fu-rin-ka-zan

The air around them is cold, yet oppressive.  Her mind staggers through a bleak haze, trying to understand, trying to piece together what it is she's lost.  They are silent.  They know what she has lost.  Their faces bear the same pain, the same helplessness. Her once-captor takes a seat beside the door, his crisp shirt and tailored pants now stained with grass and dust.  He cannot look her in the eye.  Instead, his eyes focus on a silver band circling the third finger of his left hand.  It is untarnished, unmarred, glinting in the light with all the hopeful promises of a

Sinuous silhouette, scarred and scared Lovely, he swears Does nothing for gnashing-slashing Feinting, fainting Cold fingers clawing No more, I swear Bile: bitter, biting Sickly innards and outards He swears