lanoyee: (Rin & Manji - don't jinx it!)
[personal profile] lanoyee
Title: Inkdrops On Paper
Fandom: Blade of the Immortal
Character: Asano Rin
Rating: PG
Warnings: Very slight prison arc spoilers.
Summary: When there is a bigger picture to consider, Rin needs to write things down.
Notes: I more or less wrote this on a whim. Unedited.

In the top left drawer of the elaborate old chest (in the family for generations now), that's where the writing utensils are located. They've been there for as long as Rin can remember, and she never moved them; she's moved few things in the house from their rightful places of old, ever since she unwittingly became its master. She opens the drawer and takes out what she needs: a block of ink, half worn down, a grinding stone, designed econocmically and much used and showing all the signs, a small brush, well-cared for through the years. A small water basin complete with minuscule ladle and a porcelain support for the brush, so that it would not get ink on the table while drenched with it.

Out of another drawer, she takes a yellowed stack of paper sheets; thin and frail Japanese paper, perfect for quick brushstrokes. The sheets have been sitting in there for a while and are slightly wrinkled around the edges.

All these things, she puts on the desk in her bedroom. Aligns them one by one: the paper in front of her, the rest of the items to the right. Out of the tiny basin, she pours a bit of water onto the grinding stone and begins to rub the inkstone against it in rhythmic, familiar movements. The sensation of the surfaces grinding against each other reaching her fingers through the length of the stick is interesting and brings back memories.

She does not write often these days. A letter of apology or two, to Manji; a few stray notes here and there. The poem she recited to Kuroi Sabato. Maybe it was that last which turned her off of it, or maybe it's simply that she has neither time nor reason to now. This, too, was markedly different before her parents were killed. She went to school back then. A prestigiious school for samurai children where she enjoyed a fine instruction. She exercised her writing daily there, each week a set of new kanji to memorize and learn how to write. Calligraphy never was her best subject; she was all right, but her writing was a bit on the sloppy side, and she never quite connected to the art aspect of it. Beyond the usual scriblings of a young child when of the appropriate age, she never felt compelled to draw pictures, either.

In conclusion, it is out of necessity that she takes the brush up now, dips it in the newly mixed ink liquid. There are things she needs to write down, so that she may not forget them. She's usually fine formulating her thoughts just in her head, but frankly, most of the time they aren't things prone to complexity. Now Manji has vanished into thin air, and that in itself would be strange enough, but manageable. Still, it's been weeks, searching the city with Hyakurin and coming up empty-handed, and some idea has started coalescing in Rin that there might be more to this, especially as she's seen so many policemen in town lately. Which might be her imagination, but she thinks it's not. Or rather, she has to take the possibility that it might not be into consideration. And so, in this - in this, she needs to be in the clear about the bigger picture and the details as well, all at once, and that's why she needs to write them down.

She raises the saturated brush above the paper and issues a little gasp when, before she can do anything about it, two drops of ink fall down from its tip and hit the paper in big splotches. That makes her pause, and blink, staring in surprise as the inkspots widen a bit and get slightly fuzzy around the edges, the paper's fibers absorbing the ink.

There are the blots, indelibly staining the once clean paper, and Rin, for a moment, has the delusion that they are somehow challenging her.

Shaking her head, the corners of her mouth quirking upward briefly, she begins to write.

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February 2013

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