[PK] The Burning Tree

[camuyshounen287 36]

 

His homeland was cold. The winters of the homeland were even colder. Unbelievably so. He looked forward to kizu-ato no kagura every year. It got his blood pumping, whether or not he participated in it. He was quite average at it, did much better when it came to healing himself and others afterwards. Of course, Daichi always did so much better during the main festival. His reverence was bold, and fiery. He had the truest spirit to become a shumo, and was prepared quite young to be one. Asahi and Aoto were also highly skilled, quite intelligent as well- they were in line to become personal guard to the daishu. And so too there was Yui, a beauty like none else, with both the grace to maintain it and the confidence to assert it. 

 

Yoshirou’juu was born after Daichi’juu, Asahi’juu, and Aoto’juu, and before Yui’juu. What was it exactly that kept him alive? Surely, it was not warmth. No warmth had been afforded to him, besides the shelter from the snow on windless days beneath the magnificent spruces and firs, which wore a brilliant deep green even amidst the deepest touch of the glacial hand. It was them which presented to him the light of Kyo, its spiritual warmth. Not his family. That which saw him as merely a fourth son, should all else be taken by the cold. 

 

He was as devoted as he could bring himself to be. Though the frost would seem to bite at his soul, much more than it ever did at his robust body. Eventually, that body would prove to be a liability to his family, enough that they no longer felt the desire to even toy at granting him the warmth he desired. He was married off, sent to go be some other family’s problem. But in such a low moment, he was able to find joy in Asuka’kyo, a woman who radiated such a warmth that he was glad to take her name even when shunted so unceremoniously from who was supposed to be his family. While she hadn’t shared his devotion, she shared something more important: his ambition. Ambition for great things, a desire to shine. 

 

Eventually, the pair would find the will to leave. They learned to sail, acquired a ship, rations, whatever was necessary. With that will, they would depart from the frigid landscape towards the sun that sat at the horizon. The sun that rose and set for Azuras. Their mission was to spread their faith and culture, to have a family which lived under the sun, more broad opportunities than could ever be imagined back in his homeland. But behind it all, Yoshirou desired relevance. To no longer be left behind, shackled by the shadows of nearly everyone he knew, and especially so by those who didn’t.

 

He fervently searched for an opportunity to achieve hirakyo. Without the frost of his past, he felt as if he had not only everything to gain, but nothing to lose. His will would grow, the blaze in his heart that managed to burn away everything that held him back. Unfortunately, his fever alone would not be enough; Asuka had gone in her own direction, and while splitting up would allow the pair to cover more ground, that pair was now merely pieces. Yoshirou fell into a slow despair, trudging onwards through blind strength of will, the very same which looked a kyoshin in the face, watched it kill animals and siphon the colour out of his beloved, and called it a blessing.

 

But he, who held the blood of beasts, lived long enough that the embers of his spirit could be fed once more. A practitioner of what Azuras called voidal arts, and a letter from Asuka. The flame of his heart which dwindled was given enough fuel to last a lifetime in this moment, sending him in a mad dash towards hope. The hope that his hard work would pay off, the hope that he could drive off the chill he felt as a child not only from himself but from his descendants and disciples, forever. 

 

In the end, he would resign himself to darkness, the hand of the undead which began his dear wife’s rise to prominence, to achieve everything he desired. But he had nothing to give, nothing to exchange. He could not engage in yaritori, the tenet of give and take, that which respected Kyo’s creations and allowed them to persist. For he was born the fourth son, only desired as a backup, and when the backup wasn’t necessary, handed off for free. And he would die irrelevant, worthless in the eyes of everything he held dear. A flame snuffed as quickly as it had grown into an inferno.

 

His homeland was cold. He was cold.  

Spoiler

the mokubito culture post is under @spaazmatism's thing but i did contribute greatly to that. this dead motherfucker is the guy pictured on that post. 

 

 

[spaazmatism 1018]

r 💔