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There are certain merits to life that only someone with an immoral soul can dream of grasping.
The ribbon of life appears tangled and endless at first, as it flows through time and space, an explosion of colours painting the sky in blues, greens and whites, with the occasional reds here and there. The colours would merge and split, dancing around the periodic red splash of crimson red, until the ribbons are too torn to see with a naked eye. And then they would return to the heavens, as everything once alive is supposed to, and a new roll of shiny silk would take their place to chase after the untouchable depth of deep crimson.
The soul of Ouryuu never once entered the cycle of life. Its shapeless form only ever dreamed of getting carried away in the flow of primary colours, until its shade fades to a tired elephant tusk colour, until its ragged form gets torn apart by the future generation of bright yellow. It remained deep inside a youthful body, barely seventeen in age, alone and unchanging, and life seemed to pass by all too quickly. Seasons came and went, new leaves emerging from the depths of their cocoons, first a shy shade of light green, then a confident darker variant, then the brush of autumn painting it a bold shade of orange, just for winter to claim it for itself, like a small child would with a plate of freshly sliced fruit.
Two thousand years is an awfully long time. Long enough to make the peculiarity of leaves pointless, long enough to make breathing seem like a chore rather than a privilege, a particular nuisance so deeply rooted in one’s heart that ripping it out would be simply pointless. Those roots are now one with the soil, a soul rich in heartache and grief, and the gods always had a strange sense of humour, for those roots would bear the most magnificent flowers with the sweetest scent.
Two thousand years is enough to make one regret being born. As the seasons pass by, as familiar faces come and go, as the ribbon of life flutters oh so gently, almost innocently, an old soul slowly becomes sour and bitter and oh so jealous of the concept of mortal existence. How could it not, being so alone under the endless blue sky, for a mortal’s lifespan is mere minutes compared to the thousands of years his shoulders were weighed down by a promised prophecy sang from generation to generation. Forming connections is futile and will lead to nothing but heartache, but Ouryuu is still just as green as he once was, and his humanity peaks through the cracks.
Maybe it would be different if this soul was carried by the body of gods, maybe then, finally, the soul would stop calling out for faces long gone, names washed away by the waves of Sanzu River. Maybe then this human body wouldn’t crave love, shelter, warmth, the company of humans, maybe then this body would be content with becoming one with nature, taking roots as a young sapling or a chiselled rock, happy with seeing the clouds pass by on the endless blue sky, happy with the grass fluttering in the wind, content with the seasons passing by. Maybe then his flesh wouldn’t burn after being pierced, his skin wouldn’t tear as it got pulled, his bones wouldn’t rattle under the thin cloak during winter. Maybe then, existing could be enjoyed, rather than endured.
A god’s soul could never possibly resonate with the struggles of being painfully human. With laughter so genuine others couldn’t help but join in, with grief so deep it robs one’s eyes of seeing colour, with anger so hot and seething it lights towns on fire. The souls of gods would take this world in with curiosity, watching over every blade of grass, counting every sand grain in the ocean, reaching out for stars on the night sky and bringing them close, so lost village kids would never have to stumble in the dark anymore while trying to find their way home.
Long, long ago, when grief was still too raw to process, he too, spent his days roaming around these familiar lands with the calmness of gods. He’d touch every tree he walked by, count the ants on the ground, spend days looking up the sky, lost in the way clear blue got washed away by yellows, oranges, crimson, then finally that deep darkness with millions of starts. He’d stay idle, laying on the grass for hours, days, weeks, months, years, not moving, not breathing, not even thinking, letting small animals find comfort in the warmth of his body, letting moss overgrow his form, letting birds peak and poke and pull at his skin, hair, nails, eyelashes, any exposed body part they might find interesting.
Two thousand years is plenty of time to wear down one’s mind, until only bones and sand remain. Humans aren’t meant to live longer than a few decades. Growing old is a privilege, dying dignified is a privilege, living life to the fullest is the biggest privilege of all. Living with memories carefully stored in the depths of their minds, remembering places, faces, names, one’s own character without any façade, having offsprings who will remember their names for generations to come.
He had long since forgotten that kind hand that oh so lovingly brushed his unruly hair flat. Only that shade of crimson hair remains, strands of wavy hair the shade of dawn pooling around them, and it’s so nostalgic he could cry. The memory is faded, and oh, the face he could see in his dreams is now gone, like the rest of them, all gone, all gone, forgotten, and their names are dancing on the tip of his tongue, teasing him for never remembering, for doing nothing but forgetting. Weren’t they important, weren’t they precious? Trinkets of the past, beloved friends, brothers, but he keeps forgetting, forgetting, forgetting.
Forgotten the voices of many, forgotten the names of many, forgotten the faces of even more. After a while, they all blend together, an ugly blob of white, green, blue and crimson, so many voices to remember, so many names to remember, so many faces to remember, and it’s so much, too much, for a single mind to keep track of, and so he doesn’t.
He forgets because he’s too human for his own good, lacking in all the good places, and truly, who desires an indestructible body if one’s mind fails to keep up with the tide of time?
Long, long ago, he’d carve their names into his forearms with a dull arrowhead, carve, carve and carve into the soft flesh until he hit bone, just to have something to gaze at when cloud watching would eventually lose its spark. But by the time he’d blink once, twice, thrice, the wounds would be gone, and those names would be exiled into the back of his mind like many other feeble memories once had been, and he’d spend the next few weeks muttering those four names like a feverish prayer, until it became muscle memory, until his monstrous body was trained to remember, even if his mind was dulled beyond recognition.
Gu-En, Abi, Shu-Ten, King Hiryuu, Gu-En, Abi, Shu-Ten, King Hiryuu, Gu-En, Abi, Shu-Ten, King Hiryuu, Guen, Abi, Shuten, King Hiryuu, GuenAbiShutenKingHiryuu, Guenabishutenkinghiryuu, a desperate chain of names slowly merging together, until his mind doesn’t know where one name starts and one ends.
If one were to ask him about them, would he have the mental capacity to separate the mantra into four equal people? Would he be able to say one, two, three, four, instead of one ugly concoction of syllables? Would he be able to associate distinct features of the past with those four endering names, would he have the means to share old tales of the past? Because they’re all precious, lovely pieces of a time long gone, but his mind is constantly slipping, slipping slipping, memories slipping through his fingers, and no matter how many times he cuts the palm of his hands, they never grow in size for him to hold the sand better.
He’d long since forgotten the village he grew up in, and the realisation doesn’t hit quite as hard as it once did, a hundred or so years after his lips touched the chalice with dragon blood still so fresh it was warm on his skin. He remembers ghostly figures, run-down houses, bare fields devoid of any crops, and hunger gnawing at his stomach, a sensation he grew familiar with years before his ascension into the title of warrior. Even now, the pain remains the same, but his current self doesn’t run to the nearest creek to sooth his stomach with greedy gulps of water, instead letting the pain run its course until the blessing of the dragons kick in, and the lining of his stomach is repaired once more, the disgusting feeling of skin and muscle reconnecting leaving bile in his mouth.
He knows he is selfish, running after a goal that’s only faintly gleaming in the distance. His own memories are wrapped in thick fog, and, sometimes, fearures of past loved ones would peek through, just for a second, a full head of red hair here, a set of sharp teeth there, a chin with stubble, gorgeous golden eyes filled with tears, a lonesome woman’s form with a pink flower instead of a head on her shoulders, and suddenly the air is filled with the scent of death, any noise around him gets dulled with the buzzing of flies, the crawling of worms, and it’s as if he can feel the pressure on his hands grow fainter and fainter, until soft skin gets replaced by rough bone, and he moves, he needs to move, to get away, until the scent of death stops clinging to his clothes, his hair, his skin, needs to move move move, and one day realisation dawns on him; he was the one smelling like death all along.
The realisation stops him in his tracks, and suddenly, life is slow, incredibly slow, and the constant rambling, buzzing, crawling in his mind halts.
He is all alone under the endless blue sky, the blood of the yellow dragon humming in his veins, and he gets the urge to pull, pull pull, pull the skin off his bone over and over and over again until only bone remains, until only pain remains, and even then it’s not enough, it will never be enough, because he’s still Ouryuu, dragon warrior of King Hiryuu, useless child. It will never be enough because he is, and always will be Ouryuu.
After a while, his nerves stop screaming, alarm bells stop ringing, as his body is covered in yellow scales, and his claws aren’t sharp enough to pierce the yellow dragon’s indestructible body. And so he lays in the pool of blood on the ground, for minutes, hours, days, his mind above the clouds, letting the rain wash him clean of his sins, of his shame, of his craving for death.
It will take many, many years until he feels stable enough to approach the dragon villages. Their presence is a somewhat pleasant ache, almost soothing, but seeing them with his own eyes still sting just as much as it once did, back when the second generation emerged from the shadows, sucking the life out of those now ghostly figures with the endering names. He doesn’t linger, doesn’t even utter a word, as it is too early, way too early, the crimson ribbon is still dull, lifeless, old, and their white, green and blue ribbons soar through the sky like a shooting star. Their landing is unsightly, as their lives get eaten away by the next generation of warriors, and the cycle continues for hundreds and thousands of years.
He is still the same, forever seventeen, his hair blond and choppy, his skin even, his body underweight, proof of a life lived two thousand years ago, when food was scarce, water was contaminated, and young priests claiming to hear the voice of gods were frowned upon. The golden pendant is a welcomed comfort, it always is, no matter how many times he brushes the tips of his fingers against the cold metal. It’s heavy and makes his balance off, clearly meant to be worn around the neck, but he wants it closer, wants to feel it thump against his head when he turns too quickly, wants to hear it clink when the wind pulls at his hair and clothes, want to see it glimmer in the sun.
He feels the ribbon of life grow restless before seeing the crimson star on the sky. He is old after all, and he might be a bit senile, but his senses are still just as sharp, and the dull red is no longer old and torn and lifeless, the white, green and blue are no longer hopelessly clinging to its faded form, and Ouryuu wants nothing more than to pull until the new crimson is torn in half.
Such cruel fate for his brothers long gone, making them wait for centuries, just for the ribbon to come back to life so casually. And still, as much as he curses the heavens, he could never hate his king, he could never deny his existence, his love, his devotion, and so he’s on the road once again, taking the time to visit all three of his adorable brothers, to visit his beloved king, who’s no longer tall and majestic or even a king at all, just a tiny baby with crimson hair and red, puffy cheeks. He visits her often, sneaking into the palace, looking after her, because he cannot afford to lose her just yet, not now, not after so many years without his king by his side. He watches from afar, watches from the crowns of trees, from the tops of old buildings, and oh his king is so different, even if he doesn’t even have a concept of his own king anymore.
This king is small, tiny, powerless, just an adorable bundle of crimson light, and oh her life is so comfortable it should be a crime. She doesn’t know the concept of struggle, hardship, warship, doesn’t even attempt to understand the pride of Hiryuu, and still, her soul is so pure Ouryuu doesn’t have the heart to even consider shattering her spirit, tearing the crimson ribbon of life to shreds. He knows there’s a long road ahead of her, as King Hiryuu wouldn’t reincarnate for no reason, and so he doesn’t mangle with fate when she gets chased out of the castle.
Seeing her with his adorable brothers warms his heart, and he’s not sure when was the last time he felt so content with being alive. His king is tired, powerless, but her determination is admirable, and so he thinks it’s time for him to introduce himself. He lets himself be found, lets himself play fool, lets himself pretend he doesn’t have two thousand years of sin clinging to the back of his head. With his king and brothers by his side, he takes on the role of Zeno once more, for a short while, just for now, and pretends everything is fine.
He jumps in front of arrows raining down at them, stands like a statue as sword go through his abdomen from every direction, doesn’t flinch as a blade goes through clean his neck, lets flames hungrily eat away at his flesh, as it is the Ouryuu’s pride to protect the weak, the young, the powerless. The gift of the heavens never fail, but sometimes he wishes it did.
Sometimes, he remembers a particular generation. Those three who had more than enough of the curse of dragons, who tried to take their own lives to end this cycle of suffering for once and for all. But no matter how much they tried, begged, the heavens turned a blind eye, and they were left on Earth to rot, waiting for a king still deep in slumber above the clouds.
He wonders if maybe when it’s all over, if his king no longer needs his shield, his claws, his fangs, would he be able to join them, would he be able to lay himself to sleep, to join them in heavens? His four adorable names dug into his forearm thousands of years ago, the woman with the pink flower, would they be waiting for him? Their souls are pure, untouched, but Ouryuu is no longer as moral as he once was. He no longer wishes to go to heaven, no longer wishes to reunite with faces long forgotten, with names on the tip of his tongue, as death is death either way, and it’s truly a once in a lifetime opportunity, even for an immortal such as himself.
Killing his borthers? Shattering his king’s heart? Disappointing the mister and lad? He’s too tired, too done to care, and honestly, it was all too easy, taking the chalice from a dead man’s grasp, using the opportunity of the destruction of Hiryuu Castle, and death is so close he can almost grab onto it with his hands. The blood of the three dragons is coating the inside of the chalice, they roar and shriek and cry, but his mind is numb to such sounds.
He was oh so patient all this time, is it not time for a reward? He was oh so understanding, patient, sympathetic, watching generation after generation fall into despair, and he can finally put and end to this, make it halt, make it stop, burn it all up in crimson flames of hurt.
The expression on his king’s face squeezes his heart. Her beautiful face taking on the ugly lines of betrayal, desperation, grief, but she never once calls him selfish, and that’s as much of a goodbye gift as someone like him can hope of receiving.
Dead people no longer need forgiveness to thrive, after all.