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Mar. 9th, 2012 09:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
the_less_perfectGajari has requested your presence.
Those were not the words Leo wanted to hear upon his arrival to the Tribune. Those were not the words anyone ever wanted to hear ever.
He had only just left the nearby city, ascended the hill, and entered the Tribune’s courtyard when a priest in a wide brimmed hat that covered his face hurried over and told him. There was no reference to a timeframe, but Leo could hear the unspoken addition of ‘immediately’.
Leo had tried to keep the smile on his face as he paced around the edge of the Tribune, until he reached the unremarkable stretch of wall at the rear. He had fancied that he would never have meet Gajari, that like most people the ancient god would remain just a figure from old storybooks.
From Death’s last words were born Grace the White, to whom was given the duty of sanctuary,
And Gajari the Red, to whom was given the duty of purification,
Leo stretched out a hand, resting it on the back wall. The stones shifted, spraying dust, and then parted, tendrils of black writing snaking out to curve around his wrists, his legs, his waist, his neck. A strand of writing that Leo didn’t recognise swung about his face, and then again and again, so that he could neither see nor breathe. They dragged him in.
The tendrils released him as quickly as they had snatched him. Leo stumbled, struggling to keep his footing, then on instinct sank onto one knee. It was a gesture that Gajari would be familiar with, even if he couldn’t understand its origin.
leo fudou
Leo kept his gaze pointed downwards. At the edges of his vision, though, he could see red haze and shifting eyeballs. There must be thousands of them.
“You requested my presence, Gajari.”
you were not this meek when last we spoke
“... When we last spoke?”
A pair of tendrils snaked along the ground. Leo braced his hand against the floor, struggling not to move. Slowly, they curled their way around his arms, just gently, then up and around and sliding across his chest and up his neck.
Don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t move.
The tendrils climbed his face. They probed inquisitively at his mouth, then abandoned it to climb upwards, to play across his nose, and then his ears, before finally they danced ever-so-gently across his eyes. A ripple ran down them, like the motion of a sigh.
Then they drew back, and slid into his eyes.
Leo expected the motion to be metaphysical. He wasn’t prepared for the pain, or the sound of ocular nerves being torn, or the surprisingly warm blood running down his cheeks. He couldn’t move. Gajari had paralysed him there while his tendrils slid further into Leo’s eye sockets and built at the back of his head.
kantaiplainofwordsbarchesssaezima
taigasaezimakougabaragothedark
knightcrystallighterszarubasilvaoldmanjabi
messiahtheendoftheworldredsakeredredredoldwo
mantamusciencediscoverybuildingarmourcraft
ingmetaltribuneresearchdevelopmentagainagainagain
magicmirrortheyounggirlrinlegulesofthemidnightsunthebarrierphosph
orusbirdarrowmagicmirrorshardskarmazer
ogarokibadanbaronbadoyaibarodobebilganonredg
anonsakegajarigracethebooko
fparadiseswordinchestworkdonetimebe
ndythrownbackwardsbackwardsbackwar
dspaymentforservicesrendered.
The tendrils withdrew. The sharp pain subsided into a dull, throbbing ache at the back of Leo’s head. He blinked his eyes open. They were still there, he could see.
Leo reached up to his cheeks. The blood was still there, and still wet. Whether the damage had been reversed or not, it was still real.
the memories of worldly creatures are fragile amon
Amon. It had been Leo’s name once, in another life. It was odd. If he tried to think back, beyond the point in his childhood where he could remember nothing, his memories segued into the final memories of Amon, of KIBA’s sword sliding between his ribs.
If he pushed his memory back further, past Amon’s long and frustrating tutelage of his student Jabi, past the death of his friends, past the disappointment that was his sons and past his wife’s death, until where Amon could no longer remember, there was another person, a woman this time, recalling dying in an explosion while building the perfect bomb.
“I remember now, more or less,” Leo admitted. He wasn’t going to go so far as to thank Gajari for that, though. “Is that why you called me here, Gajari?”
i saw a man with a red hand wandering the deep woods
“I know who you mean,” Leo said, trying not to let his wariness show. There was no point lying to Gajari.
he smelt like you and like the tooths child you are here to watch him
No point lying to Gajari. That the god would know went without saying, and even though Leo wasn’t sure if he would care, he had no intention of risking it.
“That is correct, Gajari,” Leo said, “I need to know his movements. With the resources of the Tribune, I can track the Red-Masked Man all the better.”
i shall watch him for only a small price
Those were not the words Leo wanted to hear upon his arrival to the Tribune. Those were not the words anyone ever wanted to hear ever.
He had only just left the nearby city, ascended the hill, and entered the Tribune’s courtyard when a priest in a wide brimmed hat that covered his face hurried over and told him. There was no reference to a timeframe, but Leo could hear the unspoken addition of ‘immediately’.
Leo had tried to keep the smile on his face as he paced around the edge of the Tribune, until he reached the unremarkable stretch of wall at the rear. He had fancied that he would never have meet Gajari, that like most people the ancient god would remain just a figure from old storybooks.
And Gajari the Red, to whom was given the duty of purification,
Leo stretched out a hand, resting it on the back wall. The stones shifted, spraying dust, and then parted, tendrils of black writing snaking out to curve around his wrists, his legs, his waist, his neck. A strand of writing that Leo didn’t recognise swung about his face, and then again and again, so that he could neither see nor breathe. They dragged him in.
The tendrils released him as quickly as they had snatched him. Leo stumbled, struggling to keep his footing, then on instinct sank onto one knee. It was a gesture that Gajari would be familiar with, even if he couldn’t understand its origin.
Leo kept his gaze pointed downwards. At the edges of his vision, though, he could see red haze and shifting eyeballs. There must be thousands of them.
“You requested my presence, Gajari.”
“... When we last spoke?”
A pair of tendrils snaked along the ground. Leo braced his hand against the floor, struggling not to move. Slowly, they curled their way around his arms, just gently, then up and around and sliding across his chest and up his neck.
Don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t move.
The tendrils climbed his face. They probed inquisitively at his mouth, then abandoned it to climb upwards, to play across his nose, and then his ears, before finally they danced ever-so-gently across his eyes. A ripple ran down them, like the motion of a sigh.
Then they drew back, and slid into his eyes.
Leo expected the motion to be metaphysical. He wasn’t prepared for the pain, or the sound of ocular nerves being torn, or the surprisingly warm blood running down his cheeks. He couldn’t move. Gajari had paralysed him there while his tendrils slid further into Leo’s eye sockets and built at the back of his head.
taigasaezimakougabaragothedark
knightcrystallighterszarubasilvaoldmanjabi
messiahtheendoftheworldredsakeredredredoldwo
mantamusciencediscoverybuildingarmourcraft
ingmetaltribuneresearchdevelopmentagainagainagain
magicmirrortheyounggirlrinlegulesofthemidnightsunthebarrierphosph
orusbirdarrowmagicmirrorshardskarmazer
ogarokibadanbaronbadoyaibarodobebilganonredg
anonsakegajarigracethebooko
fparadiseswordinchestworkdonetimebe
ndythrownbackwardsbackwardsbackwar
dspaymentforservicesrendered.
The tendrils withdrew. The sharp pain subsided into a dull, throbbing ache at the back of Leo’s head. He blinked his eyes open. They were still there, he could see.
Leo reached up to his cheeks. The blood was still there, and still wet. Whether the damage had been reversed or not, it was still real.
Amon. It had been Leo’s name once, in another life. It was odd. If he tried to think back, beyond the point in his childhood where he could remember nothing, his memories segued into the final memories of Amon, of KIBA’s sword sliding between his ribs.
If he pushed his memory back further, past Amon’s long and frustrating tutelage of his student Jabi, past the death of his friends, past the disappointment that was his sons and past his wife’s death, until where Amon could no longer remember, there was another person, a woman this time, recalling dying in an explosion while building the perfect bomb.
“I remember now, more or less,” Leo admitted. He wasn’t going to go so far as to thank Gajari for that, though. “Is that why you called me here, Gajari?”
“I know who you mean,” Leo said, trying not to let his wariness show. There was no point lying to Gajari.
No point lying to Gajari. That the god would know went without saying, and even though Leo wasn’t sure if he would care, he had no intention of risking it.
“That is correct, Gajari,” Leo said, “I need to know his movements. With the resources of the Tribune, I can track the Red-Masked Man all the better.”
