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There is a terrible affliction that haunts the Medicine Seller of Ri.
Not a mononoke’s curse—that would be preferable in his opinion, something that could be mended via medicinal or magical means in lieu of simmering—but rather…a person.
A colleague to be more exact.
He and the Medicine Seller of Kon are not particularly close—their philosophies and interests differ too much, compounded upon by the strenuousness and numerosity of their duties—but still, Ri finds himself drawn, nonetheless. It is a vexation that no amount of meditation, advice, or force can solve.
He should know. Expression unbemused throughout the whole ordeal and request, his partner, upon request, had sparred: blow against blow, a flurry of talismans and trickery, a match that had ended when, without much fanfare, a punch had launched him straight through a wall and into the midst of the Medicine Seller of Qian’s lesson on tea ceremonies.
His senior hadn’t been happy about that (nor had the disciples who, at the sight of blood and a number of splintered bones, had screamed), but still, his issue persists, both through the ensuing lecture and treatment and through his bedraggled partner’s questioning.
Why not simply tell him? his partner, Hyper, had inquired. Much like the element of fire and the reason for the nickname itself—a past wielder’s odd obsession with English as it were—his partner could be rather easygoing (gentle), dynamism and fluidity a defining feature of his personality. For as long as his conscience remains unaffronted, his partner rarely minds. At worst, it is rejection, and a mild one at that. The wielder of Kon is a fairly soft-spoken man himself. Kind.
Isn’t that the issue? Ri could understand vitriol and disdain, but a fellow medicine seller? Why…that irksome mildness would drive him mad!
Scream! Hurl slander and ridicule!
Hell, he would even accept physical assault!
Those, at the very least, would denote some form of consideration, paradoxical as it may be. Discomfort, after all, would signal that his existence would be remembered as something other than a vaguely awkward coworker—a minuscule blip in their long lifespans much like a rainy autumnal afternoon.
Forgettable.
His heart (his ever-human heart) wouldn’t be able to withstand that sort of mockery.
Unlike his partner and as a result of the nature of his creation—to understand human passion, must one not also feel as they do?—there are such thing as attachments. Sorrow that folds the knees. Thoughts that make little sense yet do all the same. Wicked whims and selfish selflessness.
Really…it, that cacophony of human nature, riddles the mind, every gap and question another rabbit hole to pursue. Bound to a human shape, that is what they are, yet still…
Why him of all people?
Fire and earth may be linked—ashes to ashes, dust to dust, as one of many goes—but they rarely interact. Beyond recherché circumstances and the meetings in which their lord calls from time to time, their paths seldom intersect, preferring instead to twine ‘round the folly of others like the tendrils of Oriental Bittersweet.
Passion for passion. Whim for whim.
The flowers of which men and women crush beneath their sandals, heedless (disregarding) of dignity and compassion—none of it quite stings like the kiss of apathy.
Unusual (perverse) perhaps, but it is the form of which his infatuation takes.
Ardor or abhorrence, those, at the very least, provide fuel for his existence.
Tell him?
Bah!
What would a medicine seller say?
He knows, and his partner knows even as the reason itself remains unfathomable.
An unreachable dream held aloft high in the branches, the rotted petals of affection…those would be preferable. Anything. Anything—other than the grave called insensibility.
And as for the man himself…they exchange pleasantries as always on the occasions when they pass: in the hallways of the Ten Wings, the chatter at drinking parties—nothing more than work and jests of course—anything but confession.
Like the turn of stars, nothing changes even as they pass one another.
He with the same impassive expression as always and the Medicine Seller of Kon with that damnable smile of his, those pleasantries and well-shaped, oddly mirthful eyes which curve at the sight of him as if to say I know.
All fantasy of course. That man should have no wickedness in his heart.
As his partner states, the Medicine Seller of Kon is a kind man.
And moreover, earth is earth: straightforward, grounded, stable.
No matter how that touch lingers, fingers gentle upon Ri’s own as they pass the yunomi, or how that ariose voice reverbs, tongue curling around the syllable that makes up his name, it is, for all intents and purposes, nothing more than an overactive imagination.
An affliction of the mind and heart.
The flickering flame of a human shape as it were.