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[Fic] Saiyuki: Un/scarred
May. 8th, 2006 05:40 pmSpoilers: none
Disclaimer: Minekura owns all.
Notes: written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ranalore, who requested something on Sanzo or Konzen with the prompt "silk." I'm not sure how I started from "silk" and got scars, but it made sense in my head at the time...
There is a prince with skin as pale as snow and hair as shining as the sun. He wears silks as silvery-white as the moon, gossamer thin and feather light, unstained by drops of heart's blood. They are barrier enough from scars, for he has no mother to bleed for him, no companions to shield him, no stepmother to flee. He was not born and will not die; he fears not the poisoned comb or sharpened dagger. He has built himself a glass coffin of words, and he lines it with ennui.
He lies there, skin unscarred and untorn, and sorrow and pain pass him by.
There is a monk who doesn't remember being a prince. His hair still shines, but his skin is cut with hurt and pierced with memory. His father bled on him and his companions give him wrinkles; he flees no one but is chased by all. He tries to protect himself with swathes of cloth -- sutra and robes of office, leather and denim. But they only cover up old wounds and scars; they cannot return the untouched body of lives past.
He wishes sometimes for a life without pain, but he has forgotten that his first scar is not a gift of the river. If he could remember, he would say his first scar comes from the time he skinned his knee chasing a monkey around the palace. He stopped that day and wondered at the sting and the red dotting his pristine robes, but not for too long, for fear of losing his imbecile charge.
He should know by now that the first scar was not written on the skin, but carved into the heart with glass that broke the day a golden-eyed animal yanked out his hair.
Disclaimer: Minekura owns all.
Notes: written for
ranalore, who requested something on Sanzo or Konzen with the prompt "silk." I'm not sure how I started from "silk" and got scars, but it made sense in my head at the time...There is a prince with skin as pale as snow and hair as shining as the sun. He wears silks as silvery-white as the moon, gossamer thin and feather light, unstained by drops of heart's blood. They are barrier enough from scars, for he has no mother to bleed for him, no companions to shield him, no stepmother to flee. He was not born and will not die; he fears not the poisoned comb or sharpened dagger. He has built himself a glass coffin of words, and he lines it with ennui.
He lies there, skin unscarred and untorn, and sorrow and pain pass him by.
There is a monk who doesn't remember being a prince. His hair still shines, but his skin is cut with hurt and pierced with memory. His father bled on him and his companions give him wrinkles; he flees no one but is chased by all. He tries to protect himself with swathes of cloth -- sutra and robes of office, leather and denim. But they only cover up old wounds and scars; they cannot return the untouched body of lives past.
He wishes sometimes for a life without pain, but he has forgotten that his first scar is not a gift of the river. If he could remember, he would say his first scar comes from the time he skinned his knee chasing a monkey around the palace. He stopped that day and wondered at the sting and the red dotting his pristine robes, but not for too long, for fear of losing his imbecile charge.
He should know by now that the first scar was not written on the skin, but carved into the heart with glass that broke the day a golden-eyed animal yanked out his hair.