In Somnia [Tsukihime]

[Frostyvale]

The clock ticks. Seconds pass by me, sliding past my face like the hazy, humid air of this midsummer’s night. Time moves, air moves. That’s all. The moment consumes me, like I am submerged in the depths of a still lake. The coolness of concrete, the soft cushion of cardboard, the heaviness of my limbs, this is all I notice. Everything else is lost in the languid flow of time.

Tick tock.

Or not. Thank you, clock.

Smacking my dry lips, I reach over for the bottle of green tea, left unfinished from dinner. There’s enough, I drink. I don’t like moving around too much when I’m like this. The house is a small space, some two-story office left abandoned after a business went under. It’s the kind of place that isn’t valuable enough to recover, nor obtrusive enough to be worth demolishing. Some graffiti and cigarette butts bring the place together: a cozy home for a gang of delinquents. Well, even they seem to have moved on. There are more stray cats living here than there are people.

I yawn, stretching out my arms. Beside me are the remnants of a convenience store bento, and the flimsy plastic crackles, rustles. Is there a word for that sound? A sort of wobbly crinkling? Damn, I don’t even care. I’ve been too lazy lately if thoughts like this are in my mind. Sleep all day, sleep all night, wake to eat. Don’t worry about work or hobbies. For now, this is all I want. Where’s the fun in that? Well, where isn’t the fun? Everything is good, everything is great. In this dream-like world where anything can happen, nothing is the only thing worth doing.

Or, was it the other way around?

Some crows are roosting in here, and they aren’t hesitant to announce it. It’s probably a whole flock of them, moving about, flapping with the force of thunder. The sounds of summer, the distant cicadas and the fledgling sparrows, are pierced in brief spurts by the cawing of these great black birds.

It’s no good. I can’t spend this night sitting still. Like it read my thoughts, one of the birds flutters down to the windowsill near me. It stares right through me, attentive of movements, but mostly interested in the little heap of trash that made my dinner. I don’t dislike crows, but, if this one comes too close right now, I’d happily wring its neck. There hasn’t been enough to do since that night ended. She’s probably feeling the same way.

The bird is gone. Dark feathers float lazily to the floor. I only noticed the flash of white, and that told me enough.

“Still hungry?”

She trots off to a corner, crow in her mouth. What a good hunter she can be. Even I might stand to learn something.

No, not really.

This master of mine simply can’t oblige when it’s her turn to play servant. She’s off somewhere in the house; I can hear the quiet munching. Nothing personal, I know, but I wish she’d have shared.

I stand and dust myself off. This uniform is nothing special, but it gives me a hint of pride to wear it well. Shoes on, and I depart, into a quiet city, a quiet night.

The moonless sky expands above.

This is my ritual. After so long, I can’t quite drop it. Steps silent, I advance through Misaki. A city like this is always active, somewhere. Some corner shop or bar, some salaryman on his way home, some lovely lady out past dark, someone is always alive on these streets. The concrete is warm, full of heat from the day. It’s a pleasant night. Even old men will want to come out and stretch their legs sometime. The lonely, the criminal, the overworked and the drunk, this is the time for all those people to bring their life out into the open.

I walk past the city, past the park, past the small houses and the large one. The only place I avoid is the mansion, lingering portentously on the hill. That place isn’t mine. That’s all I care to know about it. I find myself at the very limits of the city, staring at the highway that stretches endlessly into the empty country. It melts into the starry sky. At the very end, there is nothing but mist, expanding like a wall over the horizon.

Of course, this metropolis has its inhabitants. Currently, I think the population is about…

One and a half?

I’ve become very familiar with everyone else. This is Mr. A, a fine gentleman and pillar of the community, Ms. B, a charming young girl, et al. They’re not much for conversation, not a single one of them. I don’t think a single one of them is still alive.

Oh yes, they move. Though they’re nothing more than bags of skin, I still find them wriggling around on the streets. Completely desiccated. Not even a drop of blood. They carpet the roads and pavements like a sheet. It’s a mass of humanity, a literal necropolis. At best, you could call them organic matter. In all this silence, the noisiest ones are the crows.

A corpse pecked apart, skin split, and eyeballs eaten. Brain matter reduced to powder. The constant caws, the beating of dark wings. The city has become a perfect rookery.

Still, there is something infinitely more wrong about that mansion. The feeling is more than ominous. It’s not anxiety either. It only feels like a place for somebody else. That’s fine by me. This city, and this quiet, endless summer, are all I need.

When I return, she’s waiting for me, sitting on the single plastic chair that furnishes our living room. Her hot little hands are clasped tightly around each other, sweat soaks into her dress. Her eyes are bright points of red, slashed in the middle by long pupils. It’s the most beautiful sight in the room. By her feet, a neat pile of feathers.

“Nanaya.” she gasps out, face flushed. Is this one of those nights?

She trembles from her fingertips, while her eyes flicker over me. Spastic, febrile actions. Breathing harshly as if through a straw. She sweats more than I’ve ever seen her. Like a snow fairy, melting in the heat. But that’s strange. It’s strange that she, so at home in this environment, would suddenly become so weak.

I blink. My heart stops. Blood leaves the brain. My vision swims in darkness, and I stumble to the floor. It beats, a fresh pulse of blood rushing to my mind. A flicker of thought. The contract? There it is: conviction. Get to her. I crawl forward. It beats. I fall. All I can do is scrabble forward in each brief interval between systole and diastole. I see it in the haze. A white hand reaching down to me.

So transparent, this fragile thing. I grasp it.

It shatters like the summer snow.

“Len!”

I sleep, dream—

Around the planet, a vanishing halo of infinite brilliance. Effulgent, like wisps of the cosmic filament. This world in all dimensions.

—and wake.

<__________>

I promise nothing but the next chapter.

[Walnut Sparks]

That old suffocating waking nightmare Tsukiness. I like it.

[kinlyki]

Nanaya and White Len?
.
.
.
Watched.

[ItsaRandomUsername]

Oh hey, it's that thing you said you were gonna do a while back

Consider me accounted for and ready for more.

[Frostyvale]

1.

Open eyes are smothered. My sight obscured by gray.

The mist coils and recedes. There’s no ground below me. I must be treading air. As I find my feet, planting them on a firm surface, my vision clears. Nausea hits me, the sensation of my organs twisting, writhing, and then settling back into their places. I want to cough and scream and cry all at once, but no sound escapes my throat. Doubled over, I lurch forward. With every heaving breath I relish in the returned use of my lungs.

Large flagstones form the path forward. It runs up an incline, ending about a hundred meters ahead. Right on the edges, the overgrown grass is blanketed by fog. A massive building looms over the field, like a citadel. Its presence here seems fixed, the only thing in the entire city that kept its shape. In the distance, the treetops fade into darkness. Dull clouds fill the sky, save for a small patch directly above. An aperture to the heavens. There shines the silver crescent of the moon.

That’s where I ended up. So, it’s time to go.

The gate doesn’t open. It doesn’t even squeak, as though some force held it perfectly immobile. There’s nothing more beyond it, only a sea of gray mist, unbroken in its uniformity. It’s the very end of this world, the border of cognizance. Nothing that exists is acknowledged beyond this boundary. Then, I guess this will have to be my new haunt.

It’s a very confined space compared to the city. Though, I’m sure that it would feel vast for a small child. In a way, the empty yard and the oversized house feel larger than anything down below. Those structures are large to accommodate hundreds of people, but this one was designed to suit just a few. Looking at it, the way it seems to burst from the ground, I imagine that it’s even larger than before.

I’d avoided this place as a courtesy. To who or what, I wasn’t sure. It probably doesn’t matter anymore. There’s nowhere to go but forward.

Len is gone. No cat, no contract, no life. Which means that if I want to have any fun, I’ll have to put in the effort immediately. For now, I’ll focus on that.

As long as I have that task, this distorted world won’t bother me too much. It isn’t ugly, but incomplete. A half-forgotten memory given shape. There are the obvious details, the things that you could easily remember. But the organization is all wrong, as though some places were more important than others. The absence of a perfect image forces everything else into the mist, and projects the features that remain into a prominence that is, for a lack of better description, entirely absurd.

There is a sound here that I haven’t heard for some time: the chirping of cicadas. It’s soft, but I can’t ignore it. It’s stranger than the crows. These things don’t sing their song at night.

Moving up the path, I notice the skeletons of small animals scattered about the lawn. They’re filthy, covered in dirt and rot. I can hardly make them out in the faint moonlight, but it seems that they become more numerous farther from the path. A crow alights on one of them and pecks away for the last bits of marrow it can scavenge.

Now the doors loom before me. The hinges creak, and slowly give. Musty air pours out of the house. The foyer is barely illuminated, but even in the faint light, I see everything clearly.

As I step across the threshold, I see a brief flicker of lines across the air. I feel no resistance, but they still hang there, floating over the doorway like spider silk.

The lower floors are destitute. Long gashes run along the walls, and what furniture hasn’t been smashed apart is scuffed and beaten. The drawers and cabinets in the dining room and kitchen are emptied of their contents, plates and cups now spilling onto the floor. The curtains are torn and broken, hanging askew on their rods, the window-glass shattered. As I see it, there are two likely explanations for this: one of the maids has slaughtered the family and had a field day with the house, or something fun’s gone on and I’m late to the party.

With a grin splitting my face, I sort through the piles of broken glass and ceramic, tossing aside bits of cutlery, until I find something appropriate. It’s a disappointment: a bread knife. Too long, too flimsy, and unforgivably dull. I’m not particularly bothered about tools. Even a fork can work, but it’s a sour feeling to see a piece of steel shaped like a knife yet so useless. After a cursory search, it seems that I’ve no other option. Better toys aren’t anywhere to be found, so I’m thankful to have one with a sharp point.

The rest of the room isn’t worth noticing, so I wander back to the foyer. Shall I check the west wing first, or the east? I can’t remember what’s up there anymore. The east is closer, so I’ll settle for that. An empty hallway opens into empty rooms. Through broad windows, light shines onto the dusty fixtures. Something’s wrong with the perspectives here. Objects in the distance look too large, objects close by too small. It’s all laid out as if on a flat piece of paper, though I can still turn my head and look around.

All that’s forgotten; footsteps sound out from the next room. I grip the knife tightly. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen another human. Better not take things too quickly, though. I’ll have to enjoy this.

As the report grows louder, I place myself beside the door. A steady cloud of dust is drifting out of the room. Through that, out steps a maid. She’s armed with a feather duster, looking straight through me.

“Oh, if it isn’t Hisui?”

In lieu of a reply, she walks forward. She’s not ignoring me. I don’t think she even notices that I’m here. At some point, surely she’ll stop? But she doesn’t stop, walking forward until we’re pressed together. She can’t move as long as I’m standing here. Even though her path’s obstructed, she doesn’t change direction or attempt to push me aside.

I poke her face. “Good evening to you.”

She blinks. It’s a steady action, something done not as reflex but out of habit. Blinking to keep her eyes moist, a completely unconscious operation. Her eyes don’t move, acknowledging nothing but the path in front of her. Though I’m obviously here, she applies a constant force as though she were still walking freely.

Completely withdrawn into her own mind, she’s beyond the reach of any stimulus. Is this how she’s chosen to escape this nightmare? How very apt. Though since she’s in this state, I’m at liberty to relieve some stress. I’ve been conscious of the softness squishing itself against my chest for some time.

Tucking the knife away, I place a hand under her chin. Now, she seems to be staring into my eyes. I part her lips with my finger, and then, pull the corners of her mouth into a smile. It’s almost cute.

“Come out of there sometime. It’s not as bad as you’d think.”

I turn and walk away, and at the same time, she marches behind me in lockstep. At some point, she moves aside to dust a vase. I find the stairs, and the clockwork robot continues along its programmed path.

On the other side of the mansion, the west wing is a ruin. Large sections of the roof have been blasted away. The rafters are exposed to the night sky, charred and burnt. I can see moonlight streaming in a bit farther ahead, where the entire wall seems to have been gouged out. This is a good sign for me.

Someone’s lying down on a pile of rubble. It’s a female figure, swathed in a hood and cloak. A badly singed broomstick is propped up on the wall beside her. As she catches sight of me, her head perks up.

“It’s you? How did you make it back?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You, you’re Shiki.”

“That’s true, but don’t confuse me for the other one.”

Her head falls back, and she stares up into the sky. “Yeah, it’d have to be the case.”

“Now, what’s caused all this mess?”

“Ah, that’s hard to say. If I put it simply, it’s probably because I let Akiha run away with herself.”

“Weren’t you keeping that mistress of yours pacified? Though, I can understand if you shirked from time to time.”

She giggles; it’s a hollow laugh. “I got distracted. This isn’t what I thought it would be, but I don’t think I could have done anything differently.”

“You should have known, but what can you do, right?”

“That’s right, this is just the way things go. Shiki would agree.”

“Really? I don’t think he’d say anything like that. Is your head alright?”

“I didn’t say he’d say it, only that he’d agree.”

“Tch, I suppose you did. Anyway, mind pointing me in the right direction?”

She gestures to the vista outside, visible thanks to the absence of a great portion of the walls and ceiling. It’s a strange scene, illuminated by the moon and a dozen small fires. Down to the treeline, the entire yard is covered by red blossoms. In the center, a large pool. It’s quite still, like the surface of a mirror, dotted by red autumn leaves. In the very middle is a person lying flat on their back. Beneath the splayed arms and legs, a corona of white hair.

“Isn’t that the young lady?”

“Isn’t it? She’ll be pleased to see you. It’s been some time since we’ve entertained a guest.”

“What an honor.” I murmur. “Come to think of it, do you need some help with those?”

Though it’s hidden by the cloak, she’s quite badly injured. There’s no sign of pain in her face or voice, but her posture is painfully awkward, and her breaths come out with a faint wheeze.

“With what? It doesn’t feel like anything.”

“Aren’t you misunderstanding? I’m no doctor. There’s only one thing I can offer you.”

“Ah, that’s right.” She hums in mocking contemplation. “Though if it’s an option, I’ll turn it down. I’d have taken it myself, if that’s what I wanted.”

“Well, it’s alright to relax. Your best just wasn’t enough.”

“Ah, that’s so very cruel. You should speak to women a bit more kindly.”

“I thought I was just talking to a doll.”

A soft smile on her face, she closes her eyes. “Still, that’s what makes you perfect for cleaning up my mess.” Reaching over to her side, she says, “It’s of no use, but will you take this with you?”

The broomstick separates cleanly, revealing a shattered sword blade. From hilt to jagged point, it’s about the length of my forearm. Surely it was once an effective cutting weapon, though rather comically concealed.

It’s perfectly fine to conceal your arms, I think. Today’s peaceful society can’t tolerate the sight of weapons. Even otherwise, it simply isn’t wise to carry one blatantly. A weapon is fundamentally a tool, but it functions almost as well as a means of communication. The act of carrying a weapon is a deterrent, the act of drawing is a sign of aggression. The attack itself is only an extension of these functions, but simultaneously quite separate from them. Up until the moment you swing, the knife is only a warning. The hiss of a blade cutting through the air marks the moment that a shiny bar of iron has turned into a lethal implement. Thus, it’s right to say that there are weapons meant to scare off attackers, and weapons meant to kill. This one is definitively in the latter category.

I tuck it away in my belt beside the glorified sandwich maker. This one feels more my style. Oh, heh, I slipped. Fuck, what’s this? My arms are shaking. I grab the bamboo hilt, and squeeze it until my knuckles pop. There, there we go.

“Thanks.”

She’s making a strange face. It’s void of any true emotion, now fixed in her saccharine facade. “No problem at all! Now go out there and have some fun!”

I’m sprinting before she finishes the sentence. In no time at all, I’m suspended in the cool night air, then tumbling over the ground. Leaping to my feet, I see the arena.

Flowers burst from every speck of earth. The blossoms are a vivid shade of red, with thin, curling petals, and long anthers that extend outward like an insect’s legs. They grow over grass, between stones, all along the stone steps. All over the courtyard, a carpet of spider lilies, like I’ve accidentally wandered over to the other side of death.

Amidst the still waters, something has awakened. The dancing stream of silvery white rises like steam. The girl attached to it seems to hover, as though suspended by her hair, and not the other way around. Just beautiful, like the shifting snow. She glares at me through the distance, but blankly, as though she’s more confused than angry at my presence.

In the treetops, replete with the flaming leaves of the season, crows are coming down to roost. I recall something I was told a long while ago: crows don’t move in a flock, but a murder.

Come on, that’s just stupid.

Her lips are moving, were moving for quite a while in silence. She made no utterance until this. So, I guess she’s sorted herself out. As the wind dances through the flowers, she makes her advance.

Her hand extends toward me as she wades, staggering forward in the water. This is pathetic, but I’m fixated on the kill. When she leaves the water, her balance will shift for a moment. That’s the time to strike. Still, her progress is painfully slow and I’m not about to meet her on such disadvantageous ground.

She’s trembling as she steps. The water around her is boiling, wisps of steam floating away into the air. Her movements seem tired, exhausted. It’s as though I’ve disturbed her on the verge of a long rest.

A girlish scream explodes through the air, sending ripples dancing over the water. The water flashes into steam in a puff and hiss, sending scalding droplets flying through the air. I leap back, just before she crashes down on the spot I vacated.

I duck and charge, rolling under the sweep of silver white hair. It slices like a blade, and recoils to catch mine as I stab upward from below. Using the shattered blade as a lever, she flings me away, throwing up a storm of petals along with me.

Oh. Dear me. Don’t surprise me like this, Akiha. I find my feet and rush back into the fray.

This time, her hair darts straight for me. I step to the side and dash into her exposed flank. The knife rams home into her ribs, and slides out with just as much ease. In exchange, I’m trapped. Something coils around me like a giant snake, rapidly crushing the air out of my lungs. Spots dance in my vision. I blink frantically, in some faint hope that restoring my sight will free my breath.

Shining like the new moon, it’s all around me. The silvery-white net of hair that forms a steel cage. I am trapped in her embrace, as her arms now coil around me to match. Teeth sink into my neck, my life spilling away in droplets.

To put things plainly, I was cocky. I’d forgotten how troublesome her talents were.

My vision’s swimming. My body’s growing so very cold. With every gulp of my blood, her hair blossoms into a fantastic red.

No.

No, no, no. I won’t have this. To lose my life in the kill, to shatter like a broken toy, these things are to be expected on the nightly hunt. But, for my life to feed hers, to grant strength to my enemy, is intolerable.

Fuck, I can’t move, can’t even see anymore. My eyes, my mind, it’s all going blank.

The world is painted in blue. From somewhere on the ground, I stare up at myself being devoured. Dark lines paint the world. My wiggling fingers catch the thread, and rip apart the seams.

Now, freedom. I take a single breath, and pull out my second knife. It’s too easy. She’s staggered, still half-drunk on my vital essence. The first cut rips apart her throat. The second takes one of her shoulders. The third, the fourth, the fifth, the sixth, are lost in the savage frenzy that overtakes me.

I find myself again, now with the blade half buried under the base of her skull.

A quick lesson in anatomy.

Between the skull and the cervical vertebrae, there are no joints. It’s all soft connective tissue, though some of the toughest you’ll find anywhere in the body. That said, even this bread knife can separate it with sufficient force.

I simply shred it apart. As I recover, I note the terrible burn in my arm. Muscles have been pressed past their limits. Whether torn, or snapped, or strained, all of these are irrelevant.

The second time, the blade sinks right under her ear, then carves a path out.

I cast aside the knife, seize her head, and slam my knee into the small of her back. For a single, perfect moment, I know nothing but the sound of tearing flesh. It’s a finish without finesse.

The severed head falls away, rolling somewhere. That’s nothing. These wounds, nothing. The knife is broken, snapped in the middle to form a dull point. Gleaming on the ground is an eyeball, shining in the dark like a brilliant blue gem. I pick it up, and place it in my pocket.

Beside it, sitting heavily in the pocket of the fresh corpse, is a heavy iron bar. A folding knife. How nostalgic, I guess I’ll take it too.

Ah, damn. I’m tired. This is an embarrassment, I know. To feel so empty after just one kill, so bored with what I wanted for so long, is nothing short of pathetic. Those quiet nights did me no good at all. WIth just that in mind, I wander off to the forest to find some place to rest. As I approach the tree line, I see, against one of the trees, some other idiot awaiting death.

Ah, it’s him.

“Yo, brother. You’re looking well.” I say.

His left eye is missing. The surviving right greets me, swiveling around to focus on my face. An icy blue light set in an ashen face. His clothes are ragged, torn into ribbons. The stump of his elbow is charred grey. His life’s been plundered to the point of no return.

It’s a pitiful sight, looking down at myself. Whether it was clumsiness, or he simply didn’t have the will to win, I don’t ask. It’s not mine to reason why. Maybe there should be sadness, a bit of self-pity, but I feel nothing at all. It’s a simple void of emotion. It’s probably the same thing he’s feeling.

“I was hoping I’d get to see you tonight. It’s pretty disappointing, you know, if you’re just going to vanish like this.” It’s not like I owe him any comfort, and I’m not about to dispense it out of goodwill. This is respect for myself.

His eye flickers for a second. He’s winking at me, like he’s saying “Sorry, and thanks.”

Kneeling, I say. “What are you looking so happy about?”

Something falls into my pocket. Then he grabs me with his good arm, pulling me down. Face to face.

“Do you have the knife?” Words emerge in a whisper.

“Yeah.”

“Help me stand.”

One leg is shriveled, ruined. It’s not a question of pain; it simply crumbles under his weight. With some trouble, I prop him against a tree. He’s a ghost, no more alive than a teru teru bozu. I stand before him at arm’s reach.

We move at some unspoken signal. The blue light blazes, honed in on some fatal point. As his hand touches my chest, Seven Nights cuts straight across his throat. The last drops of his blood drain out. He collapses onto me, and I keep him standing. He’s dying on his feet. I stab his back, driving the blade straight through his spine.

He sighs. As the breath leaves his body, he crumbles into ash. The last remnants scatter into the field, resting among the higan blossoms.

Something comes to my mind, just like that. This moist, bloody eyeball in my pocket, still marks my debt to him.

In my fist, I crush it to paste.

I lean back against the tree. The feeling of fingers dipping into my chest, passing through without a hint of resistance, is indescribable. There’s no phantom pain, no sign that I ever came a mere hair’s breadth from death. In this small world, I am now the only one who can comprehend that pervasive mortality. I don’t need to see the lines for that.

My heart races. My excited nerves are buzzing. It was a single moment of danger, and now it has passed.

Thanks for this gift.

The distant world melts and collapses, shrinking down to a size suited for its sole occupant. I sit here, in this little slice of hell. It’s fine to die like this, without any meaning. I’ve probably done all I can.

“Hey, you. Don’t just lie about like that. What if I stepped on you?”

Luminous red hair, and brilliant eyes. A face that seems frozen in time from my earliest memories.

“Fuck, you sure do show up at your own convenience.”

[ItsaRandomUsername]

Still rocking that dreamlike quality, I see. It remains a good aesthetic decision. The inclusion of the spider lilies also made for a striking and vivid imagery.

As far as speculation goes, I'm guessing that unless this is actually some kind of hard AU then Nanaya's probably dealing with his own pseudo-Kagetsu Tohya-esque scenario for reasons that remain arcane for now.