Under the Stars


by llamajoy


Under the willow tree that dangled its mournful branches listlessly in the lake, amid the dim green heaviness of its leaves, Seiji and his longsword were moving like a dream of motion, silhouetted against the willow and the sunset-glittering lake beyond. Thinking again (thinking always) of the sky, Rowen watched that intense agility--controlled stance, two-hands, one-hand, feint and step, swing the blade in a terrifying arc, deadly beauty--soaking in the vision, imagining nebulas spiralling in space, imagining stars being born.

Sai was training, too, on the sandy spar in front of the lake, swinging his spear in complicated twists, the metal of it flashing in the dying light. The sand where he stood was flat silver from the low slant of sun, reflecting the auburn-haired warrior and his weapon in every detail, a double image before the rippling surface of the lake. The swift, twice-turning image made Rowen blink--smooth as spinning infinities, every atom perfectly in line.

Beside him, Kento wielded his mace against imaginary foes. He, too, was backlit; and in shadowed clarity, his very edges radiated strength--moving with all the fierce grace of the birth of mountains, earth shuddering upward, loose as water, free as air. The traces of his footprints behind him were like a dark secret language in the glowing sand.

And Ryo was standing before the setting sun--scarlet lake around his hands as they guided the wildfire swords through the evening, golden crescent of sun lighting his hair like the heart of a burning fire, like the center of the universe.

His own weapon forgotten in his hands, Rowen forgot how to move. He realized without turning that by having his face to the sun, anyone looking at him would see the darkling twilit sky behind him, blue hair against blue heavens, all of it luminous with the promise of stars.

Funny how memory works--all this in less than ten seconds, but a mental picture so clear, so breath-takingly vivid that it was all he could do to keep from falling into the sky. The five of them, in movements as familiar as their own bodies, sleek and supple, living to be in motion; and the five of them perfectly in their environments as if they’d been born there: Wildfire against the setting of the sun, Torrent before the sundown lake, Hard Rock across the smooth sands, Halo with the strands of willow and banded sunlight across his face. And he, Strata, framed against the firmament.

He wanted the moment never to end, ringed in a circle of concentration and friendly quiet here in the summer day’s close, with his four best friends, alone in the whole world. Something deep welled inside him, like blood from a deep wound, or water from an unexpected spring. Or air from an unnoticed sky.

Gulping back words he didn’t know how to speak, he lifted his weapon and joined the five-bodied dance.


~o~





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