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[Jun. 2nd, 2009|10:58 pm]

fallen_asuma
The smile slipped off Asuma's lips a beat after the door latch clicked back into place, leaving his expression slightly tense. He took a slow breath and turned to face the high-ceilinged room, weaponless hands hanging loose at his sides

For a moment, there was nothing but colour and movement and noise. Long rows of burnt-orange backs rising and dipping as the monks bowed out the response to a finishing mantra, voices lifting like a wave, blending together into something that was almost a song and nothing like it. Incense drifted through the air, creating purple-grey eddies of sweet-smelling smoke. Flickering candles and gently burning braziers cast a warm glow over the three golden statues arranged at the back of the shrine: Amitabha Buddha at the centre, and the bodhisattvas Kannon and Seishi on his right and left. For a moment, Asuma's eyes met their serene gazes, then he looked down and away.

Bells chimed softly. The abbot's ringing voice rose in the next mantra, alone for the first refrain and then joined by the entire room in perfect harmony.

Om mani padme hum...

Kannon's mantra, the bodhisattva of compassion. It'd been months since he'd heard it from anywhere but his own lips, whispered in private and solitude. Now he found himself mouthing the words, not quite daring to add his voice to the mass prayer. Standing at the back of the room, dressed in blue and the lingering memory of blood, he felt like a subtle insult to the whole ritual.

It was a familiar feeling.

He wet cracked lips, looked up long enough to catch the abbot's dark, understanding eyes on him, and bowed low, then stepped forward just enough to clear the door, and sank to his knees. Still far behind the first row of kneeling, saffron-robed monks, but down on their level. His side flared painfully; in the lonely noise, every nerve-ending complaint seemed to stand out and sing. He took another slow breath and emptied his mind, setting hurt aside.

Om mani padme hum...

The dead kunoichi's dogtags clinked gently at his wrist; his own were long absent from his throat, still held hostage by a sister who hadn't forgiven him for leaving home. Knotted around his forehead, the Guardian Twelve sash seemed suddenly heavy for a single piece of cloth. Heavier still when he remembered there was only one other person in the world still wearing one. At his side, both trench knives swung and clacked together when he bent forward in the first low bow, touching his forehead to the flagstones. Heavy blue bracelets, engraved with their own mantras on each inner side, slid down and caught at the widest part of his hands.

Om mani padme hum...

Asuma closed his eyes and found his voice. There was a lifetime's worth to pray for, and no forgiveness he felt worthy of seeking. He focused on peace, instead, and tried to touch the kind of emptiness and wholeness that only came from warm, tangled bodies or living faith.
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