Murasame's Song: Sketches
This is their gift.
They do not accept the friendhsip offered, they give it back -- changed, darker. And people want more, they need the thrill, the feathersharp danger of it along their nerves.
Yûgiri knows it; he laughs, he cajoles, he mocks, he taunts. His quicksilver mood is driving his wife mad, they say, slowly slowly, her mind like spilt milk, her eyes wider and wider. Oh how delicious the curling of his lips, the steel in his liquid eyes, the gliding of his hands beneath the silk. Truly he can get anything he wants -- except for the one thing he wants.
And Murasame watches. From inside her own isolation, she could play too. Tendrils of tension rise from every pore in her skin; beneath her quiet icewater shell, she is taut, vibrating. She longs to be touched; she is repelled also. People want to crack her open, they want to get to the source, they want a draught of her coolness, they want -- so they heap treasures at her naked feet, they need to give her something.
Which is, of course, exactly what she is designed for. Yukihira has seen through the solemn little girl, on that day. His choice was a stroke of genius: she has become their sharpest blade.
And so they pass their days, amid the worship and the distrust. They should be invicible -- as it is, they can do nothing. "Well, your sister", Takeie says to Yûgiri. "She has a dangerous life, no? Who knows what could happen?".
And Yukihira, reproachful, considerate, deadly: "Ame, you should be more careful. Your brother is my brother-in-law, I'd hate for something to happen to him".
They are caught; it's an exquisite cat's cradle of lies, threats and blackmail. At night, they wake up, each in their own bed, biting their fingers to choke the scream coming out of their throats.
In the morning, when they meet, they look at each other's hands, the thin purple crescents marking the knuckles.
/https%3A%2F%2Fassets.over-blog.com%2Ft%2Fcedistic%2Fcamera.png)
/https%3A%2F%2Fprofilepics.canalblog.com%2Fprofilepics%2F4%2F4%2F441283.jpg)