ascend

anna, yoh, a path set in starlight

[fluff, without capitalization.  woo.  also thanks to da*mouse for pointing out my mistakes.  Let’s just all pretend there’s nothing wrong with this here... *goes off to die of embarrassment*]

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her hair was twisted up in a simple knot, in a way that was artful, elegant, beautiful; in a way that was her.  music drifted through walls, gentle lilting sounds like birdsong, trilling one moment and quiet the next, and then dramatic and falling again, silk-like in delicately orchestrated simplicity.  she traced a finger along the trim of her dress, watched her watching herself in the mirror.  the room smelled like champagne, honeysuckles heavy outside in the light of moon, dwelling against blue-black glass.  the room smelled of yoh.

(he’s there.)

she left quietly, closing the door behind her, proceeded down the hallway.  as she went the sounds of the people outside trembled along her senses.  people.  so many of them.  she never had liked crowds, crowds of people laughing and arguing and doing things that people did, invading her personal space all the while, her quiet.  there were things, though, that even she could not avoid.

(waiting for her, if only because he was told to.)

trailing along the ground, slippered feet cushioned on cream carpet.  if had been her choice she would have gone bare-foot, as in the tradition of her kind, the itako.  yoh hadn’t really gone any way, but he had warned her with a silly grin and a hurried whisper that she should wear her shoes, in case he stepped all over them.  just in case, he said.

(the back of her hand cold like a spring night gone the wrong way.)

the dress was simple, swathing her form in whispery perfection.  there were no flowers in her hair, no fluffy pink ribbons.  it was white, because yoh had said that black was no good.  for once she had not disagreed with him.  it was white, and she had picked it out herself.  what she chose was always perfect.

(except yoh.)

she stepped out, and there they were, curious eyes and hushed whispers and curling lips and shadowed gestures.  the music faded away like a lost dream.

(is that her? 

the one and only.

itako anna kyouyama.

yes.) 

it was with only a little difficulty she took a step.  afterwards it was no great hardship.  one step.  another.  yet another.  hands twisting, the scent of honeysuckles drowsing, bees buzzing outside the white-arch walls, light butter yellow and warm, their eyes on her.  all eyes on her.  his eyes on her.

(heart beating a steady rhythm, not in the least hurried.)

she passed an old man, and when she looked upon him she saw that a cane rested to the side of his hand, against polished mahogany.  his face was weathered like the smooth side of a stone, hands grarled around the hand-rest.  she thought she saw him smile at her with kindly eyes. 

(one step.  two.)

she passed a young lady, only a little older than herself, with curling wheat hair and black eyes not unlike her own.  in her hand was a bible, worn to the yellowed edges, dog-eared by its owner’s consistent and pervading faith, but treated gently by the passage of years.

(three.  four.  five-six.)

she passed a little girl, dressed all up in pink and ribbons.  through her veil she saw the flowers entwined with her hair, of honeysuckles and wild green.  the little girl smiled at her with a smile bright and innocent and missing teeth.

(seven-eight.  nine.  ten.)

her own honeysuckles spilled over in her hands, bound together loosely and resting in ladyslippers, buttercups, other wild things that were fragile and smelled nice and were easily lost.  she had not wanted roses, because roses were not wild.  before that she had thought something so resplendent and pointless and damaging to their supply of resources unnecessary.  yoh had insisted.  she had relented, if only because he had mustered up so much nerve to ask her.

(eleven.  twelve.)

she looked up.  she looked ahead.  the music had faded away long ago.  she looked and met his eyes, and hesitated in taking the last step.

“hello,” he said.  his face was serene, hair a burnished color somewhere between old wine and the red of autumn.  he stood, comfortable.  she thought it strange, because she would never have thought to see yoh comfortable in formal wear.

but there he was. 

“yoh,” she said back, and stepped towards him.

“I’ll try not to step on your feet.”  It was a bare whisper in the almost-dark.  she couldn’t help but frown at him.

(thirteen.)

he took her hand and led her up the stairs, his fingers an oddly welcomed warmth around her wrist.  it was no difficult taking these steps with him there with her.  she looked down at where he led her, his sun-browned fingers around her white skin, firm but not too insistent, because he knew her all too well.  in all her short years no one had crept under her ice-slicked walls like he, slowly, softly, without a falling footstep to warn her.

(waiting for her, because he wanted to.)

the cloth veiled the world in innocent white.  they stopped together at the top, where the starlight fell about them, faint as a memory, where it smelled of honeysuckles, the notes of a symphony long before played lingering there, where it smelled of yoh.  her hand was still in his.  the kindly old man awaiting them was dressed all in white, as were they all.

(waiting for her, because she wanted him to.)

he lifted the veil away from her face.  the night air was fresh, and tasted so.  if they were nervous neither of them showed it, though his hand trembled but once.

(he’s here, right now.)

he lifted the veil away from her.  it was she who tilted his face towards her with hands bare and cold.  it was she who kissed him, kissed his lips, warm as sunrise.

(he’s here,)

(always.)

~fin~

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