samhain
His dreams have always been vivid. But it seems like a long time since he's had one quite like this.
He's standing on a hillside that seems kind of familiar, though he can't quite place it. In front of him is the opening to a cave, cut into the side of the hill itself, and he stands facing into its deep black mouth. Why is he here? Is there something he's supposed to be doing? The sky's full of thick, heavy clouds, and the wind whips at his hair and his wings; it looks like it's going to storm. Maybe he should go into the cave, for shelter... but it looks really dark in there, and he can't tell how far down it goes. Maybe really far, so far he'd get lost and never find his way out again. Maybe forever.
Before he can follow that thought much further, though, a hand grabs his from behind, startling him; it pulls ahead and drags him toward the cave so hard he stumbles, and then has to run to keep up. The figure connected to the hand runs ahead of him, but it's still hard to see in the stormy darkness, and he can't quite make out the details. All he can see is that she wears all white, long robes that rustle around her legs, with two tiny white wings poking out of slits in the back. They're silly and cartoonish, like something a little girl would wear with an angel costume, but they flutter and flex like real wings -- as real as his wings, anyway.
Where is she taking him? Why are they going in there? And why is he following so easily? It seems like it's taking so long, too long, to get there...
They barely make it, tumbling into the cavemouth just as rain starts falling outside in noisy sheets. His guide spins around as soon as they're inside, stopping so suddenly he almost crashes into her; a wave of hair -- the color of golden thread, the color of a wedding band -- flutters across his vision. But it's only when she leans forward to press her fingers over his lips, telling him "Shh" in an urgent whisper, that he finally sees her face.
"Kotori?" Kamui whispers, staring wide-eyed over her fingers. His lips barely move around her name.
"Shh," she hisses again, this time a little more insistently. She almost seems scared. When she shakes her head, the hood falls away from her face; he can finally see her clearly, and yes, it is Kotori, looking just the same as she did that first day in Tokyo when he carried her to the nurse's office... except... she seems older now, somehow. Different. More.
"It's not the time to ask questions." There's something odd about her voice, too: it's still soft and high, with that funny texture that makes him think for no good reason of powdered sugar and snowflakes... but at the same time, it sounds weirdly older. She's always been so much like a child, but now there's nothing childish left in her -- except maybe those little angel wings peeking over her shoulders. "He's waiting. And I have to take you there."
"Who -- " he starts to ask -- but he closes his mouth, remembering she told him to be quiet. He looks down at their joined hands, and nods instead. What else can he do?
She starts to pull him forward again... and pull him down, as even though he can't see a slope to the path, somehow there's never any question that they're descending. But to where? To whom? More questions; never anything but questions. He's getting so tired of them all.
He knows that she's dead, of course, but he doesn't spare it too much thought. This is probably a dream.
It takes a few moments after Kotori starts talking for him to really hear her; her voice is so soft he can barely make out the words over their ringing footsteps. "There are some things you need to know, and they are things I cannot tell you," she says, leading him around a sharp turn. "They are things even he cannot tell you." Around him, the light begins to fade, but he barely notices now; it seems like everything's narrowed down to her voice and the strong hand that pulls him forward. Was she really weak and sickly, once? He can't seem to remember anymore. "But that is not what you need to know."
"I don't understand," he tries to protest. It's hard to follow her, she's going so fast, and he can barely keep himself from stumbling and falling, even though the rocky floor is smoother than it should be. Her grip on his hand tightens, as if she's keeping him balanced just by touching him.
"That's all right." It keeps getting darker, but he can still see her -- and just her, like she has a halo of light that's all her own. At one point he makes the mistake of looking down, and finds he can't see the ground under his feet, or even his feet themselves. It makes him dizzy, and he pulls his eyes back to her; she casts a glance at him over her shoulder, all there is in the world. The light is so bright it seems to drown her. "You're dreaming, you know," she says, matter-of-factly. "But that doesn't mean you're safe."
Kamui frowns -- what's that supposed to mean? -- but he figures it's better not to talk right now, so he doesn't. The cave leads down and down, getting much steeper under their feet as it goes along. It seems to narrow, too, as it gets nearer to its bottom (wherever that is), closing in tighter over their heads and making him rustle his wings uncomfortably. Before he can stop himself, he tries to imagine just how much earth and rock is hanging over their heads, and immediately regrets it.
What only make it worse are the rock formations that are starting to bulge out of the walls, getting clearer as they come further away from the surface; disturbing shapes seem to spring out at him every time they take a turn, making him feel edgy and a little sick. They round a sharp bend, and he jumps slightly -- something at the corner of his eye, that looks like a trio of fanged heads snapping for him -- but when he looks straight at them, all that's there are three lumpy shelves of stone. The granite seems to turn into hideous gargoyles when he isn't looking, and he comes around one corner to see what he'd swear is a choir of screaming faces -- but when he's dragged closer, the shadows clear, and there's nothing there at all. And if they come back when he turns away again... well, he's running by too fast to see.
She pulls him forward, faster now, hurtling down into the earth; water splashes beneath his feet for a few seconds, and then they're on dry ground again, as though it had never happened. It's getting hard to breathe... How long have they been running? It feels like it's been years, and miles.
"Where are we going?" he pants, finally, not really expecting an answer -- but Kotori reacts right away. She turns around sharply, making him stop so fast he nearly falls over, and claps her hand over his mouth.
"Shh!"
He does.
They stand very still, silent except for his breath hissing through her fingers. And now he can hear something he couldn't before: a slow, rhythmic slapping sound, somewhere off in the distance. For a moment it grows louder, seeming to come ominously closer, and he can hear Kotori's breath catch... and then, gradually, the sounds begin to move away again, fading until he can't hear them anymore. Only then does Kotori relax, closing her eyes with a deep sigh, and when she opens them again, the expression in them is one he can't read.
"Just a little longer," she reassures him, and kisses the corner of his mouth. When she moves back to look him in the eyes again, it seems like nothing about her is the same anymore; she really does look older now, especially at the corners of her eyes and in the set of her mouth. Actually, she doesn't even look much like Kotori now at all, but more like her mother: Aunt Saya, who loved Kamui's mother like her children loved him. Kotori squeezes his hand, and gives him a little smile, like she can read what he's thinking in his eyes; and then they're moving again, crossing water and crossing land. The tunnel broadens again on the far side, vaulting up at the top like the roof of a cathedral, and now that he can see again Kamui stares around him with wide eyes. Where -- ?
There are words scrawled above the door. He notices this even before he notices that there's a door beneath the words, or that they've reached a wall with a door in it, or that they've stopped at all. For some reason, the words seem very important. He puzzles at them, but the script is archaic and the phrase is in English, and all he can make out is the first word -- HOPE -- and the last -- HERE. Somehow, though, he knows the message isn't supposed to be as comforting as those words make it seem. The door itself is huge and heavy, arching up into the ceiling and into darkness, and honestly, he doesn't really want to know what's behind it.
She places her hand on the doorknob anyway, and looks at him apologetically. "This is as far as I go," she tells him softly, and her small wings flutter unhappily. Kamui looks back at her, struggling with so many things he wants to say, to ask, to finish with. He hasn't seen her in so long, and already...
"Kotori, I -- " he begins, but there's no good way to end it, and he stops. Awkwardly, he puts his hand on hers where it rests on the door -- and then he sighs, and wraps his arms around her. "I miss you."
White feathers ripple, and Kotori tucks his head under her chin; she's taller than he is, and he doesn't know when that happened, but she is and she holds him like she wants to protect him from everything. Her hands smoothe over his wings comfortingly, and he can feel her smile press into his hair... and that's her answer, it has to be, the only answer she can give. Everything is all right, it seems to say: she knows, and she understands, and all the forgiveness he wants to ask she's already given to him. That's all, and now, there's nothing more he can ask of her. He guesses he'll have to find a way to live with that.
And then, finally, she pulls away gently; and she swings the door open, and waves him in.
He steps by her, hesitantly, but when he looks forward he sees nothing there at all. He doesn't want to go, she can't expect him to go in there alone... He starts to turn back to her, to ask for her advice, for guidance, for her to stay with him and tell him what to do -- for something, something more than darkness and a smile. But he's stopped before he can even turn his head, by a pair of hands, one on his shoulder and one on his cheek... but those can't possibly be hers, because they're an old woman's hands, wrinkled and gnarled on his skin.
But it is her voice, or something like it, that whispers in his ear: "Don't look back."
And then she's gone. And, with nothing left to do, he steps inside.
At first there's nothing.
And then, all at once, light. A warm yellow glow fills up the darkness, like candlelight only without the candles, and with the shadows gone he sees that the room is about the last thing he would have expected: a perfectly ordinary dining hall. A large and empty dining hall, sure, but otherwise completely normal -- which, in a way, makes it weirder than just about anything else it could have been. In the center, there's a long table, absolutely covered with food and set with more place settings than he can count in one glance. For some reason, though, he can't see the other end: the shadows seem to have gathered down there, blocking it from view, and making it seem much farther away than it can possibly be.
Frowning into the sourceless candlelight, Kamui crosses to stand behind the high-backed chair at the foot of the table, looking around him; his feet ring out a loud, hollow tattoo on the floor, and it echoes up to the invisible ceiling. The thin plink of water dripping comes from somewhere, and his own breathing sounds much louder than it should, but beyond that the room -- if it's a room at all -- is silent. He stands still beside the chair, curls his hands on the edge of the table, and waits: for whatever will happen to happen.
"Please." The voice comes out of nowhere, making him jump. "Sit."
Kamui recovers quickly, and his eyes go to the far chair at the table; though he can't quite see it, he's as sure that the voice came from there as he is of who owns it. It's strangely clear, for what seems like such an impossibly long distance, and unpleasantly familiar. And though he doesn't know who he was expecting, he finds himself not very surprised. Surprise would take too much energy, and he's just come a long way.
"You," he says, without venom. There was a time, once, when he would have given a lot to land a good punch in the middle of that face that's hidden from him now... but that time is long gone. He has no reason to be angry now except for the sake of anger itself, and that's no reason at all. Not with the way the world has tilted, in the last few weeks. So he waits, just long enough to show it's his own idea and he's not doing what he was told to do, and then sits down.
What might be two huge, black wings -- or two huge, black shadows -- rise out of the darkness at the far end of the table, the only sign of Kamui's host besides that voice. Two black wings, that's all. That makes Kamui think to fold his own wings behind him: half to settle them more comfortably inside the chair-back, and half so that they won't flutter and betray how he feels at the wrong moment. They do that, sometimes. He rests his hands on the table, and looks down at them, and then lets his eyes wander down the never-ending display of food; what's on the table seems to change every time he looks somewhere else, but when he looks back he can't tell what's different, or what it was before. It hurts his head to look at it.
It seems like he's expected to speak, but he doesn't know what it is he should say. He clears his throat. "Um. You're... dead, aren't you?"
"Oh, yes," is the immediate reply. "Very much so." This is followed by a small pause, as though there's something Kamui is supposed to do; he still has no clue what that is, though, and just sits still. Safer that way. At last, a small chuckle breaks the silence. "Please, eat all you like. There is enough here for you and more. However," and the voice laughs again, making him grit his teeth, "be prepared to face the consequences of what you take inside of yourself."
Not wanting to seem rude -- though he doesn't know why he cares -- Kamui eyes the table, and after a minute he picks up an odd red fruit he doesn't recognize. He toys with it for a minute, while he tries to think what to say next. "Am I dreaming?" he finally asks. Not really expecting an answer.
A gentle, somehow amused rustle comes from the far end of the table. "Are you?" The tone is irritating, almost taunting, and Kamui looks up with a scowl.
"What do you want?" he asks, sharply. There doesn't seem to be much point in faking nice, since his visitor isn't likely to be fooled; he may not hate the man anymore, but that doesn't mean he has to like him. The only answer at first, however, is a faint, familiar sort of clinking sound, some sound he knows he hears every day but can't quite put a name to just now.
"Will you never stop wielding accusations?" ...Now he knows what it is: a knife and fork moving on china, the motions of eating... but either the food isn't going into the speaker's mouth or the speaker isn't speaking at all. Both possibilities are creepier than he'd like. "Crude weapons, sticks and stones, paper knives and tigers; must you blame me in order to regain your sense of self? Even with what you now know?"
Something in Kamui seems to right itself at that, and steady; he looks across the table evenly, feeling a little stronger. Yes. He's heard only fragments, and seen even less than that, but somehow, he does know. "I know you weren't what you were pretending to be," he tells the man, openly. "That doesn't mean I should trust you."
"Good." Laughter answers, deep-throated and warm. The sound leaves a sour taste in his mouth. "You're finally learning."
The room is brighter now, and Kamui can almost see the figure beneath those big wings, feathered like Fuuma's but as dark as his own. He already knows what he'll see, though, and he isn't interested; he looks down instead, at the fruit he's holding. It opens in his hands as soon as he does, too easily, and he frowns at the tiny galaxy of seeds between his thumbs. He catches himself thinking -- and doesn't know where the thought came from -- that they're the color of the inside of a mouth. Or maybe a heart. Who thinks about what a heart looks like from the inside?
"Am I?" he asks, finally. It's not really a question.
A shrug sets those other wings rustling; a few seeds spill from the broken red husk and scatter along the tablecloth. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. After all, I could be lying; you've intimated as much."
Kamui looks at the seeds, and then looks back up, his brow knitting. "What do you want?" he asks again. Quieter this time. "There must be something."
"Listen." It's an order; it's an answer. "Patience. There are things you need to know, and not a great deal of time."
Oh, is he ever getting sick of that line.
By now Seishirou's face is clear, though it doesn't seem like the light's grown that much. The change isn't a big one, and Kamui isn't comforted; all things considered, the shadows were about as expressive. "Like what?" he asks, not trying very hard to keep the resentment out of his voice; without thinking, he plucks a seed from the tablecloth and pops it decisively into his mouth. It leaves stains on his fingers, and across the table, the Sakurazukamori smiles. That's almost more disturbing than the blank staring eye, but not quite.
"Let us begin, then," he says, as if he were taking a podium and beginning a lecture. "About Subaru-kun: do not mourn his loss."
Subaru.
The pain makes it hard to move for a second, and his hand freezes above another seed. He hadn't thought it could still hurt so much; had thought he was going numb. Had hoped. The hate he's nearly forgotten flares back, brief but helplessly intense. How could he say that, just like that, like it didn't even matter? After everything that's happened? Like he was telling a little kid not to play with matches, or to stay inside during a storm...
How can you? How could you -- how could you, all of it...
"What do you mean?" he says, when he can talk again; his voice rattles in his chest. "How could I not?"
"It's what he wants. Were it not, he would not seek it." In the candlelight that isn't, the Sakurazukamori suddenly looks almost sad, and his constant smile somehow looks more honest than it has before. Or, maybe, it could be a trick of the light -- or some kind of trick, anyway. But somehow, Kamui doesn't think so.
The anger fades as quickly as it came, but that's no relief: it leaves him with nothing but pain. He bites his lip, and worries at the remaining seeds with the tip of his thumb, to keep from having to say anything. Seishirou cocks his head to one side; combined with his feathered wings, it makes him look like some giant bird of prey, perching at the table. The effect is more disturbing than charming.
"It's the only thing he wants, you know," he insists, prodding at Kamui's silence. "And the only thing that remains to him."
Kamui sighs, and though his wings rustle unhappily, he keeps his head down. "Maybe," he says, almost too quietly to be heard. "I understand that, but... It's not fair. None of it is."
"Fair?" Seishirou repeats, disbelievingly, as if Kamui had said something obscene -- but something funny, too, from the sound of his voice. Kamui looks up just enough to glare at him. "According to whom? By your own disenfranchisement? If you had everything you wanted and someone else didn't, would it be fair, then?" Thoughtfully, he picks up a piece of fruit from a nearby basket -- an orange -- and starts to peel it. "Who are you to decide, 'Kamui'?" The word isn't a name, never has been from the Sakurazukamori, but a title, instead. A position. A slot to dump somebody into.
"That's not the way it should be," he insists, holding his head up defiantly. "Not for him, or for anybody." Seishirou doesn't seem very intimidated, though, and Kamui's challenge just makes him smile darkly.
"And now 'should.' Again, you are deciding what is proper and improper, and I am asking who gives you the authority to determine this." He sits back, imposingly, wings shuffling behind him. "Or maybe I am not asking anything at all. Maybe I am telling. Have you ever thought of how often the sacrifice of one has brought happiness to others? I point you to your local Christian church for a large-scale example." He reaches for another orange, the first long gone -- but did he ever eat it? Kamui can't remember. "It is, after all, a noble and time-honored concept.
"And just think -- what happiness it must give a man to know that he has made a difference, especially one such as Subaru-kun. He always tried so hard to please, to make right, to redeem the world. Even we who had hurt him; he could not martyr himself quickly enough for our sakes." It doesn't escape Kamui that the assassin includes himself in that category, and he looks away, bitterly. Thinking again: what right do you have... "I wish you could have known him when he was small, could have seen him back when he was perfect in his innocence. Back then, he would have given his life for the least of these; back then, he nearly did.
"But you can't recognize this as a sacrifice, can you?" One amber eye glistens, in the light of thousands of candles that never existed, as if to mock him. "You see the destiny abandoned, but not the one fulfilled; you would call me a monster for sentencing him to this fate. You refuse to see him as anything but Subaru, the object of your fascination, and when he can play this part no longer, you will drown in your grief."
The pomegrante rocks lazily on its side, forgotten; Kamui's hands clamp on the edge of the table. "But it's not a sacrifice," he snaps, glaring down the table. "What good is it going to do anyone, now?" He cuts off whatever answer Seishirou might give; he doesn't want to hear it. "Whatever else has happened, he is still Subaru. He's a person, not a part to play. He..." He has to stop there, to search for words, and as he loses momentum he loses most of his energy for the argument. What's the use, anyway? "It's just -- that he deserves more than this. Than what's happened to him."
Air stirs, and though there aren't any candles, the light flickers; Seishirou's black wings stretch out, like a threat or a warning, and their span is impossibly broad. "And why he alone?" he asks, almost gently. "Why he and no one else? Would you have handed his fate to the monk? Or the priestess? Or the father?"
"What about me?" Kamui breaks in quietly, staring him down.
The Sakurazukamori meets his gaze, looking a little startled for the first time; after a moment, though, he relaxes, and smiles again. "Your plate, as it were, is full enough," he answers, a little too smoothly. "Nonetheless, alas, the argument is pointless. Someone had to shoulder the burden of his existence; he would not have handed the responsibility to another, and you should know better than to wish that he had."
Kamui starts to reply, and then sinks back into his chair, biting his lip. There are a lot of things he'd like to say to that, but most of them would sound either stupid or childish, and he makes himself keep quiet. Instead, he taps his fingernail on the cool crystal stem of a goblet of water, which might or might not have been in front of him a few moments ago; it makes a soft, musical chime. For a minute, its echo is the only sound.
"Though you may love him," Seishirou continues, finally (and Kamui jerks like he's been shot), "and regardless of whether you love him or not, he is but one person." He watches Kamui's hand with his mismatched eyes, maybe a little too carefully. "One person with a rather specific destiny, and a part in a larger destiny; and now the latter must leave him to the former. I assure you, it will go on without him."
Kamui frowns, and stares down at the table; something's wrong about that, but he can't find the words for what. That can't be right, can it? That...
"But that doesn't make a difference," he says eventually, half in protest and half in doubt. "I mean... everyone is just one person. If one person's life doesn't matter, then none of them do, and then what's the point at all?"
He feels, more than sees, Seishirou's ironic half-smile. "That isn't for me to tell you."
Kamui's brow creases further, and he shakes his head; the more he thinks about it, the more sure he is he's right. "No -- but that doesn't make it mean any more or any less. If a group is just made up of a bunch of individuals, why should the individuals be less important than the group?"
"Because a group -- particularly one such as the Dragons of Heaven or of Earth -- is more than the sum of its parts," is the too-casual answer. "Past a certain point, it takes on a life of its own. That composite destiny outweighs the smaller fates of its components; that is one of the truths of destiny."
Kamui scowls. "That's stupid," he mutters.
Another gentle shift of wings; the puff of air smells of incense and dust. "Destiny," Seishirou says calmly, "is not arbitrary enough to be stupid. You would do better to call geometry or algebra 'stupid.' You speak of it as if destiny decided to be capricious just to spite you, when, in fact, it has not even the resources to generate caprice. It is a feelingless, thoughtless mathematical progression that takes the beginning it is given and comes to a logical end.
"Examine the arithmetic statement, for example: two plus two equals four. There are no very large values of two that you can input and change the end result. If you want the equation to equal five, the digits with which you begin must be different than two and two. I'll spare you the lecture, as this is most simple number theory, but suffice it to say that an answer is wholly contingent upon the statement that defines it.
"Similarly, destiny is nothing more ominous and mysterious than the actions of all those who have come before us culminating into a single, logical, inevitable result. Think of it as an inverted triangle where you are the lowest point; everything that has been done before funnels down to you. Your parents, your parents' parents, their parents, all of them made decisions. It is simply a part of living. And as they made their decisions, whether consciously or unconsciously, they built an equation, one which would eventually result in--" Seishirou points across the table. "You."
The older man pauses to take a sip of wine, letting his wings relax slightly as he drinks. To Kamui, he suddenly looks very tired... but maybe it's just the way the black feathers fall around him, or the shadows on his face. "Cause and effect. It is the greatest natural law, you know. Every motion has a consequence, every action an equal -- and opposite -- reaction. Even the very act of existence has almost catastrophic repercussions... Do you understand me, 'Kamui'?" Again, not a name, but a title. "We cannot shape our own destinies; we have to live them. What we do with our lives shapes the destinies of those who walk beside us -- and all those who might come after us, as well." And somehow, in the middle of this dream, it doesn't seem strange to hear a Dragon of Earth talk about generations to come... or maybe it's just something about this particular Dragon. And why should that be?
Only when he actually looks at the water glass in his hand does he realize he's been writing in the condensation on its side, with the tip of his little finger: in neat cursive that he doesn't think is his own, and more perplexingly, in English. He can mostly understand the words ("fear death by water"?), but they don't mean anything to him together, and after staring for a minute, he erases them with the ball of his thumb. "You can always just not add the numbers," he says, at last. Seishirou smiles very slightly, inclining his head in concession.
"Very true," the assassin -- the former assassin -- agrees. "But the answer will still exist as though you had; and at any rate, if you never solve the problem, nothing will be accomplished."
"There are worse things than nothing," Kamui mutters, almost to himself -- but Seishirou cuts him off, with a force that surprises him.
"No." He looks up; the intensity burning in that single eye actually makes him flinch. "Right now, there are not."
Silence takes over for a while, settling between them. A little subdued and a little shaken, Kamui sits back in his chair, looking back down at the table. Seven pomegrante seeds are still lying on the tablecloth, and he absently pushes them into a familiar pattern with his fingertip. "That still doesn't make it right," he says at last, in a whisper. Not that he expects it to matter.
"You're an idealist," Seishirou observes, not unkindly... though not really kindly, either. "Listen to me, Kamui, and mark me: as you are now, you are playing a game in which you know only half the rules. That is your weakness, but it is also your strength, and at times, it may be the only strength you have. Remember that, if you would succeed."
Kamui leaves the constellation half-formed, and scowls up at the older man. "I've never been playing games," he snaps back, annoyed. Across the table, one dark eyebrow arches above an empty eye.
"I'm certain you believe that."
And he really wants to say something back to that -- preferably something witty and cutting, if he were any good at stuff like that -- but he doesn't let himself. This isn't the time, and there wouldn't be much point, anyway. If he really wanted to, he could spend weeks flinging insults at the man across the table; he certainly has enough material... but why bother? One of them is dead, and the other one is trying to stop the world from ending. Why waste both their time?
So instead he just sips his water, staring pointedly at his hands... and finally, Seishirou sighs a bit, and picks back up his lecture.
"You," he says, "will most likely win this battle; but the cost may be more than you expect." His wings shift again, folding out in a majestic arch, as though he were Gabriel at the Annunciation, or Michael at Armageddon. All the same in the end, maybe. (And where did those names come from? He doesn't know them, does he?) "Most likely. May be. Words of uncertainty. The truth is that 'most likely' is all the answer I have. Death, contrary to popular religious belief, provides no great insight. If it does, either I have missed it or I am less dead than I believe myself to be. But be that as it may, no one, not even they that number among the dead, can know enough of the future to speak it to those who rush toward it; not now, at any rate. None save God and the dreamgazer Kakyou." He picks up a rough-edged wooden chalice from beside his plate, drinks, and sets it down again. "And I'm no longer certain about God."
Kamui's stomach turns over uneasily, for no good reason, and he looks down at the pomegrante stars on the table. Somehow, though, in the last few minutes, one of the seeds has gone missing; now the dipper is incomplete. That doesn't exactly make him feel better.
"Is that the way it has to be?" His voice is almost a whisper, and he can't seem to find any strength for it. Not when he's thinking of the nightmares, and of Subaru's tears. "Can't anyone stop it?"
"The Dragons of Earth are trying to," the Sakurazukamori says mildly, a smirk tugging at his lips. Kamui resists a brief, powerful urge to throw something at it. "As long as humans exist, so will the problems of fate and destiny. Not that humans are the only creatures subject to the force of destiny, of course; they are simply the only ones who consider it a problem."
With a start, Kamui realizes the light is fading again. He can't see the walls of the room; that is, assuming the room had walls to begin with. ...Did it? He can't seem to remember -- and now Seishirou is talking again. "There are many possible beginnings, but from them there is only one end." His hands are back at work, cutting food that, as far as Kamui can tell, isn't there. "If we did not do these things for which we have been made, they would simply fall to the hands of someone else, as we are all in the same boat, so to speak. If you need the visual metaphor, consider a snowball's progression downhill; it picks up along the way anything it passes, and these things and the snow become inextricably joined. By the end, it all shares in a common destiny."
Now the man's hands hold a loaf of bread, one that probably wasn't there before; he tears a piece off and lays both halves aside. "Or if you don't care for the snowball, consider again the mathematical aspect. In creating the equation, many numbers and formulae can be used, but once they are there, there is only one answer. You and I can help to shape and mold the future of those who would come after us, but for us, there is no choice. We are not the beginning of our own story; we are the end."
There's a long pause, then. Seishirou seems to be waiting for Kamui to say something, and Kamui has nothing to say. His mind has gone wandering back to Subaru, and how sometimes things, once they've changed, can never be the same again. Or maybe, how once they're in place, they can never change.
Has there ever been a chance at all? Tell me that, if you know so much. You're full of additions and subtractions, and sacrifices and martyrs; what would I have had to give up, to be able to save him? What number would I have to take away to make the answer come out different? And what about you? What did you hold on to, that made this end up the way it is?
Long minutes pass. Finally, Seishirou holds out his hand, indicating the contents of the table. "Eat."
"I'm not hungry."
His host, it seems, has nothing to say to that. They sit again in silence.
It's Kamui who breaks it, this time, though he's not sure what he plans to say until he says it; that should probably seem strange, but to tell the truth, he's starting to get used to it. "I... think I have to go."
"Yes," Seishirou agrees. "Yes, you do." Kamui pushes his chair back, and stands; his legs ache in a funny, unused sort of way, and he stretches them a little, carefully. He feels like he's been sitting for hours. Just as he finds his feet again, Seishirou looks up, fingers steepled at his lips; the older man's expression is thoughtful, hard to read. "Oh -- but one more thing."
Seishirou stands, and there's something so beautiful about the ripple of fabric and feathers that even Kamui, for all the anger he'll never quite get past, can't deny it. Light and shadow make dark rainbows from his wings, and while he may not make much of an angel, he does seem like more now than the empty, awful thing he was in life. That much, Kamui will grant him: he is not what he was... and maybe he never was entirely what he seemed.
But that isn't up to him to say.
"I'll give you a message," Seishirou says, decisively. "You won't remember it, of course, but if by some chance you do...." And he looks away from Kamui for maybe the first time in the whole conversation, looking into the growing shadows instead; his voice changes, turning into something softer and more distant. Even towering over the table, spreading his wings like heaven's judgement, all of a sudden he seems very small, and sad.
"But if you do," he repeats, "tell Subaru I'll have dinner waiting, when the time comes. I owe him from a long time ago."
That makes Kamui hesitate, and he looks down, biting his lip; how can he say to Seishirou what he doesn't want to admit to himself?
"I would... but he's gone," he says softly, after a long pause. "And I don't know if I'll see him again."
And then he bows, as politely as he can, and murmurs "Gochisousama deshita;" and then he turns and leaves the way he came in, on blind faith that there's still something to go back to.
The room still seems so damned empty, with only him in it. Kamui sits up without thinking, tugging the blankets up over his knees and to his chin where it rests on them. He doesn't bother to wonder whether what just happened was real or another dream; that isn't the part that matters, not really. And anyway, he knows well enough, doesn't he?
It can't be long until dawn -- but right now, any amount of time alone in dark looks like forever, and he doesn't want to go back to sleep either, not with this horrible silence pressing in on him. He's just wondering how much more of this he can take when, suddenly, something occurs to him, something that pulls him out of bed and over to the chair in the corner before he can stop to think. It takes him a couple minutes of pawing, through the teenage landfill of books and clothing and junk that cover it, but finally he finds what he's looking for, stuffed down between the seat cushion and the chair-back. He holds it up for a moment, looking at it, aching deep down inside; and then, hugging it to his chest, he crawls back into bed. Curled around the only comfort he has left, he tucks his head down to the fabric and inhales, deeply.
Cigarettes. Incense. And a faint scent of ocean, now a mystery forever.
And clinging to Subaru's shirt, alone in his bed, Kamui falls slowly back into a troubled sleep.