Fruition 2, Toutei 720
the High Priest's Tower, Toukoku





It was a rather windy day. The strong breeze was carrying in the vague smell of salt from the sea to the east, and was tinged with a touch of ozone from some distant storm. As it whipped past, it plucked petals off his flowers' petals, tossing them away towards the mountains. And it rearranged his skirts, making him worry, vaguely, if there was anyone below who might see him and be scandalized.

But what a funny thought to have while hanging here like this!

After ten High Priests in succession had thrown themselves off the top of the tower, some ancient Empress had ordered the construction of a tall ironwork fence made of smooth bars, to keep her mystics tidy within their cage. But almost immediately, some shrewd High Priest began to cultivate vines, which over many years had grown interlaced, thick and strong. And at finally, reaping the rewards of this merciful ancestor's farsighted plan, High Priest Kouyo had climbed to the very top of the fence, over the bars, and was dangling, now, on the outside, with the cold wind tickling his legs and the vast, distant ground spreading out, and out, and out, far away under his feet.

Perhaps this was a bad idea. If Kouyo let go, the Empress would surely have the vines burned, and the successor to his office would have to find some sort of sharp or heavy object within the confines of the sanctum. And the poor Temple attendants would have to clean up what remained of his body. But it would create a sensation; the people of the Empire would, for at least a moment, remember the little maidens locked up in their windy birdcage, dying of sorrow. And perhaps someone would write a letter to the diplomat from Karyasihu, telling her that Kouyo was dead...

It would be written in ink mixed with the oil of sandalwood; its aroma would mingle with her heady vanilla perfume. She would unfold it with one of her pink hands, with their long white fingernails, while the other would brush, lightly, casually, a lock of black hair out of her face -- she had trouble keeping her hair back as her hair-comb was not in its usual place, but tucked away inside Kouyo's robes. Her dark eyes would blink as they focused on the page, reading a poem, 5 characters per line, painting a picture of Kouyo, poor, wretched Kouyo, dangling in the gray sky, like a red drop of blood that has not yet fallen --

... Is he, swaying in the air, about to die, writing a poem? A poem no one will ever read, just like all the others in his notebooks, stacked in his study all the way up to the ceiling, which should have finished burning by now? He really is crazy! Mad. Mad as a Sorcerer.

His laughter was interrupted by a voice in his head, a voice he had heard many times in his dreams and visions, a calm, steady voice, feminine and masculine, gentle and incredibly cruel, addressing him in a sweet tone.

It is over.

And so he let go.