be to hold the intensity of theseemotions within the boundaries of his skin, that which is so ill-fittinglysmall for the rage that lies within him. like a zealot, he falls to his kneesand pleas for mercy—his mercy—but does he not already know? a dragon’spride is only fuelled by prayer.
( oh, woe betides him, who exists as an island ablaze. )
unfortunately, as mother often complains, yongtae fails tofind a strong suit in learning. why, here he is now, a plea to halt dancing onthe precipice of his mind’s eye. as for he who is in control—that is, this dragon—hisglare sings a song of death.
and it is with this glare that he watches the drunkard soberto contest him, jaw hanging in preparation for the words he wishes to slur. itis all for naught, of course, for yongtae has already made up his mind not tohear it; instead, his eyes trace the curve of the former’s neck, and hecuriously wonders if the blood of a drunk would pour out bitter, like red wine.
his thought is interrupted as his beloved steps into view,though his features are robbed of the chance to soften as he catches theinfuriating sight of her delicate palm resting against his contender’s sleeve,of her whispering her sweet nothings into his ear. instead he bristlesto the point where he is almost mad, and he swears he would rather curl hisclaws into the man’s throat, had she not saved his life by promptly dismissinghim. as for yongtae, it has always been a fine dance between madness andsanity, rage and composure, and ah, it is only her endearing smile andher dulcet voice and everything else that makes up the shape of her thatmanages to put water to the flames that fan within him.
( for now, at least, it will suffice. )
he still suffers from the remnants of his rage, so he thinksit wise not to speak and instead, acknowledges her question with a single, coldnod. and yet somehow, he remembers the manners that mother had drilled into hisonce youthful skull, so he pivots to bow towards the madam of the house. then,he raises the hook of his elbow for her to rest her grip, just as he had oncedone for mother.
even when they are within the confines of privacy, it is hissilence that betrays his anger. he barely looks at her, instead opting to glareat the intricate designs on the wall, as though he has not seen already it ahundred times before. it is only when she speaks, when he feels her presencelooming behind his shoulder, that he finally turns to acknowledge her, a strongpalm pulling her in from the small of her back. a thumb smears against thewhite that paints her cheek, and he swipes it off to gaze upon the hue of herskin, a pacifying reminder that underneath it all, she is just, quite simply, hisnana. unfortunately, it does not work quite as effectively as he had hoped.
“do we?” it is a pained whisper into the night, a muted questionrisen from the cracks of his demeanour, “had i not been here, would he not haveclaimed you to be his, just as i am?”
he studies her expression closely and holds her even closer,as though she should disappear into the wind had his grip not anchored her.large palms reach to cup the curve of her jaw as he poses a dangerous question,one which he knows the answer to and fears it all the same—
“would he not have succeeded?”
where does our story begin? three crones with gnarled fingers fastened around a golden chalice, mugwort and its hazy prophecies swirling in its basin. they solicit their gods for a glimmer of truth and in turn they cast visions of ephialtes drenched in all that is carmine and bruised. black meets blue as the haemorrhage ushers in a tale of monsters and men, but a blackened fingernail eddies the mist of a single strand. the other two remark that there is no need for this particular parable, that the accursed siren who forgets herself and falls in love with a dragon is not worth the damnification.
but what of her now ? with her ocean eyes all too keen to inundate, fixed on the embers of her beloved’s ire. nanami lets his words, suspended by the noose of inevitability, hang there minutely, knowing to taste the words on her tongue before uttering them into the expanse. instead she leans into his touch, a fiend for the prickly thorn of this sort of embrace.
“ peace, dear kaji. i understand your choler and i give way to it, ” she says in surrender as she leans upwards to find his lips with her own, pray she stop his mouth with a kiss. it would be easy, she thinks, to slip a song into his musings but aye, here is the rub. to whisk away his will is to not know the yearning in which he displays here, where it freely spouts from the fountain. let it be a morsel; let it be but a fragment of his devotion and let it be known that she is entirely, eternally his. should he be her god then she is pious, knees marred with a hope for redemption, buoyed on the vespers of his immortal praise.
( in his spotlight, life is breathed into this empty chest and the bronchial report is more than a reward for such a beast. )
alas, is that not perchance an apparition of dearest sister that watches from shadows? just there, behind thine shoulder ! nanami blenches, pulling away from her beloved, her fingers struggling to find purchase on what is reality and what is not. “ i would not allow such a thing, not after all we have shared, ” she answers, finally. there is truth in the statement but it is flimsy in the way promises made out of parchment are wont to be around a naked flame. so to fortify, she adds, “ come, let us not talk of the ill when our reunion is to be honeyed and sweet. we shall sup our tea or if sleep burdens your brow, we can retreat to my chamber. ”
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