Oriole The difference between the two is… striking. The one, my old friend. My oldest friend. Cold silver and steel, a moon-pale ghost limned in blood. The other…
The other is the colour of evening sunshine, chatoyant gaze like polished tigerseye, infinite shades of honey and gold in his tousled rich blond mane. He may have spoken, at our first meeting: I was too engaged - at first - and concerned - later - to remember. I do remember glimpsing the… warmth in his eyes, in his posture - worry for the boy who faced me, for their missing companion, fear of what Muraki might have done…
How can something so dead be so alive?Muraki had said goodbye, but I knew he had not died. I knew it. But I had no idea where he'd gone, or how badly he'd been injured, only that he hadn't come back to me. Why? To spare me inconvenience? Embarrassment? Awkward questions?
These things had never bothered him in the past: I could think of no reason why they would now.
He should have come back. I could have - would have - cared for him. Not knowing where he was…
The uncertainty hurt.
But I couldn't allow it to distract me. I had a business to run, after all…He entered the restaurant during a lull, bringing the sunlight with him. I looked up into the sudden silence to see him gazing around, large and somehow childlike eyes bright in his delicate face.
Not our usual sort of customer. I stood, bowing my head politely: he waved cheerfully.
"'lo."
Pleasant voice.
"Yew servin' food at t'momen'?"
Heavily accented. I inclined my head.
"Certainly…?"
He blinked owlishly at me for a moment, then blushed slightly, extending a slender hand.
"Watari."
I smiled, but couldn't bring myself to take his hand.
"Watari-san. What is your pleasure?"
Wide, ingenuous eyes narrowed very slightly, suddenly shrewd. He may look the complete innocent, but he understood the double entendre perfectly well. Then the child was back. He shoved a hand through his fringe, pushing back the long strands.
"Ay dunno. What've yew got t'offer?"
I blinked, uncertain as to whether he realised what he'd just said - but I'd swear there was a glint of humour in those bright eyes.
Oh, this one would take pleasure in keeping one off-balance!
I was intrigued. The fact that this was one of the shinigami who had hurt Muraki seemed less important than why he had returned. I gestured toward the private rooms.
"I was about to dine - would you care to join me?"
He hesitated.
"Yew'm sure? Don' wanna be a newsance…"
"You are not. Please…"It was mild: we sat in my garden…
Watari didn't seem the type to appreciate the formality of correctly made tea: we drank water with the bento and he took coffee afterwards.
I'd watched him as he ate, his concentration fixed on the act, without speaking. There was a certain intensity to him, not obvious, but most certainly there, in the depths.
He laid aside his hashi with a little sigh.
"Ta. S'good, that."
"I am glad you enjoyed it."
He took a slurp of coffee, eyeing me from under the locks of hair that would fall over his forehead, and I realised I knew nothing of him whatsoever. From his dress - a highnecked black top under a yellow-brown smock, black trousers and boots, and the long, heavy black coat he'd lain aside to eat - and from the bright orange tie vainly attempting to hold back his hair (almost as long as mine, I could hardly fail to notice) I would assume him some kind of artist. A painter of portraits and landscapes, perhaps. I smiled.
"Kyoto must be an ideal place for inspiration."
He gazed at me blankly.
"Uh, wha'…?"
I gestured vaguely around.
"Inspiration. For painting."
"Uh, Ay s'pose so…" He frowned, and I raised an eyebrow.
"Your pardon. I thought you an artist."
He laughed, light and sweet.
"Nah. 'Less yew think mixin' chemicals's an art. M'a chemist. Do general science too, if needs be."
A scientist? I blinked, tried to imagine Watari surrounded by test tubes and failed. He grinned.
"Bu' ta. 'm flattered!"
Annoyed with my own mistake, I kept my smile polite.
"Might I enquire as to why you are here, Watari-san?"
His face immediately changed, the bright cheer becoming sombre.
"Ay wan'ed t'ask yew sumthin." He hesitated, obviously not sure how to proceed. I leaned forwards slightly.
"Please, ask."
He licked his lips nervously, the tip of the little pink tongue oddly catlike. Yet there was nothing catlike about Watari, nothing at all…
A bird. He reminded me of a bird, though of which species I would be hard pressed to say. Part owl, part crane, part sparrow… maybe it was more a quality of birdness to him. As though he were ready to take flight at a moment's notice…
"Why?"
I blinked. Had I missed something while ruminating?
"Your pardon, Watari-san."
He tilted his head.
"Why did yew protec' Muraki? Yew know he's a murderer."
Now, should I pretend not to know my friend's history? Pretend to be affronted by such impudence from the young man - I corrected myself, the shinigami, and he could be centuries older than me for all I knew - before me? I somehow doubted it would work. There was a bright, clear intelligence behind the artistic exterior.
"That… is a somewhat personal question, Watari-san."
"An' Ay think 'm 'titled t'ask it. Nearly killed a good frien' o' mine, he did. An' he's hurt another reely badly."
I will not make excuses for Muraki. Nor will I admit to my feelings for him. I shrugged.
"I am sorry for your friends. But Muraki is not mine to command."
A hint of anger in the tigereyes.
"Not askin' yew to tell 'im what t'do - 'm askin' why yew cover up fer'im."
How much of human life had the young scientist seen before he died? How much since? I sighed.
"Because I do not want him to be more hurt than he already is."
Something resembling a grimace twisted his lips.
"There's a thing called therapy, yew know."
"Which only works if the recipient wants it to."
"An' Muraki don't? Might 'a knowed." He pushed his glasses, which had slid down a little as he frowned, back up his small straight nose with a long, slender finger. "So, yew know he's torcherin' an' killin' people, an' yew don' do nuthin' about it. And yew don' feel guilty?"
I gave up feeling guilty long ago. I shook my head.
"It is not my responsibility."
Watari's mouth tightened, but he sat back, hands folded in his lap.
"Ay see."
There was an uneasy silence for a moment, then he rose abruptly, slipped into his coat and offered me an almost courtly bow.
"Ta fer the lunch, Oriya-san. Don' trouble y'rself t'get up - 'll see meself out."
For a moment I wanted to apologise, to ask him to stay - but the afternoon was fading into evening: I had preparations to make for the night's business. I stood and bowed.
"Thank you for your company, Watari-san. May all your experiments be successful ones."
He snorted, almost visibly forcing himself to be affable.
"Tha'll be the day! A'rternoon, Oriya-san."It was well into the early hours of the morning before I could close up. But it had been a quiet night, with no problems - just as well, since I prefer not to resort to violence if it can be avoided.
I should have been tired. I wasn't.
How had he known my name? I don't recall it being used that night…
He was shinigami. Of course he'd know.
A god of death. I wondered what had happened during his life for him to wish to take on the duties of a shinigami once he had left it.
I smiled to myself. Perhaps I should ask him - if we ever met again. I found the idea a pleasant one, despite his accusations.
Naked, I sat on the sill where Muraki had once smoked and plotted, wondering what was happening to my friend. Wondering why I still considered him a friend.
Maybe it had been fated to be. Just as those who had been his victims were thus fated. As it was my fate to run this place, regardless of my own desires. There are certain things in every life that must be done, dictated by circumstance, or family, or personality, responsibilities that are one's own, loyalties that must be honoured, trusts that must be kept. Important things. Things that transcend what one might want.
It really is nothing to do with me how Muraki chooses to live his life. But it is beholden upon me to pick up the pieces behind him, when necessary. Life, death, of what real value are they, of what real significance, ultimately? I shy away from those thoughts. They are unprofitable, serve no purpose.
Above, the moon is silver and very bright, like Muraki's hair, his eyes. Muraki, somewhat more than human, somewhat less than god. My oldest, and probably my only friend.
I refuse to admit to loneliness.
© 2004 March 18th Joules Taylor
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