Spellbound

*(1/6)

By Sakata Ri Houjun

Warning:  Chichiri may seem a little OOC, but it’ll be

explained.

**********

It was raining when he landed at the airport.  He’d

slept nearly all the way across the Pacific.  And the

dreams had chased him.  He went through customs,

rented a car, changed money.  As he completed the

tasks, he tried not to dwell on the idea that he might

be having some kind of breakdown.

He climbed behind the wheel, and then simply sat

wondering what to do, where to go.  Suddenly an odd

chill raced through him, and he thought, for just a

moment, that he heard the cry of a strange bird.

Just stress, he told himself.  But why would he be

stressed when his career was advancing by leaps and

bounds?  He was still in his early twenties, a

successful photographer who could name his price, call

his own shots.  And it liked it that way.

If he was having a breakdown, it could only be cured

by relaxation, and a change of scene.  That’s what

he’d come to China for.  He started the car and began

to drive aimlessly.

He’d had dreams before, when he was a boy.  Temples

and palaces, bandits and a man with hair the color of

the sky.  He’d spoken to him sometimes with a strange

high-pitched voice.  And sometimes he’s spoken in a

language he didn’t know-but had understood

nonetheless.

His parents had been concerned when he seemed to see

things, to speak of places and people he couldn’t have

had knowledge of.  They’d worried over him when his

sleep was disturbed night after night.  As he grew

older, feelings and needs for the man that weren’t

innocent had begun to stir. 

He was here only to prove to himself that he was an

ordinary man suffering from overwork.  He would soak

up the atmosphere if China, take the pictures that

pleased him.

He drove along the storm-battered road.  Rain pattered

the windshield, and fog slithered over the ground.  It

was hardly a warm welcome, yet he felt at home.  As if

something, or someone, was waiting to take him in from

the storm.

He would eventually find some bar or inn and get some

sake to warm him up, but for now he had to see more of

this haunting landscape.  His ancestors had roamed

these spearing cliffs, these rolling hills.  They had

to have been great warriors, he thought.

The scene that burst into his mind was viciously

clear.  The flash of swords clashing, the screams of

battle in full power, the burn as metal pierced flesh.

 Looking down, he saw blood welling on his thigh.

Genrou found he stopped on the side of the road.  Had

he blacked out?  Was he losing his mind?  Trembling,

re reached down and ran his hands over his jeans. 

There was no wound.

Jet lag, he decided.  Jet lag and stress, that was

all.  He needed to find a place to stay.  He needed a

drink.  He would find some quiet place where he could

rest his mind.  And when the storm had passed, he

would get his camera and go for a long walk.

He continued along the winding road.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The ruins came into view as he rounded the curve. 

Perched on a hilltop, it shimmered with power and

defiance despite its tumbled rocks.

Out of the boiling sky, one lance of lightning speared

and exploded with light.  He swung onto the narrow

dirt road that led up.  He wanted a picture of the

temple, and then he’d be on his way.

So intent was he on the light and shadows that played

on stone that he didn’t see the dwelling until he was

nearly upon it.  It was so charming, so unexpected. 

It was white and smoke trailed out of the chimney.  A

sleek white cat napped beside a wooden chair on the

little covered porch.  Someone made a home here, he

thought, and tended it.

Suddenly he was there standing in the lashing rain,

the wind swirling around him.  Though Genrou hadn’t

heard the approach, he was halfway between the cottage

and the old temple.

His hair was wet, transformed into a deep cerulean

that was tied away from a face that might have been

carved out of ivory by a master.  His mouth was soft

and seemed to tremble as it curved into a smile of

welcome.  His eyes were burgundy and powerful.

“I knew you would come, no da.  I’ve waited for you.” 

He raced the distance between them, his voice lilting

with the high-pitched squeak before his mouth crushed

Genrou’s.

There was a moment of blinding, searing joy.  Another

of dark, primal lust.  The other man’s taste, sharp,

potent, soaked into his system as the rain soaked his

skin.  Genrou was helpless to do anything but absorb

it.  His arms were chained around his neck, his slim

body pressed intimately to his, the heat from it

seeping through his sodden shirt and into his bones.

His mouth was as wild and edgy as the sky thundering

above them.  It was all terrifyingly familiar.

He brought his hands to the smaller man’s shoulders,

then eased back and held him at arm’s length.  He was

beautiful.  He was aroused.  And they were, he assured

himself, strangers.

The cerulean-haired man gave Genrou a smile and let

his fingers linger in his fiery-red hair.  “Welcome to

China and the Temple of Suzaku, no da.”

Genrou’s gaze shifted towards the ruins.  “Is that

what this place is called?”

“That’s its name, no da.”  He offered a hand, as he

would any wayward traveler.  “You’ve had a long

journey.  Come, sit by the fire and have some sake, na

no da.”

“You don’t fucking know me.”  He made it a statement

rather than a question.

“Won’t you come inside, Kou Genrou, and get out of the

rain, no da?”

He felt his body tremble.  “How did you know my name?”

“The same way you knew to come here, no da.”

Genrou pushed the front door of the small house open,

and the warmth struck him instantly.

“Make yourself at home, na no da.”

Genrou stepped near to the fire and studied the room

with the sharp eye of an artist.  Quiet colors, he

thought.  Absently he crouched to pet the cat who had

followed them inside.  The creamy white fur was warm

and damp.  Real.  He had some important questions to

ask his host-and he wasn’t going anywhere until he had

answers.

“Won’t you have a drink, Genrou?”

“How the fuck you know my name?” he asked while

downing the offered cup of alcohol.

“Daaa.  I’ll explain what I can.”  His eyes were

turbulent with emotion.  “Do you have no memory of me

at all, no da?”

“I don’t know you,” he said defensively.

“I am Ri Houjun, guardian of this holy place, no da. 

You’re welcome in my home, Kou Genrou.”

“You said you knew I would come, you knew my name. 

How?”

He couldn’t lie to the young red-head-honesty was part

of his pledge.  “I’ve waited for you all my life,” he

said quietly.  “And a millennium before it began.” 

Raising his hands, he laid them on Genrou’s face. 

“The memory of your touch has haunted me every night

of my life.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“I can’t lie to you, no da.  It’s not in my power. 

You’re not ready to hear, to believe.”  His eyes

softened a little, fingertips stroking his temples. 

“Genrou, you’re tired and confused, no da.  It’s rest

you’re needing now and ease for you mind.  I can help

you, na no da.”

Genrou’s vision grayed, and the room swam.  He could

see nothing but Houjun’s eyes, deep burgundy, utterly

focused.  His scent swam into his senses like a drug.

“Rest now, koi.”

He felt Houjun’s lips brush his before he slid

blissfully into the dark.