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eurydice

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He wakes in darkness.

There is a dull roar close by, and for a second there are giants hovering overhead, ghosts clad in the armor of dead samurai, eyes red as the moon—

He wakes in darkness, to the dull roar of the surf.

There is nothing else.

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It takes him four days to leave the dark, damp coastline is steep and spare, and for a while he sits in a weak stupor.

Freshwater drips from the rocky ceiling; he forces himself to drink. Small crabs scuttle across the floor; he forces himself to eat.

The sun rises on day four. He forces himself to leave. He forces himself to survive.

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He regains his strength by the sea, but with an absence of weakness he finds that he has no other focus. No memories, no context, not even a name.

The thought slots neatly into place, and he—

He panics.

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He runs. He finds that he is fast, that he is strong. He runs and the world blurs and he does not know where he is going. He doesn't stop until something inside of him snaps, leaving him empty and exhausted on a forest floor.

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What else is there?

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He opens his eyes in the misty morning light, his face wet with dew. Above him, trees tower towards the sky, the branches mostly bare. The clouds have parted for the first time since he woke. Early spring.

He realizes that this is the first he will remember.

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He spends his mornings like this:

Despite missing an arm, he is geared towards survival. He'd known he was strong, but he finds that he is also good at traveling, at being alone. His body knows how to find shelter, how to pick what is good to eat from what is not.

When he first ventures into a small village, looking to exchange labor for clean clothing, for some food, the people shrink from him, and that too is—is familiar.

He doesn't—he doesn't prod at that. He tries not to wonder who he'd been, because:

He'd woken up in that cave alone, and he'd stayed there for far too long, hoping that someone would come by, that someone would know him, that someone would help fill the void of his memories. He'd stayed until he'd become disgusted with himself, and he'd chosen to survive instead.

The facts are:

He is missing an arm. People see him and they are immediately afraid. No one had come for him.

He thinks he will rebuild himself anew.

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The wind takes him eastward.

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He takes odd jobs to earn coin, and tries to see if he'd had any place to call home. He discovers his preferences—his habits, his likes and dislikes—all over again.

He spends his mornings like this:

Wake before the sunrise, before the morning mist has time to clear; stretch slowly, and then a run to escape the restlessness of the night before. He breaks his fast with a small meal, and always a cup of tea if he happens to be in a village with a teahouse or an inn. He takes it hot, with a small sprig of some of the mint that he takes to carrying with him.

Every day brings a new, tiny revelation, but nothing consequential, nothing that amounts to even a scrap of memory.

He still can't bear to give himself a name.

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He eventually finds himself at the capital. The daimyo's palace is surrounded by a grove of cherry trees, and as the nobles observe hanami within the gates, the common folk celebrate in their own way, with rest and food-laden mats spread haphazardly over the grass as they enjoyed the fleeting beauty of the blossoms.

He looks up at the canopy of pink and, unbidden, thinks: Sakura.

Wind shakes the trees and petals fall in a soft rain. He holds still, and lets himself be covered.

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That night, he jolts awake—frantic, panting, hand searching for something next to him. A name. A name. Not the name of the blossoms but the name of a person.

Not his name, but the only one he has.

Sakura.

Sakura.

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She comes back to him slowly.

First: her name, and the color of her hair.

Sakura. Pink. Eastward.

Then in a market: the scent of apples.

He remembers white on red cloth. He remembers a trembling hand holding his steady. He remembers green eyes.

He would hate this woman if he could. He hates that he can recall with clarity the purse of her lips and the arch of her brow when he can't even remember himself.

He would hate her, except above all he remembers her love.

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Do you know of any women with pink hair and green eyes?

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Has a woman with pink hair gone through here?

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I don't recall her family name but her first name would have been Sakura.

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When he asks the shopkeeper about the woman with pink hair, he doesn't encounter the lack of recognition that he's used to; instead, the man nods.

Why yes! She passed through here a while ago. Funnily enough she was looking for someone too. A dark-hair man missing an arm, the man pauses and openly goggles at his pinned sleeve. Seems like she was looking for you.

He'd stopped breathing when he'd heard yes, and now his heart feels like it'll give out as well.

Someone had tried.

She'd looked for him.

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She'd followed his footsteps, when he'd still had a name and a purpose and a past, and now he follows hers.

Some of the people he encounters remember him, and one day he rediscovers his name because once he'd thought to give it to an old woman at a fruit stand.

You said your name was Sasuke-san.

There is no rush of recognition, no sudden onslaught of memories. The name doesn't feel familiar; it doesn't feel right or wrong or like it'd been his.

Only—

Sasuke-kun.

Sasuke-kun!

Sasuke-kun, please don't hurt them.

Sasuke-kun...take me with you!

Sasuke-kun, we're bringing you back with us!

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It's dark when he finds the place where he'd died.

Clouds blot moonlight from the sky, and this is just a place. That is just a cave. The sun will rise.

But.

This is where he'd died, and even though it has been a time, a part of him is afraid that if he walks inside—

He forces himself to stop. To take a breath and concentrate on the sound of the sea.

Someone had recently been here: the mouth of the cave must have collapsed at some point, but there are fresh tracks in the sand where rubble had been dug out to create clear passage.

He thinks that he will find her inside. For her, he knows he is willing to walk back into the darkness.

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She'd been asleep, body curled inwards and turned away from him, but the moment he steps inside the cave, her shoulders tense and he knows she's awake.

He can just make out the pale halo of her hair, but he knows the slope of her shoulders and the length of her arms.

Sakura.

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All he has is his name. He has his name, and he has Sakura.

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She doesn't move—she's so perfectly still and so perfectly far.

He'd woken in darkness, almost two years ago, and he sees that she's led him—

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"Sakura."

Distance shrinks, and she is—

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He'd thought he'd remembered her perfectly, but his scant memories could not conjure in perfect detail the warmth, the shade of her eyes in the night.

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Sasuke has his name, and he has Sakura. Everything else he knows she'll help him find later.

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Sasuke follows Sakura into the morning light.

fin