http://thekohakuriver.livejournal.com/ ([identity profile] thekohakuriver.livejournal.com) wrote in [community profile] trans_9 2010-02-06 08:23 pm (UTC)

It would be so easy to just lay down and die.

And it was tempting, the thought of it, of the slow relax and tug, that last gasp of surface-tension before the bursting flow, the way his waters would soak into the ground and fade. The death of a river-spirit; only gods can choose the time of their own death so completely as this.

He remembered a time of rushing and freedom. He was useful, then. But that place was gone, filled in and paved over, raped until it bled out and died by the humans who now called what had been his banks home. He remembered the way the fog would rise...

Why couldn't he die?

Why couldn't he find home? What was home anymore? Haku was forgetting, was spending more and more time in human guise. What was the feel of rubbing your rapids over the rocks, what was the sound of the moon on a windless night? Where would the deer drink? He used to know these things with the same surety that he knew, without looking, where his ears were. Now they were just a vestigial pain, the ghost of feeling in a limb violently amputated. Where was Chihiro, who'd given him hope?


It was harder every day, to remember not to die.

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