clonechild (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
clonechild) wrote2011-06-08 09:49 pm
clonechild) wrote2011-06-08 09:49 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Rosemary, for remembrance (Saiyuki Reload)
This has been sitting in my archive of half-written fics for ages, and I originally wanted to make it longer, but, as happens so often with me, I got bored and distracted by new shiny things. And I'm quite happy with it as it is really.
Fandom: Saiyuki
Characters: Hazel, an unnamed man, mention of Gat
Spoilers for the end of Saiyuki Reload
word count: ~850
--- --- ---
Hazel sleeps a lot these days.
The old man who found him at the bottom of the cliff just seems to be happy that he woke up at all, which is something Hazel can understand, if only vaguely. They do say that after you've saved a man's life you're responsible for it, after all.
they said? Who said that?
Shaky laughter (is that his own voice he hears?). 'I don't think the sayin's quite appropriate here, but I guess th' sentiment's the same' and the rest of the words get swallowed by a strange roar in his ears
but before he loses the battle with exhaustion again he thinks he hears another man's voice, low and soothing, but he can't make out the words and doesn't quite understand why he feels like crying.
When he wakes up in the morning the sun is shining brightly, the light just barely dimmed by the threadbare curtains, the sound of birds almost overwhelmingly loud. The sheets are tangled around him, pillow falling almost off the bed, held only in place by his head. When he moves to lie straight, his back throbs painfully.
Surprise halts his movements. The old man had refreshed his bandages yesterday, telling him about his wounds – on his head, his face, a broken leg and bruised ribs and fingers, but altogether surprisingly (suspiciously) unharmed for an apparent fall off a deep cliff – and there had only been bruises on his back. But when he'd moved, it hadn't been his ribs he'd felt, since he'd been feeling those constantly, but a new, sharp pain along his shoulderblades. For a moment he feels dizzy –
heavy weight pulling at his back, unused muscles aching with tension and a strange weightless feeling in his legs
insane laughter in his ears in something that sounds like his voice and yet not, wordless elation burning in his chest, 'i can fly i can fly finally i'm free again'
and then the door opens and the old man walks in with a bowl of soup in his hands.
'Ah, you're awake!' he says, pleased. 'How are you feeling today?'
Hazel watches his movement about the room as the old man crosses over to a small table next to the bed and puts the soupbowl down, careful not to spill anything.
'I'm fine,' he says, and then adds, 'or at least I think I'll be right fine once everything's healed a tad more.'
The man smiles at him, the fine crow's feet at the edges of his eyes deepening. 'That's good to hear. Are you hungry?'
For a moment Hazel doesn't comprehend him, his mind buzzing with crow's feet, crow's feet, crows are always bad luck but no, no I ain't afraid of ravens no more and then his vision clears and he answers the question, voice just a bit shaky but with any luck the man will just put it down to general weakness.
Then the man hands him a checkered piece of cloth, says, 'You were holding this when I found you and wouldn't let go of it. It must have been something really important to –' and Hazel bursts into tears.
That's how the days slowly melt into each other. He still can't remember how he ended up falling off a cliff – hell, he can't even remember how he got in the general vicinity of the cliff. There are strange, inconsistent gaps in his memory. He knows his own name, remembers his master and frantically clutching the dead body, the writing on his cross. Remembers the Raven – no, that can't be right, he must mean a raven, and there had been lots of crows in the neighbourhood then. Rememers training, spellcasting, the gorgeous sunlit streets of Rome and her churches, the cloister where he'd furthered his education and how he'd finally come to – to – he has to grope around for the name: oh, right, Shangri-la, where the monsters and the humans live together though not peacefully (how had he known that?) to exterminate all monsters in his driving obsession for revenge.
And there'd been something about a tribe of hunters, where he'd done something unforgivable, but he can't remember what it was, only that it still chokes him up to think about it.
And there is that bandanna, and he still can't so much as look at the thing without crying, and he can't bear to let it go.
Sometimes he thinks he hears a voice, one that sounds surprisingly like him but rougher, and a feeling like claws scraping the inside of his skin, like he's a hollowed-out doll with something else inside, brushing the walls of its cage. This always comes accompagnied by that strange pain at his back and a sensation like flying, and then eyes are boring into him, another voice saying, 'you are pathetic, Hazel Grouse' and the feeling quiets down.
Sometimes he thinks he can hear other voices, can almost see blurs of colour and faces behind his eyes. He hopes it means his memories are returning.
--- --- ---
Fandom: Saiyuki
Characters: Hazel, an unnamed man, mention of Gat
Spoilers for the end of Saiyuki Reload
word count: ~850
--- --- ---
Hazel sleeps a lot these days.
The old man who found him at the bottom of the cliff just seems to be happy that he woke up at all, which is something Hazel can understand, if only vaguely. They do say that after you've saved a man's life you're responsible for it, after all.
Shaky laughter (is that his own voice he hears?). 'I don't think the sayin's quite appropriate here, but I guess th' sentiment's the same' and the rest of the words get swallowed by a strange roar in his ears
but before he loses the battle with exhaustion again he thinks he hears another man's voice, low and soothing, but he can't make out the words and doesn't quite understand why he feels like crying.
When he wakes up in the morning the sun is shining brightly, the light just barely dimmed by the threadbare curtains, the sound of birds almost overwhelmingly loud. The sheets are tangled around him, pillow falling almost off the bed, held only in place by his head. When he moves to lie straight, his back throbs painfully.
Surprise halts his movements. The old man had refreshed his bandages yesterday, telling him about his wounds – on his head, his face, a broken leg and bruised ribs and fingers, but altogether surprisingly (suspiciously) unharmed for an apparent fall off a deep cliff – and there had only been bruises on his back. But when he'd moved, it hadn't been his ribs he'd felt, since he'd been feeling those constantly, but a new, sharp pain along his shoulderblades. For a moment he feels dizzy –
insane laughter in his ears in something that sounds like his voice and yet not, wordless elation burning in his chest, 'i can fly i can fly finally i'm free again'
and then the door opens and the old man walks in with a bowl of soup in his hands.
'Ah, you're awake!' he says, pleased. 'How are you feeling today?'
Hazel watches his movement about the room as the old man crosses over to a small table next to the bed and puts the soupbowl down, careful not to spill anything.
'I'm fine,' he says, and then adds, 'or at least I think I'll be right fine once everything's healed a tad more.'
The man smiles at him, the fine crow's feet at the edges of his eyes deepening. 'That's good to hear. Are you hungry?'
For a moment Hazel doesn't comprehend him, his mind buzzing with crow's feet, crow's feet, crows are always bad luck but no, no I ain't afraid of ravens no more and then his vision clears and he answers the question, voice just a bit shaky but with any luck the man will just put it down to general weakness.
Then the man hands him a checkered piece of cloth, says, 'You were holding this when I found you and wouldn't let go of it. It must have been something really important to –' and Hazel bursts into tears.
That's how the days slowly melt into each other. He still can't remember how he ended up falling off a cliff – hell, he can't even remember how he got in the general vicinity of the cliff. There are strange, inconsistent gaps in his memory. He knows his own name, remembers his master and frantically clutching the dead body, the writing on his cross. Remembers the Raven – no, that can't be right, he must mean a raven, and there had been lots of crows in the neighbourhood then. Rememers training, spellcasting, the gorgeous sunlit streets of Rome and her churches, the cloister where he'd furthered his education and how he'd finally come to – to – he has to grope around for the name: oh, right, Shangri-la, where the monsters and the humans live together though not peacefully (how had he known that?) to exterminate all monsters in his driving obsession for revenge.
And there'd been something about a tribe of hunters, where he'd done something unforgivable, but he can't remember what it was, only that it still chokes him up to think about it.
And there is that bandanna, and he still can't so much as look at the thing without crying, and he can't bear to let it go.
Sometimes he thinks he hears a voice, one that sounds surprisingly like him but rougher, and a feeling like claws scraping the inside of his skin, like he's a hollowed-out doll with something else inside, brushing the walls of its cage. This always comes accompagnied by that strange pain at his back and a sensation like flying, and then eyes are boring into him, another voice saying, 'you are pathetic, Hazel Grouse' and the feeling quiets down.
Sometimes he thinks he can hear other voices, can almost see blurs of colour and faces behind his eyes. He hopes it means his memories are returning.
--- --- ---