miikka-xx: caught up to blade of the immortal. took me three days to finish twenty-one volumes. who's addicted? ME? God, i wish i could draw like samura. his art is simply breathtaking. who cares for clear cut lines? blah! and the fandom on ff net? awesome drabbles.

note: READ Blade of the Immortal. Just do it. NOW. (available on thespectrum . net)

Title: Descendance
Summary: Anotsu Kagehisa's karma, his women and how he hopes he will die. (someday, he thinks, he will open it and reread each note like a novel.) anotsurin. complete.
Rating: K+
Warning(s): nothing much. i mean, wow, no gore or sex? i'm quite shocked myself.
Disclaimer: if i owned Blade of the Immortal, i would change nothing because it's freakin' perfect. i would try to steal the art style, though.


descendance


There is a scroll and it is tucked between his stomach and kimono sash. The ink is dry and the paper wrapped securely and it houses memories, plans, battles and too many bloodstains that litter the scribbled kanji. Someday, he thinks, he will open it and reread each note like a novel. Maybe ten years later. Maybe twenty. Someday, when everything is over and he is not dead.


The first scribble is Makie. Short-haired Makie who hates the world and hates herself just the same. Pretty Makie who plays the shamisen and sings bittersweet songs on his windowsill, like a nightingale. His own caged bird, bound to him. Her hands trace lyrics over his skin, painting battles on his chest and pressing blood on his mouth with her lips. She's his dying little nightingale and he wonders... when, oh when, will his pretty little bird leave?


Further down the scroll, there is Hisoka. Hisoka, half-blind with remorse, guilt, regret. Her (step) father tells him it is a side-effect from the western medicines that seep down her throat. He will believe it is from duty and how she hisses away from it. She could have been married to that scarrred man, the one who loves her so dearly. Instead, she smiles, promises him she'll watch him forever and ever. As if he will last that long. And, somehow, he hates her for it, hates her belief and strength. And he wonders, watching the curve of her neck, not when she will leave, but how.


Then the writings on the scroll curves into Rin. Rin Rin RinRinRin. Hating him, saving him, loving him, killing him. Her mouth is a bitter poison that will be the death of him. He does not deny it. Will never. Her claws dig into his arms, his shoulders. Her hair, so long, longer than Hisoka's, longer than Makie's, threatens to suffocate him. And her eyes. He loves her eyes, enchanted by the lovehateconcerndisgust that flashes through each time they cross paths. And she is no dying bird, crowing sorrowfully against his kimono. She is the vulture that will kill him and destroy him and gods, he can't wait. Watching her face contort and her lips stretch open to scream at him, he thinks, if he is going to die, he would like to leave with her clutched against him, selfishly taking them together to hell.


Perhaps it is karma that will make all his women die. Makie will go slowly, carefully into her death, her fingers poised for those last notes on the shamisen. And he will cry, watching her slip away, a lyric or two brushing past her bloodied lips to tell him of her regret, shame, demise and love.


Hisoka was quick, painless and typical for a half-blind women filled with guilt. A knife to the neck, jugular cut, lifeblood red and pouring out. She fades quickly and quietly, with no ceremony. And she tumbles on to the tatami mat with a grace of crane, her ankle folded neatly against her calf, her short splayed across the floor, the curve of her white wrist flecked with blood being kissed by red, red lips.


Rin, however, refuses to die. Over and over again. And he cannot bear to kill her, because she is young, pretty with bitter words and hate-filled glare. She makes disgust look eloquent and tears look ugly. Perhaps he is waiting to die at the hands of her, waiting for a cool, metallic plunge into his chest, her mouth against his neck, biting at his jugular, her claws digging into his scalp.


Anotsu decides he will wait until death arrives in the form little, skinny, waif of a girl to take away his life and wonders if they could sit for one afternoon, on the balcony of her blood-stained dojo and read his scroll together.

(and he wonders why he's watching the flick of her eyelashes instead of his life, but it's too late now and he's already in hell, ever since his brush wrote her name down beside Manji into this scroll of his, tucked between his stomach and kimono sash.)


an: i sort of hate it. and i sort of love it. 'specially the last part. anotsurin makes me shiver in delight. a hatelove relationship that keeps getting more intricate and complicated

leave a comment or point out any mistakes; i love hearing what you guys thought!