lo, there is nary but a truth that it is in the nature of a woman to wield brutality with a gentle hand!
on the precipice of the newest of moons, what, pray tell, is tonight’s manifestations. the teahouse vibrates with possibility for a patriarchal throng. nanami knows when to slip her spell in between the delicate space of their heartbeats in the way a virtuoso knows the rise and fall of a diminuendo. she knows that the deluge of her pelagic hues is enough to drown them in her affectations and it is so they empty their pockets and their hearts. but what of the inferno seated in the front row, all heady heat and a cool surety, a cruel juxtaposition? what of his observance of her every movement, how close he is to cutting himself on the fragments of her conditioning? the slight tilt of her sanguine lacquered lips is an indication.
tonight, her body has a story to tell and so he will hear it. it begins with a fair maiden consumed by the death of her beloved. grief is a house without windows so the dismantling of her universe makes way to an utmost profound hysteria. to interpret death is to imitate the throes of love and so nanami’s body contorts to the purr of the shamisen as if suspended in a rapture. dare she draw inferences from her paramour ? it is easy, as to imagine his demise is to imagine the demarcation of atom from atom, to be wrenched apart by the gods’ divine chariots limb by limb. silence folds neatly around the room as they all watch her and as the denouement signals the maiden’s death, the siren ends her display collapsing into a neat bow.
hark _! _ the proclivities of the human condition is to crave their demise. whether they perceive this malady or not does not matter here, their penchant for ruination is embedded between sinew and synapse. it is in this way that nanami appeals to their nature. she absorbs their applause, like raindrops upon a jade sea, rising to her feet. had she not been looking for him, perhaps she might have missed the chance to preserve a life. perhaps she would bear witness to a decimation of sorts, one that would bring this teahouse down to its knees. but her eyes are quick to spy her lover’s movements and it does not take her long to become cognisant of his umbrage. there he is, built for the fury. he is incendiary in the way he moves and it is a wonder how he doth not scorch the earth he walks upon.
she moves towards the pending altercation, orbs of lantern light dissolving into the fine silk of her kimono. her presence itself is enough to incite momentary pause; witness how they become lost in the architecture of her physique, how they are all too quick to drown in her ocean eyes. she dips gracefully into a bow, onyx gossamer threading from her scalp cascading forwards as this geiko is not of normal convention. she does not hold her hair up like the others, another facet of her guile. she straightens her spine and gently rests a hand on the sleeve of the besotted. the exchange is quick, she plucks a song from her throat, places it behind his left ear where the others cannot hear it. “ the sky is heavy with rain so please be careful on your way home. ” her voice is akin to the chime of the a forest stream, and it brings a flush to the gentleman’s face. with that, he stumbles off into the night and nanami looks up at kaji, her kaji, as if he is the glow of helios outlining a mountain peak. in the darkness of his eyes, the crease in the space between his eyes, she makes a home in his anger.
“ kaji-sama, would you allow me to escort you to the tea room ? ” she asks, balancing moonlight on the apples of her cheeks, her smile donned for him and him only. to start their reunion with a tea ceremony is mostly for the courtesy of mother standing to the side of them but she is aware of his appreciation for such customs. he is different from the others in ways that she does not fully comprehend; he holds a history that she cannot claim to absolve him from but she knows the right ways to hold him, where to place her lips, where her body fits in the puzzle piece of his form.
she leads him away to the private room, her feet whispering into the oak flooring, careful not to betray her haste. pulling the the screen door back first, she moves to the side, allowing him entry first and before closing it, she whispers to the passing house aunty to gather some hot water and jasmine. “ there is no need for a fight, kaji,** ”** she begins, dropping the honorific as she closes the space between them. “ we all know i am yours. ”
the ancient concept of rebirth finds its roots woven in religion, wherein priests and leaders breathe the comforting tale of the ouroboros snake grasping desperately onto its own tail with an iron bite. it is an elaborate allegory symbolising the simple concept of a boundless reserve, one bearing an 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 the concept of reincarnation and religion alike.
but could there, perchance, be a sliver of truth in their preaching?
what he means to say is this: in the darkest of nights, yongtae is haunted by recurring dreams of a vast island. yes, perhaps the island 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 lies a growing threat. see, not only are there trees and birds, but the ground is of xenolith and the air is thick with tephra. every night, it is the same scene that wakes him: that is, the bubbling lava which spurts from its mouth and slithers towards all that is doomed to die.
that is to say, he does not know a time when he had been ignorant of mother’s piercing screams. do not be mistaken, for he neither invites his wrath nor wishes to dwell in it. see, like the island, he is a victim to its spleen, and how exhausting it must be to hold the intensity of these emotions within the boundaries of his skin, that which is so ill-fittingly small for the rage that lies within him. like a zealot, he falls to his knees and pleas for mercy—his mercy—but does he not already know? a dragon’s pride is only fuelled by prayer.
( oh, woe betides him, who exists as an island ablaze. )
unfortunately, as mother often complains, yongtae fails to find a strong suit in learning. why, here he is now, a plea to halt dancing on the precipice of his mind’s eye. as for he who is in control—that is, this dragon—his glare sings a song of death.
and it is with this glare that he watches the drunkard sober to contest him, jaw hanging in preparation for the words he wishes to slur. it is all for naught, of course, for yongtae has already made up his mind not to hear it; instead, his eyes trace the curve of the former’s neck, and he curiously 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 the infuriating sight of her delicate palm resting against his contender’s sleeve, of her whispering her sweet nothings into his ear. instead he bristles to the point where he is almost mad, and he swears he would rather curl his claws into the man’s throat, had she not saved his life by promptly dismissing him. as for yongtae, it has always been a fine dance between madness and sanity, rage and composure, and ah, it is only her endearing smile and her dulcet voice and everything else that makes up the shape of her that manages 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 thinks it wise not to speak and instead, acknowledges her question with a single, cold nod. and yet somehow, he remembers the manners that mother had drilled into his once 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 once done for mother.
even when they are within the confines of privacy, it is his silence that betrays his anger. he barely looks at her, instead opting to glare at the intricate designs on the wall, as though he has not seen already it a hundred times before. it is only when she speaks, when he feels her presence looming behind his shoulder, that he finally turns to acknowledge her, a strong palm pulling her in from the small of her back. a thumb smears against the white that paints her cheek, and he swipes it off to gaze upon the hue of her skin, a pacifying reminder that underneath it all, she is just, quite simply, his nana. unfortunately, it does not work quite as effectively as he had hoped.
“do we?” it is a pained whisper into the night, a muted question risen from the cracks of his demeanour, “had i not been here, would he not have claimed 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?”