Sess + Swords - Tenseiga- #13 Rain
Jun. 19th, 2005 12:17 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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30shardsTitle: Submerged
Rating: PG
Genre: Angsty...
Squicks: OOCness?, run-on sentence galore, and overused symbolism
Couple: Sess Swords (Tenseiga)
Theme: #13 - Rain
Words: 800-ish
Summary: He hated the damn sword.
Notes: Uh…this came out nothing like the original idea... Okay, so the first half of it kind of did, but then it went downhill from there… Based on someone's idea of Tenseiga = less Sess compassion. I think the story was Duplicity or something to that effect… (damn memory…) Anyway…Sess is so OOC here. In fact, I can't believe I'm posting it here… I may redo it, but want others' opinions first... Critique me, please.
Edit: I crossed out the pitiful whining above (I'm such a baby...). Give me your own opinions. (I only left it so some of the comments below don't seem random...)
-
It rained the night his father died. It was a smothering oppressive rain, soaking him through to the very core. It was a cold rain, a scorching rain. It was a driving rain that scratched his skin, ripped his face. It was a rain of agonizing slowness, of crawling fingers that knew every crevice in his time-toughened skin. It was everything at once and he hated it.
The mud -- that overwhelming filth-- sucked him in, locked him there, and he was forced to suffer. And it kept coming down. Rain. Rain. Rain. He couldn't see. Everything was a haze of color --anything was nothing now to his eyes -- and he hated it.
He hated many things.
First of which was him.
The ground gave way beneath his hands, pushed as it was by seeking claws, torn and trashed in a search for a solid hold. He was sliding away, he knew it and fought it, but it was still raining.
Raining enough to drown. Almost.
A flicker of thought and he saw himself filling with it, aching hollowness brimming with anything at all, but that was nonsense and he knew better.
Living beings were not hollow--only dead ones were. Living being could not hold water…
But why did he feel that way?
It rained. How he wished to wring out some of the water now… It was heavy and he was sinking and he did not like this at all…
He tried to sit still, wait it out, but he was restless and the rain was stifling and he was so damn cold and why was he dead?
He wasn't supposed to be dead he wasn't supposed to be gone he wasn't supposed to be the sacrifice he wasn't supposed to…
He wasn't supposed to leave him with this.
He hated this. He hated the slick metal, he hated the tanned leather, he hated the non-existing wounds it left.
He hated this damn sword.
The rain fell harder, pounded him down and he tried to see the blade tried to ignore it tried to escape it tried to grip it in useless hands but there was nothing.
That's just what it had done. Nothing.
It was so powerful so lovely so much the favored of them all. But now it was useless it was so far away it was too close it was a blur in the rain. It was nothing it was metal it was making him drown. Engulfed in rain.
It was set in the muck --he knew he'd put it there-- and it mocked him --he knew it because he knew-- and he hated it.
Why hadn't it saved him?
Why did it leave him dead?
It was worthless worthless worthless worthless…
Just like he was, himself.
The urge to scream was a tidal wave against his lips, up his throat. He swallowed the salt. But that did nothing but conduct the rage downward and out until it erupted from him in a ferocious storm, fingers tearing at the immobile leather as if that would make it die, as if his claws screeching against the unblemished steel could actually make something happen.
Yet, no matter how much he abused that blade, there was nothing. He didn't even bleed. And that made he so angry that he so close to drowning that the rain didn't matter anymore because if he drowned then it wouldn't tear him apart anymore and if he ruined that damn sword he might be able to do something but that something wouldn't make a difference because he was worthless and--
'Calm down.'
Slick with mud, slick with rain, he could do nothing but slide into silence. Screaming --screaming-- that this was insanity he was tasting on his drenched lips he did nothing but stare and know it was over. What it was he did not know but it was over.
'You need to get yourself together, boy. This sniveling is getting us nowhere.'
Us.
'So get up, shut up, and do as I tell you and everything will work well.'
But.
'He's dead, you're here, and I have to work with what I get. So get up.'
I.
'Do as I say and I'll take it away. I promise.'
He felt it. The rain was freezing, crystallizing through his body as he tried to lurch away. But it swamped him, pulled him under, and it was too hard to drown in.
He just felt numb.
But somewhere, some small molten center of his frozen heart, he knew one truth that nothing could diminish and he basked in its boiling water because that's all he could do.
I hate you.
He hated him. He hated himself.
He hated that sword most of all.
Rating: PG
Genre: Angsty...
Squicks: OOCness?, run-on sentence galore, and overused symbolism
Couple: Sess Swords (Tenseiga)
Theme: #13 - Rain
Words: 800-ish
Summary: He hated the damn sword.
Notes: Uh…this came out nothing like the original idea... Okay, so the first half of it kind of did, but then it went downhill from there… Based on someone's idea of Tenseiga = less Sess compassion. I think the story was Duplicity or something to that effect… (damn memory…) Anyway…
Edit: I crossed out the pitiful whining above (I'm such a baby...). Give me your own opinions. (I only left it so some of the comments below don't seem random...)
-
It rained the night his father died. It was a smothering oppressive rain, soaking him through to the very core. It was a cold rain, a scorching rain. It was a driving rain that scratched his skin, ripped his face. It was a rain of agonizing slowness, of crawling fingers that knew every crevice in his time-toughened skin. It was everything at once and he hated it.
The mud -- that overwhelming filth-- sucked him in, locked him there, and he was forced to suffer. And it kept coming down. Rain. Rain. Rain. He couldn't see. Everything was a haze of color --anything was nothing now to his eyes -- and he hated it.
He hated many things.
First of which was him.
The ground gave way beneath his hands, pushed as it was by seeking claws, torn and trashed in a search for a solid hold. He was sliding away, he knew it and fought it, but it was still raining.
Raining enough to drown. Almost.
A flicker of thought and he saw himself filling with it, aching hollowness brimming with anything at all, but that was nonsense and he knew better.
Living beings were not hollow--only dead ones were. Living being could not hold water…
But why did he feel that way?
It rained. How he wished to wring out some of the water now… It was heavy and he was sinking and he did not like this at all…
He tried to sit still, wait it out, but he was restless and the rain was stifling and he was so damn cold and why was he dead?
He wasn't supposed to be dead he wasn't supposed to be gone he wasn't supposed to be the sacrifice he wasn't supposed to…
He wasn't supposed to leave him with this.
He hated this. He hated the slick metal, he hated the tanned leather, he hated the non-existing wounds it left.
He hated this damn sword.
The rain fell harder, pounded him down and he tried to see the blade tried to ignore it tried to escape it tried to grip it in useless hands but there was nothing.
That's just what it had done. Nothing.
It was so powerful so lovely so much the favored of them all. But now it was useless it was so far away it was too close it was a blur in the rain. It was nothing it was metal it was making him drown. Engulfed in rain.
It was set in the muck --he knew he'd put it there-- and it mocked him --he knew it because he knew-- and he hated it.
Why hadn't it saved him?
Why did it leave him dead?
It was worthless worthless worthless worthless…
Just like he was, himself.
The urge to scream was a tidal wave against his lips, up his throat. He swallowed the salt. But that did nothing but conduct the rage downward and out until it erupted from him in a ferocious storm, fingers tearing at the immobile leather as if that would make it die, as if his claws screeching against the unblemished steel could actually make something happen.
Yet, no matter how much he abused that blade, there was nothing. He didn't even bleed. And that made he so angry that he so close to drowning that the rain didn't matter anymore because if he drowned then it wouldn't tear him apart anymore and if he ruined that damn sword he might be able to do something but that something wouldn't make a difference because he was worthless and--
'Calm down.'
Slick with mud, slick with rain, he could do nothing but slide into silence. Screaming --screaming-- that this was insanity he was tasting on his drenched lips he did nothing but stare and know it was over. What it was he did not know but it was over.
'You need to get yourself together, boy. This sniveling is getting us nowhere.'
Us.
'So get up, shut up, and do as I tell you and everything will work well.'
But.
'He's dead, you're here, and I have to work with what I get. So get up.'
I.
'Do as I say and I'll take it away. I promise.'
He felt it. The rain was freezing, crystallizing through his body as he tried to lurch away. But it swamped him, pulled him under, and it was too hard to drown in.
He just felt numb.
But somewhere, some small molten center of his frozen heart, he knew one truth that nothing could diminish and he basked in its boiling water because that's all he could do.
I hate you.
He hated him. He hated himself.
He hated that sword most of all.
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no subject
Date: 2005-06-19 05:53 am (UTC)Ooh, that's beautiful imagery. You did a great job with the despair, the anguish, the tangled thoughts of grief. Thanks :)
no subject
Date: 2005-06-20 02:22 pm (UTC)I'm opening myself up for criticism here, but...I don't think Sess is OOC in this. There is a difference between someone who has no emotions and someone who chooses not to display them to the world, and I've always felt Sesshomaru was the latter.
This piece is beautiful as it stands, so I'm honestly hoping you don't rewrite it. My favorite line was this:
Do as I say and I'll take it away. I promise.
Thanks to you, Tenseiga has a personality. I'll never look at the sword in the same light again.
no subject
Date: 2005-06-20 04:52 pm (UTC)Actually, when I lamented on how OOC he was, I wasn't meaning the sheer fact that he WAS showing emotions. I meant HOW he showed those emotions. I thought it may seem a little over-the-top. But, then again, everyone has a breaking point.
Anyway...Forgot to say thank you for the comment, so...thanks! ^__^ I've always thought that, being such a singular weapon, Tenseiga had to have something special about it (besides the obvious). So...personality it is... And, odd to say, but I like writing Tenseiga...