#orisinil by summer

[summer-in-florence]

Peel

(OC) Umezono no Motoharu & Yūdaiki Slight dead dove. Rated T. by Summer in Florence

Motoharu isn't sure when was the last time he'd seen the earth like how it should be for humans, Motoharu isn't even sure if he belongs to the humans — it's always just an urge, one simple instrusive thought driven by longing. He doesn't know how many years, or centuries, that he had spent occupying this old castle. Seasons come and go while Motoharu watches from the peaks of his master's mountaintops. The world as he knows today, is none but a world that lack resemblance of him; his kind, and Motoharu is beginning to lose it too all by himself.

Onis and smaller imps litter his master's retinue of lowly servants. His master prefers it that way, creatures of a higher standing are more likely to grouse against him. He doesn't favour disobedience. Motoharu knows it too personally.

His master isn't one like him himself, though most of the times Motoharu fails to pick apart where the difference lies. His master only shows his fangs, claws, his fur-lined monstrosity, when he is at full anger — Motoharu remembers to count days since the last time his master was, and it's been 57 days ago. His abnormally looming height, and jading carmines, natural from his master's scalp; the only distinct nonhuman features of the owner of this castle, the owner of Motoharu's soul. Sometimes, when the certainty of his human origins fade, Motoharu ends his comparison by downplaying himself, muttering that perhaps he is just too short, too small, too weak.

He can peer into the empty, mossy ponds just outside by his master's courtyard, and watch how the ripples of its waters reflect the outlines of Motoharu's face. His face, also the everclouds, heavy in their respective places on the surface. After living in this realm of beasts and spirits, Motoharu came to understand that nothing is ever mundane.

Hence, Motoharu always thinks that the look that appears on the water might not even be his face, it could be someone else's, something else, living, eating from the brim of Motoharu's foolishly yearning heart for the truth of what he actually is. Like mists that vapored from it, he gradually loses his recognition of what he is over time. Leaving only the minuscule, timid conviction that he should've never been here in the first place.

So just, a weakling. A lost weakling, clutching on the hem of his master's haōri from time to time. Scared, nervous, but subservient to his master's wills. And if being one pleases him, the Motoharu that dulled with the clock doesn't mind it at all.

*

Yūdaiki is home. Motoharu bowed and kissed at his feet when he arrived. Alone as always, no company but a few oni that flocked behind him with their utmost admiration of a master so charismatic even in this realm of untamed monsters. He smiled at Motoharu, and Motoharu couldn't help but taste the abstract giddiness ebbing from himself for the wordless praise that his master bestowed him. He felt wanted. Appreciated.

If Yūdaiki is home, it means Motoharu's offered pleasantries to appease him. Bedservants such as him know better than to extend the master's patience. When Yūdaiki enters his antechambers, Motoharu is quick and nimble on his two feet, opening doors and preparing scented candles.

"No need," but his master says. Holding a palm up on the air. Motoharu freezes in his tracks, stops undressing himself.

His obi is intact; a splash of purple, like the violets he can't remember where it blooms. His master loves it when Motoharu is lavish. Motoharu tugs lightly on it. "But... my lord."

"I said no need. No sex."

Puzzled, Motoharu stands idle in the middle of the rooms. His hands fall to the sides of him, watching Yūdaiki trespass the space with strides so sure as if he did not just ask an odd request to his child bedservant. Motoharu lives and dies to please his master; what should he do when the master refuses it? He begins to panic, just a bit, scared that Yūdaiki might lose his temper again if he dares to display ineptitude.

The giant master settles on the porch, ignoring the frozen child in his bedroom. Movements languid, slow, relaxed — this isn't the Yūdaiki Motoharu was accustomed to. The Yūdaiki he knows is a feral tiger, all rage and wild tempers; blazing turmoils marked by the scratch of his claws, seething hatred abundant and aflow from his fangs.

This Yūdaiki, seems more of a cat.

Just after a yawn, his master calls. He passes Motoharu a ripened mikan from the insides of his yukata; to which Motoharu catches with ease, surprising himself of the dexterity that comes natural with this motion. "What are you doing just standing there? Come here, Umezono."

Umezono. A name, a human name? For him? Motoharu baulks his eyes wide open.

Motoharu comes to sit in Yūdaiki's lap, and the master purrs, like satisfaction. He envelopes the child with all of him, all of his giant arms, chin atop of Motoharu's small head. "My lord..." Motoharu whines meekly.

He isn't used to this version of his master. Cuddly and gentle, wrapping him in his radiant warmth while guiding both of his hands to peel fruits that he brought. Motoharu burns a shade of carmine, as carmine as Yūdaiki's hair. His master must've felt it too, pulling Motoharu closer into his chest.

The ginkgo tree outside of their porch sways with the winds of sobriety. Its golden leaves fall, the piles of it blown to who knows where it will take them. Motoharu fixates on the sight, distracting himself to keep up composure for his master.

"You have to learn how to peel fruits too, Umezono," Yūdaiki says, bringing Motoharu's attention back to him. His long, sharp nails biting into the flesh of the tangerine, struggling to remove its skin. "Peel. Go on." He feigns his defeat against the fruit, pushing it deeper into Motoharu's hands.

"Ah, of course, my lord, yes, yes." But he does know how to peel fruit, as surprising as it was for himself too.

Ritualistic. Rubbing the mikan with both of his hands, piercing the tops with his thumb, and pull, pull until it surrenders. Layers skinned from its body, revealing its fat meat and gushing juices that flow to Motoharu's wrist. He doesn't remember how, or perhaps why did he know the steps. He just... does. Muscle memory, maybe of a past that escaped him. Motoharu becomes somber.

Plucking one appendage, feeding it to his master's mouth above him, feeling his tongue lick the wetness on his arm. He becomes somber, lost in thought of fuzzy, cloudy, turbid images that he tries to conjure but fails each time. All he ends up thinking are the blown bits of the ginkgo tree.

'Umezono', satsuma mikan, wind that kisses good bye to each separate leaves of a golden tree. Human name. Human memories. But why is it on him, in him?

Yūdaiki's tongue flick on the side of his face, tasting salt from the tears that well-up and overflow. His master murmurs, "you can't leave, Umezono," forcing his kisses to the subservient, crying child in his hold, "this is your place now. Your people and the village, they've died a long time ago. I killed them, and the plague." Giant thumbs draw circles on Motoharu's calf and belly, as if begging him. Yūdaiki's lips steal the hiccuping sobs from Motoharu's chest. "Mine, Umezono, you will live to be mine."

'Umezono', satsuma mikan, and ginkgo trees dancing in the wind.

Images form, of a big house with people. Brunets, simple yukata, and chonmage that shrivels Motoharu's heart. People that looks like him, not onis nor imps. Not feral, monstrous tigers. Ginkgo trees planted in the backyard, and children playing fight on its piles. Baskets of tangerines.

Motoharu stutters. "A–ah, wuh—w, wah," unsure of the things that escapes his mouth. Sentences fail him, and Yūdaiki's tight arms prevents it to succeed.

"Shh, shush." Yūdaiki's hand on his eyes, closing his field of vision. "Soon you'll forget everything," he continues, whispering into Motoharu's ear. There are hands slithering to Motoharu's chest, holding down the jerks that rip from the child; of a pain so strong, whiplash from the amnesia that he did not know he was sick with.

The urges, convictions, intrusive thoughts were real after all. They weren't delusions. Motoharu shakes so violently with his tears that the mikan ends up bursting in his palms.

And then it subsides, gone in an instant. Like a flick. Fire that just gives up.

Motoharu rests so limply on his master's lap, dead weight totaled on Yūdaiki's chest. His tears still flow, but his eyes are closed, his breathing evened. If his master wants to move him a certain way, this is the most pliant Motoharu will ever get. No resistance.

Yūdaiki carries him inside, puts him on their bed — where Motoharu should have only been. He lives and dies as a bedservant. Confined as a bedservant. The sight of Motoharu sprawled weakly pleases his master. Yūdaiki climbs to the other side of his bed, watching the child sleep with a palm underneath his head. His giant hands pat Motoharu's body, an attempt to calm him.

When tears still flow, abundantly. Piled ginkgo leaves blown with the wind. Orange peel discarded below the wooden porch. Motoharu's memories escape him, again, and forever, until he loses it all.

Satsuma mikan, ginkgo trees.

He wakes up with no more of it.

[ransyahnote-blog]

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[summer-in-florence]

Sapling

Lisieux (OC) Rated T By Summer in Florence

Two million lightyears after my escape, I gave birth to my six-thousandth child.

Sprouting strands of green decorate her small cranium, its size fitting on the size of my palm, and slightly smaller than the size of her father's. She sleeps on my bosom. Her tiny mouth latching upon the bare skin that feeds her, just like every other human child does. When I wake up in the night, the sight of her tethers me, and I would cradle her body in my arms while moving closer to her father's warmth at my side.

It took me five generations of offsprings to fill up the hole in my chest cavity. Even through the millions of lightyears that I had spent journeying across time, these very sense of parasitic loneliness kept me awake, yearning for something I failed to describe, and only did it grew the longer I tried to run away from it. It wasn't greed. It wasn't hunger, I was never famished. Yet I have not slept for so long that I began to suffocate on its gentle presence, seeping within my every waking thought. To the point that on the centre of my being crumbled an abyss so deep, death pooled there until it spreads.

My little child, Artemis, as I call this one, is a seed to empty soil.

She is a small tree, planted in the core of my gaping void. I smile if she cries, I kiss her fat when she tantrums. Sometimes I wonder about the grievances of such a tiny creature and the intensity of it, that she can't help but to wail and sob. I coo to her each time, taking her pain away; because I understand her, I understand how it feels to drown in sadness. And what torment it is to have to feel it without being able to say? Her being is so small, yet with a heart so big, tears never cease to overflow.

"There is a word from where I came from," I tell her father, "Aurteme, meaning sapling." One night, as she suckles to my human breast. Her father watches from across the room. He is occupied with his work.

He doesn't spare me more than a glance, no. But I can feel the underlying pride from his response, saying in his nonchalance, "is it the name you chose?" The sounds of his pen scribbling on paper echoing.

"You told me about your ancient goddess. I like the similarity between them, Artemis and Aurteme."

Her father hums. I miss his touch sometimes. Such a busy man, perfectly content in just watching. I smile at him.

Millions of lightyears removed from Ninthia, and all the sickness I carried with me throughout, finally I could feel no more of this remorse. They heal me, my small group of three. My own family, something which prior to this world were curious to me - and I did not understand, I couldn't. Lords in Ninthia took me as their Reverend Mother, yet I was merely a machine, a jewel mine for them to scavenge their needs and toss behind after. A Reverend Mother but never a family; and now I am simply a human's wife, a parent, an add to a pack that I was invited to live in. They make me radiate warmth.

Lucretius stands from his desk, the wood screeches as it meets the floor. He says to me, "she looks full already," beckoning to my child. "Don't push yourself."

He passes me to grab one of his books from the drawer. Something about his scent urges me to lay my head flat on his shoulder. I tuck my chest inside the robe he provided for me, holding Artemis closer as I absorb his presence.

"I don't really mind." There is an arm around my waist. He begins stroking, it bunches me with heat. My eyes try to catch his from below, but the awkwardness of this position prevents me from staring at his face full.

"You know you can't exert more than this."

I hum, mimicking the sounds that he made before. "But I want to," my sighs carry to his ear drums. "...It's us together, I want to give everything."

Lucretius pauses as I say it. I am just beginning to fear that I have said the wrong thing, but then he rests on my head, kissing the hair I grew there with so much breath flaring from his nose. Then he starts kissing me lower, and lower, until his lips find the salience on my cheek.

He whispers to me an 'okay' before coming back to his desk.

Artemis stirs awake, as if feeling the loss of her father's touch. Saliva stains on the side of her mouth and running down to her chin. I wipe it off. Her little hands beg for mine, and I give it to her, because what wouldn't I surrender for this sapling of mine.

A small tree born out of my womb, my soils. The pinch of her nose like the shapes of her father's, yet paired with my beady eyes, as Lucretius puts it.

Sometimes noticing the mixture of us in her brings me to tears, because I realised soon that this is how it should be. To be nurtured to fruition. I gave myself, and Lucretius, too. Then I delivered, something I was never privy of feeling back when I was just deemed as a machine - something taken from me, something I was told I was not made for.

Now with him, I am just a wife. Just a woman he mated with, and took the responsibility of caring for, and accepted the deeds that he's done. He sees me for all I am, and still treats me like I am more than just a mimicry, more than a machine. He doesn't cower when my past caught up to me, and he merely nods when I told him about the things that I am living with, I used to live with; the parasite, the journeys, the children. Humans are strange, I think. Their capabilities to tether themselves to what they think matters the most, eliminating what don't, and continuing to find good amidst all the rest, is astonishing. After all the weight I carried, he was quick to remove it from me.

'What has happened, happened,' Lucretius said, and I became what he saw in me. What he only saw. Removed, and reworked completely anew.

I see myself in his eyes and no longer sees the Reverend Mother; I peer into my child's giggles and laughter and no longer feel the pressure of gravity vying for me to return.

I feel belonged. And my body stops being aware of the pain that was supposed to be there; still, like a parasitic worm rotting inches of my insides. It takes me millions of lightyears as fugitive, and three thousand years as an apocalyptic wanderer, and six thousand children made from my body, and one sapling that grows from me, to be reborn. I look at them with warmth that I have never felt across the galaxies beyond, nor have I found it back in Ninthia. My chest cavity overflows as I gaze at my little sapling child, sleeping peacefully on it. No more of the pain, no more of the grieving.

[summer-in-florence]

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