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Less than two decades before he had sworn to find disciples, hubris throwing him high in the air as he felt his place was in the heavens with God himself. He was what God had feared, after all, a man who had eaten from the tree of life, at least metaphorically. To prevent this occurrence, Adam and Eve had been cast from the garden, lest they eat from the second tree and truly become like God. If that was what separated them from God, then what barrier was there for him, immortal as he was? Another name, another life, another country. He wandered, the seed of the idea Evan had inadvertently planted inside of him, growing, making him even more restless.
It wasn't enough to survive. It wasn't enough to ghost his way through courts and countries, to smile at kings and queens and change his name to suit his new allegiance or uniform he wore. It wasn't enough to flirt, to let his lips ghost over perfumed skin, then to stare into a face that haunted his dreams and memories--Yaeko, but not. There was a bitter victory in Yumi's love, the way her eyes followed him, adoring, the defiance she showed in marrying a gaijin without knowing that the stories she told him that her great-grandmother had passed down ripped into him and hurt more with each breath, but that victory wasn't enough.
His restlessness struck out, and he found himself in the wilderness of the country he had fought to keep from being free, fleeing further to the lands France still held, running from shadows and ghosts that gnashed their teeth at his heels with the ever present litany of not enough, never enough. Not life, not love, not him.
And then it stopped.
Her fingers were light and cool on his, her eyes laughed, her tongue cut sharply, and her wit was even sharper. Her father was the local schoolteacher, and she was educated in ways he was unused to finding in a woman, and he delighted in the debates they had around the fire even the first night they invited him back to their home for dinner. Twenty five was a bit old to not be married, but she had none of the desperation he had seen in the unmarried women at court. Instead she seemed quite content taking care of her father, helping the priest at the small church, and arguing with strangers who wandered into town and found themselves staying for reasons they couldn't imagine.
It was a fast courtship, but the calm that she brought to his soul was not one he had known before. She seemed surprised the first time he kissed her lightly after a dance in the village. Her father was less surprised by his petition, though the fact that he left it solely to Angelica's discretion surprised him. But she agreed, with the same quiet composure with which she had accepted his kiss. Five years into their marriage, her father died, and fear lacing through him in ways he had never expected to feel again, he had taken a knife and sliced his arm watching her face as she watched the wound close on its own. When her eyes met his, there were tears in them, but none of the fear he had dreaded. Instead, she moved to him, cradling his face in her hands and kissed him, before pulling him to bed.
For the first time since Hiro, he could talk freely, telling her truly of his life, of what it had been. It all came out, every thought, every betrayal, the fear, the anger, the need for revenge, the realization that one day he and Hiro would meet again. The blasphemy hung on his lips, and she kissed it away, intent on proving to him that whatever else he was, he was very much a man. Under her acceptance, her challenge of his ideas, her soft laughter that stayed even through the disappointment when she miscarried repeatedly, he found a peace he had never known. Her hands in his hair, cradling him against her breast, soothed the roiling, rioting thoughts. Hatred banked itself, sinking down to nothing more than a few embers, as her love sparked his own memory of what it meant again.
Part of him, and, he suspected, part of her, knew that the man he had been when she found him was still lingering there. There was a madness that surged beneath the surface, a cynicism, a bitterness and gall that never fully went away, no matter how banked. That man would resurface, eventually, clawing his way out and pushing back the other.
But for now, for today, for this life, with her, his Angel, he let it go. He was her husband, first and foremost. He farmed. He hunted. He made a home for them, and lost himself in her bed and arms every night. It was a life he had thought of once, long ago, and for now it was his.
For today, it was enough, and so, finally, was he.
Less than two decades before he had sworn to find disciples, hubris throwing him high in the air as he felt his place was in the heavens with God himself. He was what God had feared, after all, a man who had eaten from the tree of life, at least metaphorically. To prevent this occurrence, Adam and Eve had been cast from the garden, lest they eat from the second tree and truly become like God. If that was what separated them from God, then what barrier was there for him, immortal as he was? Another name, another life, another country. He wandered, the seed of the idea Evan had inadvertently planted inside of him, growing, making him even more restless.
It wasn't enough to survive. It wasn't enough to ghost his way through courts and countries, to smile at kings and queens and change his name to suit his new allegiance or uniform he wore. It wasn't enough to flirt, to let his lips ghost over perfumed skin, then to stare into a face that haunted his dreams and memories--Yaeko, but not. There was a bitter victory in Yumi's love, the way her eyes followed him, adoring, the defiance she showed in marrying a gaijin without knowing that the stories she told him that her great-grandmother had passed down ripped into him and hurt more with each breath, but that victory wasn't enough.
His restlessness struck out, and he found himself in the wilderness of the country he had fought to keep from being free, fleeing further to the lands France still held, running from shadows and ghosts that gnashed their teeth at his heels with the ever present litany of not enough, never enough. Not life, not love, not him.
And then it stopped.
Her fingers were light and cool on his, her eyes laughed, her tongue cut sharply, and her wit was even sharper. Her father was the local schoolteacher, and she was educated in ways he was unused to finding in a woman, and he delighted in the debates they had around the fire even the first night they invited him back to their home for dinner. Twenty five was a bit old to not be married, but she had none of the desperation he had seen in the unmarried women at court. Instead she seemed quite content taking care of her father, helping the priest at the small church, and arguing with strangers who wandered into town and found themselves staying for reasons they couldn't imagine.
It was a fast courtship, but the calm that she brought to his soul was not one he had known before. She seemed surprised the first time he kissed her lightly after a dance in the village. Her father was less surprised by his petition, though the fact that he left it solely to Angelica's discretion surprised him. But she agreed, with the same quiet composure with which she had accepted his kiss. Five years into their marriage, her father died, and fear lacing through him in ways he had never expected to feel again, he had taken a knife and sliced his arm watching her face as she watched the wound close on its own. When her eyes met his, there were tears in them, but none of the fear he had dreaded. Instead, she moved to him, cradling his face in her hands and kissed him, before pulling him to bed.
For the first time since Hiro, he could talk freely, telling her truly of his life, of what it had been. It all came out, every thought, every betrayal, the fear, the anger, the need for revenge, the realization that one day he and Hiro would meet again. The blasphemy hung on his lips, and she kissed it away, intent on proving to him that whatever else he was, he was very much a man. Under her acceptance, her challenge of his ideas, her soft laughter that stayed even through the disappointment when she miscarried repeatedly, he found a peace he had never known. Her hands in his hair, cradling him against her breast, soothed the roiling, rioting thoughts. Hatred banked itself, sinking down to nothing more than a few embers, as her love sparked his own memory of what it meant again.
Part of him, and, he suspected, part of her, knew that the man he had been when she found him was still lingering there. There was a madness that surged beneath the surface, a cynicism, a bitterness and gall that never fully went away, no matter how banked. That man would resurface, eventually, clawing his way out and pushing back the other.
But for now, for today, for this life, with her, his Angel, he let it go. He was her husband, first and foremost. He farmed. He hunted. He made a home for them, and lost himself in her bed and arms every night. It was a life he had thought of once, long ago, and for now it was his.
For today, it was enough, and so, finally, was he.
