The small of her hands cupped the flame, flickering stubbornly on the match. She listened to its anxious crackle then gave in to the flame's demands. She brought it near the tip of the incense allowing the persistent flame to kiss its tip. Hungrily, possesively... the flame and the incense in a sensuous contact. She lifted the almost burned-up match. The flame travelling listlessly towards her hold, teasing her skin with small shots of pain. She blew a breath's whisper, the flame obeyed her request and ceased.

She watched the stick. The glowing ember on its tip, a reminder of the flame's kiss as though branded. Its fragility deceiving the ethereal and powerful smell wafting across the darkly lit room. Tangible, yet surreal. Dancing with the well outlined smokes emanating from the others. Their glows' choreographed intensties under the perfect orchestration of silence. Silence and the fortitude of darkness. Save for the the small stabs of sunlight slipping between shutters . She closed her eyes and placed her palms against each other.

Praying. Throwing herself into the offered arms of religion in complete abandon. Wantonly whispering incoherent words that she herself can't understand.She embraced it. Just as how she embraced the not so few things she didn't believe in, things she didn't understand. Things she wanted in whim... and searched for to no avail. Things she needed to stay afloat above it all. Above everything. God. Family. Life. Love.

To find. To never grow tired. To know what it is exactly she looks for.

She prayed.

The ocean looked likeit was having a seizure. Its hem breaking into froths of foam as it collapsed violently against the rocks, as it grasped for the shores. Grabbing, then letting go. The bleakness of the evening sky seemed to taunt the sea's inability to grab hold of earth's offered palms. The hushed flirtation between the leaves and the wind. Sounds and conversations she could hear from the cliff she was standing on. The sea thrashing itself against the earth that was beneath, dancing a turbulent waltz all over her. From where she was, she listened intently.

She's been coming to that very spot more frequently than ever. Hands clasped in her chest, furtively looking at the horizon... in deep reverie. A prey to the searching hands of the past. Recent, long gone... how she wished for her memories to fail then. A phantasmagoria of images blending, shifting from one form to another, forever entombed in death. Faces changed, the clothing, the pattern of speech... but never death.

My name is Botan. I will be your escort to your travel to Reikai. Words etched painfully to her tongue, wrapped in a rehearsed smile. Yes, the smile. Never foget to comfort, to forge peace... never. A tear escaped her eye, trailing the smoothness of her cheeks before quenching the yearning ground. The earth tasted its saltness, mingling with the aftertaste of the hundreds of tears she has quenched him before. Sometimes she'd cry for someone else, sometimes out of anger... but she never misses to shed a tear for every departed soul she has said those words to before. In a place where nobody imposes for her smile. Never demanding for her jovial masque. Only her. Or the pieces left of her.

She breaks by the day. A nick here, a gash there, she's battered and bruised to her core. Tired. A reluctant prisoner of immortality's gift. She'd ferverently run away from it all the madness, the lies, the deaths... and end up here. The edge of Ningenkai, as how she fondly thinks of it. An end to her run as this is as far as she could get away from her. Them. It. A place of abandon, where the earth surrenders to the arms of space. Being and nothingness, locked to fit side by side. Her place of retreat, for the repair of her battered soul.

Soul, she thought, smilingly wanly. Does she have a soul? Sometimes she'd think of the small piece of terrtitory she has claimed as hers as fate's gift. To atone for her cursed existence. To reorient and focus. To snatch sanity back to her as it threatens to flee. And at the break of dawn, the pain balmed and senses restored, she would leave reluctantly. Leaving and knowing she'd be back by the end of the day nursing the same wounds as the day before. And the day before and the day before that.

She climbed atop an imposing rock, several scratches made marks of her clumsiness as she did so. They went unnoticed as an expansive view of Ningenkai in deep slumber greeted her. Her peace. The saving grace to her empty heart. Nurturing the dying hope and purpose in her. Ningenkai, is her dream, her anchor. To understand its peace, its beauty. To taste it, even for a day, she would give everything. She lives each day, not only in self-wretchedness but also in perpetual envy. To be there. To be engulfed in that beauty, that peace... but never understanding, never a part of it. Look but never touch. Touch but never taste. Taste but never...

But anchor as it may be to her, she would live each day, shed each tear for that single day she begged for. A day that wouldn't end here, in the edge, alone and shedding tears for lost souls and the soul she's seeking. Her own. A day that will never come. But how sweet it is to pretend that it will. Tomorrow. The next perhaps. In reality, never. But in the safe confines of her heart, it will.

She wept at her follies.

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"Genkai-basaan?" Yukina called out softly from behind the door. Her small form silhouetted against the door's paper tiles by the morning sun. She told her to come in, her concentration focused on the bonsai being sculpted to symmetry by her guiding hands. Yukina's soft steps soon followed, the sound of the tea tray being set on the floor vaguely registering in Genkai's senses. Eyes peering closely on the shrub, she said, "you might as well pour yourself some tea as well. You are going to the city to feed the pigeons later, ne?"

"Ah, iie. I'm staying home. there's much to be done around." she answered, gingerly lifting the pot then pouring the steaming concoction on one delicate cup. Genkai sighed, "very well," she set the shears aside and knelt across Yukina. The vapor coursed its way to her senses, soothing her nerves. "It is a beautiful day, isn't it Genkai-basaan?" Yukina asked, her innocent gaze focused on the garden exposed by the open window. The leaves glimmered as the sun kissed the moisture off their surfaces, soothing the remains of last night's rain. The scent of the damp morning a welcome invitation to bask in its beauty.

Yukina's thoughtful and appreciative assesment cut to a halt by Genkai's unresponsiveness. Yukina looked at the peaceful elder, she tilted her head slightly to one side in inquiry. Genkai relieved her lips of the porcelain cup, her eyes not leaving the swirling liquid inside. "It looks so," she answered. Genkai lifted the pot and filled another cup for Yukina, "such good tea should not be put to waste for a day full of promises. Drink," she said softly, pushing the cup towards the koorime whose crimson eyes were in silent confusion.

She bowed and raised the cup to her lips, her eyes never leaving her benefactor whose gaze were intent on tbe vapor rising from her cup. "Yuusuke will be coming to say goodbye later this afternoon, remember to prepare tea for them," she said. "Eeto, Yuusuke gets sick with tea, Genkai-basaan," Yukina reminded. "Hn. I forgot. Well, pack them some snack for their trip then. But I'd very much like to have some tea with Keiko before they leave for Hakone." Yukina nodded then smiled, "it's nice to have Yuusuke finally settled ne, Genkai-basaan? He seems to be more refined each day of his marriage to Keiko-chan." Genkai drained the last of her tea but didn't reply.

Again, Yukina felt uncomfortable at Genkai's retreat to silence. "Genkai-basaan...." she started boldly, only to be cut off by Genkai's motion to get up. She walked over to where the window opened to the garden. It is a beautiful morning, she thought grimly. "There's a letter for you from Kuwabara in my room. You can get it later once you finished your tea." she informed, smoothly avoiding Yukina's desire to question her. The koorime knew something was wrong, and was about to try again when she ordered abruptly, "finish your tea. I wish to be alone," she said then walked back to her work table. Yukina bowed and did as she was asked, reluctance written all over her as she left her obaasan.

Genkai picked up the shears and stared at the diminutive shrub before her. Symmetry. Refinement. The tidings the morning breeze brought both unsettling and foreboding. She reached out and cut a stray twig, an inch too short, denting the balancing effect of the form slightly. For others, to know means to act, participate even. Experience taught her to wait, watch and let life's beauty course its natural, just and beauteous flow. She cut yet another branch, none too perfectly. Flaws mirror reality's fault.

Perfection. Reality's dementia.

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He closed the book with a whisper of a thud, a sigh of resignation escaping his lips. Joseph Conrad seemed to be no different to the numerous others that have been put under the scrutiny of his intelligent eyes. In his eyes, books flourish beautifully. In the beginning that is. Their prose sweet to the taste of his always-thirsty intellect. That is until he reads them the second time. As he longs for that all too bereft taste of someone's heart being poured into paper. Until he hears the author's reluctant stammers, the uncomfortable shift of language... he embraces what they say and in the end, destroys them altogether. Deconstructing and attacking the weak points raised. Plundering until nothing more is left but a blurb of words vaguely resembling what once were words of wisdom.

Things have changed so adversely in the past few months. With his stepfather's business keeping him too preoccupied to continue his education, Kurama decided on taking it on himself and study on his own. It is not in his nature to be confined within the walls of a high-rise office. Not in his nature to being in money for the business and go on living in contentment. But then, it too, isn't in his nature to be content on reading books and learning from them. Not in his blood.

The books served their purpose and much more to him. It's his battleground. An intellectual training camp where the author is the adversary whose words are his artillery. And Kurama would fight the author, dodge at his artillery and use it against him: And win. Against the other's intellect... but more importantly, against the decay of his own. No matter how much he tries to deny it, he is decaying. It has been so long, he can't remember. He raised his hand, palm facing him. Uncallused. Unstained. He grimly set it down as he felt the discomfort that has been bothering him for so long prowl around hm. Soon, he would have to confront this queasiness. This unsettling feeling. Again.

*How long has it been?*

He shut his eyes. Shutting away the trouble the silent soliloquy was brewing. Small ripples. No, he thought in determination, in refusal, willing for it to go away. He groveled for control.

*These books... bah, you try to drown yourself, deny yourself... pretend. You know this is not the way of things*

And failed.

*Not you, not your friends and not your mother can shield you from the burning gaze of truth. Your strength has waned, kitsune.This very existence you preferred has softened your resolve. Blurred your vision of reality.* Taunting. Challenging. Forcing him to look. And helplessly, he did.

He bit his lip at the reminder of his mother. No, stop it, his mind screamed. The birds carried out thier sonatas, feet went on scuffling against the ground, the wind continued to billow softly... oblivious to the turmoil, the young man under the tree was going through. A perfectly orchestrated soundtrack of the war he was waging within.It was a sick joke.

*You can't deny yourself, kitsune. You can't deny me. You, me... we are as we should be. A necessary evil to offset the good* Golden eyes, smoldered with mock flashed in his brain, *don't ever deny it*. He was sweating profusely, his nails dug the flesh of his palm. A modest reaction considering what he has done in the confines of his office or room when he comes. When it comes.

He hates it. The way he crumbles, the way he loses focus when the hushed voice in his head starts to hum to life. Another torture to his pride. Another battle he can't win. Escape momentarily, but never win. In his dreams. In those brief moments of stupor. In moments such as this one. The Youko within him is angered at the ningen's denial of his existence. Of his nature.

The ningen Minamino Shuuichi, is killing Youko Kurama. The once proud silver-haired Youko is under the mercy of a ningen body. Always restrained. Liberation only at his fingertips. *You can't run away from your nature. Your greed sears through your blood, yet you ignore the burning pain. You thirst for the sound of the weak, begging for your mercy. You want to inflict suffering, to feel the rush of being able to*

No! I won't let you do this to me. I have strived so hard for this order. For this peace. I won't let you take it away from me.

Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, familiar laughter rang out. Laughter he has been used to for centuries. Ages of witnessing gross humor and the other creatures' inferior intellect. It stemmed from him easily then. It sounded like the cackle of a sick and dangerous madman now. *The illusions you come up with, kitsune. Peace. Order. Yes. Keep telling that to yourself and with any luck, you might even start believing it.*

He was panting, the struggle stroke one too many cords inside him. Opened too many concealed memories. Reminders. Warnings. A vein throbbed invisibly on his temple. *Stop this waltz that you dance, kitsune. You miss your power. Your pride as a warrior. The thrill of stealing. The ecstacy of knowing you are feared. And blood, warm... warm...*

"Kurama-san?" warm hands on his cheek, a soft voice of concern. His eyes flew open. Wild and stormy. Slowly, images began to coalesce into forms... then to objects. Then her. Head tipped to one side in concern and question, Botan withdrew her hand. "Daijobu ka?" she asked, her voice wavering slightly. The sight of his eyes blending gold and green pushed her off the balance. He closed his eyes and cleared the turbulence mirrored from within. "H-hai," his breathing was labored, thoughts still scattered. He silently collected the pieces.

She studied his pale countenance, the beads of sweat on his forehead. She smiled, conversing her false belief. He slumped against the tree trunk, resting. She let him and sat on the soft grass, her back to the sun facing him. He forced a smile, "I shouldn't have drifted off like that." Thank you, his eyes conversed silently as he felt his hysteria ebb away. She shrugged, still at a loss by the ravenous look his eyes registered the instant he gained consciousness.

"Bad dream, huh?," she commented gaily. Will you?

He stared at her a moment too long, his lips still upturned in that enigmatic smile. "Hai. Bad dream,"

No, I won't.

She nodded, fully understanding the underlying conversation in those few words. She let herself be comforted by the lie as he appears to be. She tried to look away and hide her embarrasment on her intrusiveness, but she can't. She had to hold back before words of unnecessary concern flew from her mouth. Unnecessary. The word reverberated through her, placing her in temporary hypnosis. A distant memory. So very distant she can't remember. So well-buried, well-forgotten that it's painful just attempting to recall. She grimaced at the pain.

"Botan?" he asked. She smiled sheepishly when she realized she has been staring at him a minute too long. He smiled back, condescendingly, "it must be the sun." Lies. Balms. Sheaths. She nodded reluctantly.

He got up fluidly and offered her a hand to help her get up. She picked up the book he was reading a while ago, the smoothness of the cover pleasant against her skin. Joseph Conrad. He looked at her curious reaction, holding the book up to her nose as inhaled the scent of the pages rustling against her thumb. "Do you read, Botan?" he asked, realizing a minute too late that it sounded a bit rude. She smiled, "no," her reply came almost sadly. Too much to be done, she thought. "I just love the scent of them. Especially new books. With the paper crisp and all. It smells nice," she answered.

He was a bit taken aback by the tempered passion in that remark, the picture of utter content in her face as she thumbed through the pages, pausing briefly to take a sniff. "It's yours if you want it," he said with a shrug. Eyes widened in surprise, cheeks flushed with anxiety. Only for a minute before she started to shake her head, "I can't take this. I-it's practically new! You probably..." words just fell without censure, without her care. He shook his head, cutting her speech, "I've read it. Twice. You can have it." The smile returned. Was it just him or it felt like a reward all the same? To see naked joy painted in her gentle features. Something close to happiness registered in him. Only he can't be sure as he had no norm to base it with.

He offered her his hand a second time, to which she reached out and clasped gently. Memory throbbed. Threatening to break through the fortress she contained it with. She gripped the book tightly, willing the pain in her head to go away. She kept the smile. "Come on, I'll treat you ice cream," he said, uncaring on what brought her there with him. On a beautiful morning, with their hands still locked.

Pain. Memories. She pulled her hand back from his clasp as though on cue, hugging the book tighter to her chest. An excuse. The impending ravage, settled to a calm. The pain drifting to non-existence, soon replaced by confusion. Soon dismissed as an illusion.

He turned to walk, every movement as though choreographed, scripted in poetry. Perfection incarnate, she thought in mild awe. She caught up with him, her cheeks still stained pink in gratitude over his generosity. "You are so kind, Kurama-san. Duomo Arigatou," she said, bowing slightly. He flinched at that comment. Kind? Over a book? He shoved his hands in his pockets. She divested her attention back to the book, "twice? Was it any good?" she asked.

He shrugged and smiled, not meeting her gay countenance. he was a mass of confusion. Over him. Over her. "Hm, you could say that," he lied.

A book of lies. Chronicles of a person who writes about something he's never felt, never tasted, never seen. It was almost a parody to him.

She kept her exuberant disposition, "Honto? What's it about?"

Peace. Joy. Happiness. *Keep telling that to yourself and with any luck, you might even start believing it.* The voice now hushed. Tempered. Unthreatening. Just reminding.

He wanted to be blind...

To be deaf...

To be mute...

... "evil."

Author's Notes:

1. Weird start, I know. Just stay with me here =). Im sorry if it's pretty short. Damn writer's block *bangs head on keyboard* I hope the title wasn't too tacky.

2. This story takes place a year or so after the anime ended. Actually, I wanted to have this as a sort of canon-sequel to Botan's Past. But it seems tacky to do a sequel on that one.

3. Yes, I admit, I "borrowed" the idea of Kenshin switching to battousai-mode and used it in Kurama's brief monologue there ^^;. They do have a lot in common, ne? (Apart from being kawaii and having red hair, ofcourse)

4. Joseph Conrad is an English writer who writes these short stories where the character usually turns "insane" in the midst of being placed in a foreign environment. His works remind me of Apocalypse Now and Kurama's scene was written with the movie's theme playing in my head (yay, The Doors!). I wanted him reading a romantic poet or writer perhaps, but I felt it was slightly OOC for Kurama.

5. Kurama's character here is cold (even when he's Shuuichi). Just as how I percieve him to be. ^^

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