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"The Fox, The Monk And The Mikado Of All Nights Dreaming "Written By: Seraphim Grace View Commisioned art for this fic. Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing or its characters, they belong to Bandai etc. Feedback: Always appreciated and replied to. Pairings: 1x2, suggested 13x6 Notes: This is a version of a fairy tale that
Neil Gaiman published as The Dream Hunters, I have changed it a lot
to fit the story I wanted
"The Fox, The Monk And The Mikado Of All Nights Dreaming " Chapter 7 The man that waited for him was clearly either a police officer or a soldier. He had strong broad shoulders and eyes like laser beams. He wore solid black but had a silver chain with a slight cross in the hollow of his throat. He made the boy wary and his entire frame seemed to stop the instinctive urge to flee. He knew that if he ran the man would effortless reach out to catch him. “I’m Yuy,” the man introduced himself, “Lena asked me to call on you today, she said that she was telling you a story. Barton told me what to look for and to make sure that I fed you, Chang was annoyed that you did not ask for him this morning. Shall we go?” “Where?” he asked, he wanted to run from this man, both Barton and the Chinese man had a lingering sense of strength, where this man, Yuy, exuded menace. “There is a noodle bar several blocks over. I like its food. I am to make sure you eat.” He spoke in simple clipped sentences; just as there was no fat on his frame there was no flab in what he said either. On the second night, with a belly full of stuffed peppers with yam and rice, the monk lay down on his futon, he scratched at his chest with the indulgence of one who has had a good day and thought for a brief moment on the strange dream that he had had the night before in which he had seen his mother and family, including those who were dead. The moment was fleeting before the soft summer night and the full belly lulled him to sleep. He dreamt of a great temple like those he had spent his childhood in and in that great temple was a great table of ebony lacquered to an incredible sheen. On the table were many bowls of noodles and in each sat a pair of silver coloured chop sticks. Around the table on tasselled cushions were many men, warriors, and monks and at the end of the table, in homespun fabric in comparison to their fine silks and velvets was a merchant. Each of the men had their hair oiled and gathered into high topknots fastened with gold clips, except the merchant who had shaved the top of his head so that his dark hair circled his head. Beauteous courtesans served the table and at the head, wearing layers of incense and silk was the most beautiful woman that the monk had ever seen. She had hair the colour of softly burnished oak and skin like milk, but her eyes were golden amber and when she saw him she smiled and her smile was vulpine. She played a shamisen easily as tall as she was and the tune she played was haunting. The beautiful courtesans in their layers of silk and gold guided him to the cushion that had been chosen for him. He sat uncomfortably as a girl with hair as black as the lacquered wood reached across the table to fetch him slices of the grilled meat that was on the table. Showing off a white forearm she poured him wine and beer and tea. He knew that he should feel some stirring in his belly for this girl, but instead he thought of the fox with his generous smile and felt nothing. Even when the courtesan reached into the folds of his hakama to find his member and manipulate it he felt nothing. He recognised some of the people around the table. He recognised the great monk from his childhood, who had raised him and died shortly before he had gone to the mountain to build his temple. He recognised the Ronin who had brought him to the temple when it had become his time to die. He recognised the great lord who patronised his learning and had slipped him sweets when he thought no one was looking, that man had fallen from his horse many summers previous. The merchant he recognised as a man who had given him a small stuffed fox and whom the Ronin distrusted. He assumed that this man must be dead as well. So he suffered the ministrations of the beautiful courtesan, and he drank their wine and their beer and their tea and he eat their noodles and grilled meats and he listened to their conversation sure that in the morning that he would not remember it. They discussed the journey to the west and the Buddha, and they discussed war and when it was justified and when it was not. When the evening was over and the beautiful woman with the shamisen had laid down her instrument and retired with a man with eyes the colour of twilight, the merchant approached the young monk. “Do you know who I am?” he asked. “I know only that when I was a child that you said that you would have a son my age and gave me a toy that you had made for him.” The monk answered honestly. “I am your father and I have little to give you for your life is richly lived and I am just a merchant, but I can give you this.” And he gave him a golden key with rich ornamentation, it was small such as might fit into a jewellery box or a small chest, “it is all I have, my son, find your own way.” When the monk awoke the night was only half over and he shrugged away the dream with the instruction that the Baku take it, but high in the distance he was sure that he heard the yipping of a fox. To his surprise he put the key down when he went to wash his face but when he went to pick it up again he realised that it was never there. He went about his daily business about the temple, trying his best to shrug away what had in truth been two nights of incredibly bizarre and vivid dreams. He made sure to do hard manual labour so that when he eventually fell into his futon he was exhausted. He did not dream that third night. He woke up bright and refreshed but as he lifted the broom to sweep out the small veranda asleep in his doorway was the fox. He looked so small and tiny and he was able to scoop him up in a single hand. He set the tiny fox into the curve of his jacket because he really liked the fox and was very fond of him and he knew that it would keep him warm until he awoke. The fox did not wake. Midday came and went and still the fox did not wake. The breathing of the fox was soft and shallow and he did not move in his sleep. Evening came and the fox did not wake. Night came and the fox did not wake. The monk laid him out on his pillow beside his head and slept himself, thinking perhaps that the fox would wake in the night. He did not. When the monk awoke the fox still slept as still and quiet as a dead thing. He was unsure what else to do so he nestled the sleeping fox back into the curve of his jacket and began his trek, knowing it would take two days. Halfway down the mountain he met an old man who was leaning heavily on a stick, the monk raced ahead to catch up with him. “Do you need help?” the monk asked him. The old man turned back to him and then struck him across the shins with his stick. “You are a fool and an idiot both,” the old man said, “I do not need your help, why should I need the help of a mountain monk who carries a fox in his jacket.” The monk wanted to curse because the blow across his shins had hurt but he didn’t. “You are old and my legs are young and strong,” the monk said instead, “I can help you.” “why should I need the help of a boy who lies.” “I don’t lie,” the monk said, “I am devoted to Buddha and I do not lie.” “Then why do you hold a fox in your jacket?” the monk was quiet as he walked alongside the old man for a few long moments. “I am a monk,” he said eventually, “beholden to the Buddha and all that he is.” The old man used his stick to strike him against the head this time instead of the shins. “How can you tell a truth to me if you cannot tell one to yourself, why would you help a fox?” “Because he is my friend,” the monk said, “because he was company when I thought I didn’t need it, and I love him.” At that the old man softened, reaching into his robe and handed him a single gold coin with a notch cut through the centre. “The fox is trapped in dreams, take this token and for a gift perhaps the dream king will help you, he is the only one who can, but be warned, this path leads only to death.” “I’m not sure I like this story,” the boy said looking up from his noodles. “Lady Relena said that it was a happy story.” He looked almost petulant; he was scared of the man sat opposite him. “It is,” Yuy told him bluntly, “but we must suffer to appreciate what we have.” He lifted his cup, staring into the inky depths of the strong black espresso. “Do you not want to know what happens to the monk in the kingdom of dreams?” The boy lowered his eyes. “I do,” he said, “I want them to be happy.” Yuy smiled, a fleeting thing against his cup. “There are many ways to be happy, Stephen,” he says, “many ways indeed; I was an old man before I learned that lesson.” “Relena cast you as the monk in the story, did you save your fox?” Yuy laughed, a brittle sound like gravel against broken glass. “That story isn’t finished yet,” he said, “but the chances are that you’ll meet my fox tomorrow.”
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