Sanity
He
used to dream, every night, of scarlet blood and crumbling castles and silver
stars and the yellow moon and rain.
And
it was beautiful.
Heartbreaking,
but beautiful.
He
used to dream of the sea. Of the angry deep violet-blue waters, crashing
against rocky shores. The white gulls and their lonely cry as they soared in a
gloomy grey sky. The fresh, crisp smell of the ocean breeze.
The
sea had always called to him, tugging relentlessly at his soul.
Sometimes
it drove him insane – the way blood drove him insane, the way decay drove him
insane, the way the darkness drove him insane, the way the rain and its
incessant pattering drove him insane.
Heartbreaking,
but beautiful.
So
beautiful.
So,
so beautiful.
He
no longer dreamed.
His
nights were silent now, filled with nothing but a cold dark emptiness. He was
glad, for he had learned to love the dark silent embrace of the shadows, and he
was no longer haunted by images that broke his heart with their sorrowful,
savage beauty.
His
days were silent too, as he wandered aimlessly through misty dark mountain
forests. Forests of death. Forests of demons and vengeful spirits. The trees grew
thick and tall, blocking out all sunlight from azure skies above, and if any
birds sang beneath their shadow, or if the wild mountain dogs wailed in the
distance, he did not hear. Sometimes, bandits from nearby villages meandered
into the cold shadows of the tall trees, lost. They never found their way back
out again.
He
was glad that the sun could not reach her prying arms of warmth into the cold
dark forest. For in the darkness, he could not see the blood, the crimson red
puddles oozing into the forest soil, and if he did not see it, he would not be
haunted by visions of the beautiful vibrant red colors at night when he slept.
Beautiful,
vibrant, red.
So
beautiful.
So,
so beautiful.
Sometimes,
he tried to remember, but he could not.
There
was nothing but the cold steel of his kodachis and the silence and the shadows.
The
second blade had been unfamiliar in his hands, at first. But he had persisted
in mastering it. He no longer wanted to use kenpo, because kenpo was his art no
longer, because he did not desire the feel of filthy flesh against his fists
and feet anymore, and because fists and feet could be broken in the end. The
moves of the Nitou Ryu made everything clean and cold and it was a beautiful,
elegant dance that never ended, and the two twirling cold blades could never be
broken.
Sometimes,
it rained.
He
hated the rain.
He
hated the feeling of the freezing droplets hitting his skin like so many tiny
icy blades.
He
hated the rain. He always had.
Sometimes,
he returned to the clearing. But not often, because he had promises to keep and
goals to reach. Only then, when all was done and there was nothing left, would
he come back and join them for good.
Only
once in his wanderings did he pause, letting the memories flood his mind. Only
once. First he had recalled a little girl, bright and cheerful and always
smiling. Thoughts of the little girl led to memories of the sun, and of
laughter, and of blood. Blood, because in the end it had been blood that
replaced her, when he had left her to guard crumbling old castles in a dying
city. Beautiful, vibrant, and red. Red like the hair of the man he had vowed to
kill. Beautiful, beautiful red. The blood then reminded him of the rain, and
the rain led to memories of her. Because she had loved the rain,
and her lips had been the color of blood, and she had been like fire, bright
and beautiful and dangerous. Beautiful. And thoughts of her inevitably
led to memories of his men. Ugly, beautiful, broken, strong. For beautiful poisoned
red lips they had died, for beautiful fiery red hair they had died.
It
was the only time he slipped.
He
was glad he no longer dreamed. No longer dreamed of red, of dust, of the sky at
night, of rain. No longer dreamed of the sea.
Only
this way could he keep his sanity.