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"Kenshin…“
Outside the four corners of this dungeon, with strong wood fences that are high up the ceiling…I always see a vision of white and blue.
"Kenshin…”
How long have I been here?
I don’t remember anymore.
Surely, it wasn’t been that long…right?
“Kenshin…”
I keep calling his name.
It was quiet until I heard a sigh before my vision blurs and the back of the man who had put me in this place turns, showing his panic-stricken face.
The God of War.
I always hear this alongside his name even in my days back in Azuchi. I can still recall how cold the atmosphere would be whenever the name is brought up during their meetings; thought of how dramatic they are for calling a living man such name.
Not until I had been taken away by this man in the middle of the war.
I should have been angry.
I should be upset.
But here I am, staring - thinking as to how suitable that name really is to Kenshin, as I watch him fight a war with himself.
Tell me, Kenshin.
Why are you refusing to look at me?
“Kenshi-
"...Why are you so stubborn?“ Heterochromia eyes waver as he spoke, the voice sounded like quiet pleas and unspoken signs.
Who knew he would be this fragile?
"Why are you not looking at me anymore?”
If my voice leaked out my desire to see him, I don’t care.
I just don’t care.
“I need to never look at you...”
As quickly as I had replied, he looked down.
“You just have to stay quiet and enjoy everything that I had sent to you here. I heard that these are the things that women need-” I know he would be saying a lot more than what he had already said, but I witness him falter as my bitter laugh resounded in the dungeon.
“As someone who is called a genius in battle, you are quite stupid for thinking that this is what I needed.”
I watch his ethereal face form a frown, eyebrows furrowing, quiet as he tries to understand what lies beyond my words. I wanted to smile; I wanted to tell him that no, this is not what I need.
‘And you know it, don’t you?’
“Why are you not looking at me anymore?” I repeated, silently hoping that my words would be able to reach him like the soothing winter breeze.
His knuckles are turning white - as white as the snow that is ever so cold, like how people had always thought he was.
I should think of him the same way.
I should let him continue pushing me away.
“Because…if I do, I won’t be able to let you go.”
But it’s always after the winter when flowers bloomed their greatest, aren’t they?
“Then don’t.”
I might be the one that is locked up, but he is the one that is caged.