********
"The Dead and Dreaming"
an X/1999 fanfic by Ysabet MacFarlane (ba087@chebucto.ns.ca)

Original release date: January 11, 2006.

This is technically set very shortly before the manga went on hiatus (after
Arashi's most recent conversation with Hinoto).  Since we don't yet know what
happens immediately afterwards, this is most definitely out of canon.  Also, I
wound up taking a few liberties with Sorata's powers (or putting a lot of faith
in his ability to improvise, depending on your point of view).

Spoilers for Sorata, Arashi, and Hinoto at the manga's stopping point, but no
spoilers for the other characters.

********
"All my sins...
I said that I would pay for them if I could come back to you
All my innocence is wasted on the dead and dreaming"
		--Counting Crows, "Angels of the Silences" (Recovering the
Satellites)
********


Arashi rubbed at her eyes when she regained consciousness, trying to clear away
the smear of fog distorting her vision.  It didn't work.  Over the next few
minutes, she discovered that nothing she did altered the gray void around her. 
A feeling of claustrophobia began to set in as she realized that there wasn't
even any empty space around her, only a blankness that ended just past her
fingertips.

*Dreamscape,* she concluded, almost glad of the queasiness she felt.  It was
something to focus on.

She had barely formed the thought when the nausea began to fade, as if her
attention was enough to suppress it; underneath that focus, her thoughts slipped
disconcertingly, scattering like sparks.  The honed instincts that had saved her
life on previous occasions lifted her hands to her temples and buried her
fingernails in the thin skin there.

"Dreamscape," she repeated aloud, listening to her voice muting only inches away
from her mouth.  She relaxed all of her senses, searching for any hint of the
natural world she had been raised in harmony with.  "An empty dreamscape.  And
the Princess isn't pulling me out."

The only remotely solid thing was the ground under her feet; Arashi knelt
slowly, not sure it wouldn't vanish and drop her into free fall.  It stayed
where it was, and she sat cross-legged, trying to think.  *The others will look
for me.  Sorata will--*  She closed her eyes against the grayness.  *Hold that
thought for later.*  Later, when she was free, she could think about Sorata--

The thought slid away as if oiled, its edges bleeding into the emptiness.  She
shook her head, confused by the sudden absence in her mind.  *Princess Hinoto
said I should sleep and . . . *  She groped for the memory.  "Forget," she
whispered.  "Ohh, no."

Her hands scrabbled at the surface under her, and she forced them into
stillness.  "How will I know if I'm forgetting?"  The sound of a voice, even her
own, was comforting.  She opened her eyes and pulled herself into a meditation
posture.  "I am Kishuu Arashi," she murmured, centering herself.  "I am of Ise
Shrine."  She visualized the shrine in detail, following its paths mentally. 
The thought that had eluded her flickered into life again.  *They'll look for
me.  Sorata will.*  This time she held onto his name, letting herself look at
the ways he'd woven himself into the fabric of her life.

She had spent so much of her life focusing on the future, trying not to let
herself get attached, that whole swaths of her past were a blur of religious and
everyday rituals.  Tending to tasks around the shrine, letting Kaede smooth her
hair before she slept . . . it all ran together, delineated only by the changing
seasons and the deepening lines in the faces of the older priestesses.  Ise was
the cool, pristine place in her heart that never changed.  Arashi curled herself
around it, centered herself, and thought of the other Seals.  Of the lover she
had laid down her oaths for.

********

The memories that surfaced had little to do with the Promised Day, and
everything to do with the life that had built itself around her, filling in the
time between the end of her training and the unfolding of her destiny.  She
shivered and let them wash over her: small, bright moments to hold between
herself and the looming emptiness prowling around the edges of her mind.

********

It had been Yuzuriha and Sorata who decided that the four of them should walk to
school together.  Every day, regardless of whether one of them was running late.
 Kamui went along with the idea without protest; sometimes his pliability was
disturbing.  Most days, Arashi didn't mind too much.  She simply adjusted her
schedule so that she rose earlier than the others and spent time alone in the
garden, instead of using the walk to meditate.

There had been one perfect morning when she lost track of time, staring at the
sunrise.  The dew had fallen heavily overnight, and it coated every leaf and
blade of grass perfectly; in the soft light, the whole world glittered as if
encrusted with diamonds.  The beauty took her breath away and then, too abruptly
for her to defend against it, she was struck by the memory of Ise in autumn,
when everything was coated in frost.  The sharp flare of homesickness closed her
throat painfully, and she sat fighting tears long past the time when she should
have gone back in.

When she finally went inside, the others were almost ready to leave.  She tried
to hurry, knowing they wouldn't go without her, and found that her fingers
fumbled on everything--her books, her uniform, even her hair.  She was nearly
ready when Sorata appeared in the doorway behind her, and she almost snarled at
him before he even spoke.

"Can I help, 'neechan?"

Knowing it was an innocent question didn't help.  She was in no mood for his
relentless cheer, the too-enthusiastic smile, the careless air that didn't even
hint that he had grown up in a monastery.

"No.  I'll be down in a minute."

"Are you sick or something?  You should stay home if you are--"

"I'm fine.  Thank you."

"That's good to hear."

"I just meditated too long."  She tried to weight the words with casual
finality.

"Ahhh.  Sometimes that's good," he said.  "I kinda like it when that happens."

Arashi stared at him, trying to imagine when he found time to meditate.  She
certainly never caught him at any sort of religious devotion, and sometimes it
felt as if the sound of his voice filled her ears incessantly from the moment
she woke until she finally fell asleep.  "When do you--"

"Huh?"  Sorata blinked, and then caught on to what she was asking.  If he picked
up on her skepticism, he showed no sign.  "I do it at night, usually.  I try to
put in two or three hours every day, but sometimes it takes longer."  His smile
was calmer than usual.  "I don't need much sleep--I can get by with three or
four hours if I have to.  I like sitting on the roof 'cause it reminds me of
home.  I used to hide up there after raiding the kitchen and stare at the moon
while I ate."

She almost laughed.  "That sounds like you."

He cocked his head at her.  "Are you homesick?" he asked softly.

"A little."

If he had tried to touch her, she might have hit him.  But he stood and looked
at her, radiating a _stillness_ that she had seen only hints of before.  In that
moment, she believed fully that he was as much a priest as she was a priestess,
felt a calmness pouring out of him that made her wonder how close he was to his
faith's goal of enlightenment.  It came to her that she was standing in the eye
of the benevolent storm that usually surged around him.  Her mind's eye layered
a monk's garb over the street clothes he wore, and her instincts almost made her
offer him the bow of recognition to an equal.  A flicker of a smile on his lips
said he'd seen the impulse.

"I know the feeling, 'neechan," was all he said.  Then he grinned, and the spell
was broken.  "We'll be downstairs.  Take your time."

********

The rain woke her in late summer.  It was natural for her to sleep with her
window wide open, to let in every breath of fresh air, all the sounds of the
living night.  She was disoriented when her eyes opened, startled by the cool
dampness on her face.  It felt good--the last week had been desperately humid,
and the breaking storm already made the air feel lighter, easier to breathe.

Arashi sat up and listened to the rising wind, the tattoo of the rain hitting
the roof, and the laughter coming from outside.  Without turning a light on, she
stood and peered out the window.  Sorata and Yuzuriha were in the yard, playing
what looked like a free-for-all game of tag.  Yuzuriha would have had no chance
at all if Inuki had stayed out of it, but the dog-spirit was fully engaged,
nipping playfully at Sorata whenever he came too close.

The storm began in earnest, peals of thunder and blinding flashes of lightning
rending the sky overhead.  In the sporadic glow, it was obvious that the trio
outside were drenched to the skin.

Arashi barely heard the tap at her door, but the tentative sliding sound caught
her attention.  "Come in."  It opened fully, and Kamui came in and stood beside
her.

"I didn't see you outside, and I don't think _anyone_ could sleep through this
noise," he said.

"Them or the storm?" Arashi asked, still watching, and Kamui made a sound that
might have been a rusty laugh.  The wind changed direction and spattered them
both with rain, but neither of them moved to wipe it away.  She reached out and
cupped her hands so that the drops began to pool in her palms, cooling the faint
burning that always lurked there.

Kamui stayed so still beside her that she almost forgot he was there.  She let
herself be lulled by the howl of the wind, slid into a light trance where the
wind and the rain and the overwhelming thunder merged with the voices from
below.  Leaning against the window frame, she soaked up the power of the kami
that pulsed in the air, opening to it like a parched plant.  In that calm state,
she was receptive to the others' power--Yuzuriha and Inuki moving as if they
shared a single mind, Yuzuriha laughing as she slipped a little on the grass and
had to lean against the spirit-dog's back to steady herself; Sorata
instinctively turning to face the lightning a moment before each flare, lifting
his hands as if he could catch it; the seething power that Kamui channeled and
contained.  It was obscurely comforting, part of the domestic feeling that they
were all starting to take for granted.

It might have been an hour before the violence outside eased, and the moonlight
began breaking through the dispersing clouds.  She pushed slowly away from the
frame, sleepy but strengthened, and impulsively bowed and clapped her hands
once, a sharp sound of acknowledgment and thanks to the kami.  The sound hung in
the freshly-scoured night, and Sorata and Yuzuriha both looked up, smiling.

"I'm starving," Sorata called up.  "And there's no way I can get to sleep after
this, so I'm gonna cook something.  D'you guys want anything?"  Arashi shook her
head.  "You sure?" he asked.

"I'm sure, thank you."

Sorata stretched and ran both hands through his hair, shedding drops of water
that sparkled in the moonlight.  "Sweet dreams, then."  He grinned at them. 
"Wasn't that _great_?"  He and Yuzuriha--and Inuki, now completely dry--headed
for the house.

"I'll go down," Kamui said, turning away from the window.  Arashi nodded and sat
on the edge of her bed, waiting for him to leave.  He hesitated, then put a hand
on her shoulder and squeezed tentatively.  "Good night."

"You too."  He left silently, sliding the door most of the way closed behind
him.  A crack of light showed around the edge, but Arashi couldn't be bothered
to go close it the rest of the way.  Instead she lay down and listened to the
faint clatter coming from the kitchen, the murmur of voices.  She fell asleep
breathing the warm, spicy smell of the noodles Sorata liked to make for
late-night snacks.

********
"Your body grows more beautiful
With every bite I take
You won't believe I love you
It's too stupid for words
So I lick your trembling lips
And use your hands to feed the birds . . .
I laid with you for hours
Remembering your taste"
	--The Glove, "Mouth to Mouth" (Blue Sunshine)
********

The memory of her night with Sorata made her blush, even alone in the empty
dimness.  Her thoughts tried to skitter away, but Arashi held onto it fiercely. 
*I will not forget.*  The night and the price she had paid for it were both too
important to lose without a fight.

********

First tears she had shown anyone in years, hot tracks down her cheeks and onto
the edge of the bed, then into the shallow between his collarbone and shoulder,
as he held her.  First kiss, asked for and given awkwardly.  Her first taste of
him.  Second kiss, unasked for, his lips ghosting over hers until she ran her
tongue lightly across his lower lip, into his mouth when he gasped.  Third kiss,
and she'd been on the bed beside him as he made room for her.  Fourth kiss, and
her first real awareness of an aroused male body.  Flicker of guilty apology in
his eyes as he tried to shift away from her; startled wonder when she slid her
arm across his lap and held him still, her fingers on his hip.

They said little, every new exploration preceded by a quick, questioning
look--*Will it hurt you if I do this?*  *Is it all right if I . . ?*  It was
comforting that he seemed to be as inexperienced as she was; it gave them a more
pleasant reason than his injuries to take things slowly, and the wide-eyed
wonder on his face whenever she touched him or let him touch her made things
easier.  Arashi curled up against him, almost naked after half an hour of
caresses, and struggled not to think about what she was--what they were--doing.

Sorata kissed her shoulder, running his mouth down her arm to her hand.  The
kiss in her palm made her fingers curl.  It was also ineffably different from
everything else he had done, too close to veneration for comfort.  Arashi bit
her lip and pulled her hand away, cradling it against herself.  Sorata was on
enough painkillers that his judgment might be a bit impaired, but she didn't
want to risk letting him think about what she was.

"Sorata-san, do you want to make love with me?" she whispered.  Speaking the
words aloud warmed her cheeks in a way that nothing else had, not even when his
exploring fingers had made her body move in startled, unexpected ways.

He went so still when she spoke that she was reminded of how he had felt slumped
unconscious against her.  The astonishment she saw in his eyes made her smile;
leaving him at a loss for words was a rare accomplishment.  After a moment an
answering smile quirked his mouth, and he traced a finger along her cheek. 
"Silly question, 'neechan," he said, recovering a flash of his usual levity.

"Will you?"

Sorata's eyes softened into a look she had never imagined anyone directing at
her..  "All yours," he told her, completely serious for once, before shooting a
rueful glance at his right hand.  She nodded back, understanding: with that
injury, there wasn't much choice in how to go about it.  He didn't ask if she
was sure, and she felt oddly relieved, glad he wasn't questioning her.

It took a few tries to position herself properly over him, but he didn't look
concerned.  His face had the calm anticipation of someone waiting for certain
communion with the divine, and instead of disturbing her, it called out the same
response.  Her last act as a priestess felt as sacred as anything else she had
done in her life, and she gave herself up to it when she got the angle right and
eased herself down on him.  It hurt enough at first to make her breath catch,
but became bearable as she shifted, experimenting--more discomfort than pain, a
steady pressure that went deeper than she'd expected.

*I have taken his life,* she thought, and shuddered with the weight and wonder
of it.  Her palm stung with the sharp pain of her power being summoned, and for
a dizzying moment she wondered if she had been mistaken, if her mother's fate
had passed her by.

Sorata's hips moved slightly between her thighs, and she smiled, bent to kiss
him.  "Arashi," he whispered just before their lips met, closing his eyes to
accept her.

The throb in her hand melted away as if it had never existed.  Arashi stifled
her wave of loss against his mouth, kissing him harder, and surrendered to the
ache and comfort of his body.

********

She had let Sorata watch her sheathe the sword once, when they and the other
Seals were still figuring out each other's abilities.  He materialized beside
her and examined her with a professional interest.  They were both still a bit
high and shaky from battle adrenaline.  "Can I see?" he asked, keeping his hands
at his sides as if to reassure her that he didn't mean _touch_.  The air around
him smelled faintly scorched; Arashi glanced down at his hands, wondering if his
skin burned when it channeled the lightning.

"It's not very pretty," she replied, not really expecting him to be put off,
especially since seeing her _use_ the sword didn't seem to have disturbed him in
the slightest.

Sorata shrugged.  "That's fine."

Arashi carefully hefted the sword in her right hand and pointed the tip at the
curve of her palm, at an angle which would neatly split her arm straight up the
center if it were any other blade.  She took a slow breath and began sliding it
into the base of her palm.  The skin parted, and blood gleamed for an instant
before it coalesced around the blade.  It fused with the shining metal, changing
color as it mutated into an extension of her flesh.  She pushed the sword most
of the way in, leaving only a few inches exposed so Sorata could watch the
process.  Without any outside help, her body reabsorbed it at a slower but
steady rate, growing new skin over it and pulling it inside.

Objectively, it reminded her of something in a horror movie, but the sword had
been part of her for as long as she could remember; she was accustomed to the
visual effect, and despite the stretching, growing pain, it felt natural.

"Does it always come out the same way, or does it depend on which way you
sheathe it?" Sorata wanted to know.

Arashi suddenly felt exposed.  "Always point-first."  She remembered that he
would have seen it blossoming from her hand, had probably seen how it remained
attached to her by ribbons of flesh unless she pulled it free.  She gripped the
pommel in her hand and thrust the sword the rest of the way home in one quick
motion.  The skin on her palm rippled and contracted, reabsorbing the extraneous
flesh.  "That's it."

Sorata smiled and lifted his own hand.  Lightning balled over his palm, sparking
and dancing, and then he closed his hand and it was gone.  "I like the idea of
that kind of tangible power," he said.  "Mine's kinda hard to pin down."  The
smile widened to a grin.  "No one's ever had a good answer for why I don't get
burned to a crisp.  I guess my body's just super conductive or something."  He
looked around.  "Now what?  D'you have post-combat munchies or anything?  I
could buy you lunch or--" he glanced at the sky "--supper?"

"That's not necessary, Sorata-san."

"Aw, 'neechan, how often d'you get such an open offer?  _Anything_ you want." 
He gestured expansively, as if he would cheerfully wrestle the sun onto a plate
if she asked.

*He'd probably try,* Arashi thought, shaking her head at the image.  "I have
reading to catch up on.  I'm going home."

Sorata sighed theatrically, with no trace of resentment or annoyance.  "Well,
you've got a rain check.  Anytime you want, 'k?"

"I'll be sure to bear that in mind, Sorata-san."  She flexed her hand gently and
started walking, knowing he'd be at her side again in a moment.  To make sure
she 'got home safe', no doubt.  He was too good-natured about such things for
them to even be offensive, but sometimes . . .  They had known each other for
such a short while, and yet it was hard to remember what it had been like
without him dogging her steps.  She wondered how she would survive living with
him--not to mention Kamui and Yuzuriha--if the arrangement turned out to be at
all longterm.

********

The dreamscape shifted around her, jarring her out of her memories, and reformed
into the one place in the world she knew best.  It was late evening, almost
dusk; the last colors of the day were muted by the trees.  A soft breeze stirred
while she looked around, drinking in the sight of the deep pool and the gentle
waterfall that fed it.  She knelt on the bank and trailed her fingers across the
water's surface.  It felt real.  The whole spirit of the place felt real.  She
slid both hands beneath the surface and washed them ritually, before bringing a
handful of water to her lips.  It tasted cool and pure, and she carefully rinsed
her mouth as she would usually do before even approaching such a place, where
the kami were.  She bowed deeply, came back up, and clapped her hands together.

Having done her best to purify herself, Arashi stood and half undressed,
abandoning her boots and socks and skirt; her clothing was real, had come into
the dreamscape with her, and she had enough sense to keep some of it dry without
leaving herself completely naked if the world altered again and took her unworn
clothes with it.  The water lapped around her thighs as she stepped in and waded
out to the deepest point, where it came to just below her breasts.  Arashi took
strength from it, too badly in need of the place to question how it had come to
her out of the grayness.  The gentle current from the falls swirled around her,
welcoming, as if the kami neither knew nor cared that she had let a man touch
her with even more intimacy than the water's subtle caress.

She felt his presence a moment before he spoke.  "'neechan, where are you?"

"You've never been here," she replied, not turning to face him.  "So this isn't
a memory."

"I've been looking for you," Sorata said.  "I couldn't stay awake anymore, so I
tried a modification of an old dream-scrying spell they have at Koya, for times
with no natural dream-seers . . . didn't really expect it'd work, even after
watching the Princess work."  She heard the faint sound of movement on the bank.
 "Is this Ise?  Are you asleep?"

"It's Ise."  She turned finally and looked up at him.  No bandages covered his
skin, and she smiled a little at the sight.  "I'm awake, though.  Hinoto--"  She
bit her lip at the pain of the betrayal, and then told him what she could. 
Sorata's eyes darkened as she spoke, and then burned.

"I . . . Kamui and I had some suspicions, so I sent a gouhoudouji to watch her,"
he said when she had finished.  "As soon as I'm awake, I'll go find her--and see
what the gouhoudouji saw."  The steel in his voice made Arashi shiver.

"You're wounded, you can't--"

"I've been healing fast.  They're supernatural injuries, and Koya gives me
strength the same way Ise does for you . . . "  He trailed off at the look on
her face.  "'neechan, what . . ?"

Arashi took a hesitant step toward the bank, and then another.  Sorata slid down
to sit on the edge, caught her when she reached him.  His arms around her were
stronger than they had been--only a day ago?  Two days?--when they had made
love.  She let him hold her, angry at herself for needing his reassurance,
unable to resist it.

She moved away again and looked up at him, offered her left palm for his
inspection, but didn't wait for him to make the connection.  "The power of Ise
lies in its Hidden Maiden," she said.

Sorata nodded, looked for a moment as if he expected her to continue, and then
paled.  He took her extended hand as if for balance, unthinkingly caressing the
palm in a way that made her knees weak.  Arashi allowed herself a flicker of
bemusement at her own response.  It--she--wasn't supposed to be that way.

"Did you know?"  His voice was strained, trying to understand, ready to take the
guilt for what had happened.

"I knew."  She gripped his hand.  "Of course I knew.  Shrine maidens are always
supposed to be virgins, even if they never do anything other than sweep the
ashes from the fires.  Of course I had to--"

He slid down into the water with her, breaking her grip and taking her shoulders
in his hands.  "DAMN it, Arashi--"  For one abstracted instant, she was only
aware of the fact that he was so much bigger than she was; even in bed with him,
she hadn't fully realized it.  Their shared power as Seals had negated the
difference in physical strength.  "_Why_ . . . why would you . . . I should've
realized, but--"

"My life for yours," she said.  *And to protect you, to change your destiny if I
could.*  But that was something she had to keep close, couldn't have explained
if she tried, only an instinct that wouldn't be denied.  Logically it made no
sense, to protect him by making herself helpless, and yet--and yet.  *It was
what I had to do, the only thing I could do, and I _don't know why_.*

"Your life," he echoed.  "It's not a trade, 'neechan--"  Arashi filed away the
fact that her name was apparently reserved only for moments of overwhelming
emotion, when he couldn't process anything else.  He stroked her hair awkwardly.
 "It's a gift.  It's not just my destiny--it's all I can give you."

The water was beginning to numb her legs.  "Do you think if you survive you
won't have anything to offer?"  Her voice was sharper than she'd intended.  Some
things didn't change.  "It wasn't payback, Sorata."  She left the honorific off,
carefully shaping her mouth around the sound of his name alone.  "Do you think
I'm worth the best you have, but you're not worth mine?"

"You're not supposed to love me," he said, sounding lost.

"You don't get to decide everything on your own--"  Her voice broke off at a
sudden crumbling sensation in her mind.  She took a harsh breath and shook her
head.  "I think I just forgot something."

*If this were a movie,* she thought, rubbing at her temple, trying to blot out
the surge of fear, *we'd have already decided that what's done is done, and I
would have kissed him, and he'd probably be taking me on the grass right now. 
And we'd have a happy ending.*

"I'll get you out," Sorata said.  "I'll make her let you out, I swear."  Arashi
tried to envision anyone _making_ Hinoto--especially an unknown Hinoto, who
wasn't their ally--do anything.  He hitched himself up onto the bank, and
gathered her against him.  "Turn around."

"What?"

"Just turn."  She obeyed, puzzled, and he tightened his thighs against her hips
to hold her still, rested his head on the top of hers.  She could feel his heart
beating against her spine.  His hands slid lightly down her arms and pressed her
hands into loose fists against each other.  A soft vibration resonated between
his throat and her skull when he spoke.  "I guess you probably don't know how
much you might have forgotten?"

"No."  She started trembling, unable to hide from the fear of losing herself.

"D'you remember meeting Kamui?" Sorata asked, shaping his hands around hers.

"Yes."

"Yuzuriha?"

"Yes."

"What about . . . "  His voice fell into a steady rhythm as he questioned her,
and Arashi nodded again and again; she was mesmerized by the way his hands
moved, by the fact that they were so much larger that he could shape mudras and
still touch or even cup her hands.  Her breathing steadied and synchronized with
his, and she only vaguely registered the fact that he'd stopped asking her
questions and was chanting instead.

She listened while he recited bodhisattva vows, pronouncing them with the care
and intensity of someone who had taken every word deep into himself.  And she
listened when his chants evolved into esoteric cadences that were unintelligible
to the uninitiated, a fluid steadiness that linked her to him, to the replica of
the world they stood in.  His hands never stopped moving, never wavered for an
instant.

Despite the lulling comfort of his voice and the steady rise and fall of his
chest against her back, part of her wanted to pull away.  These were Mysteries
he was showing her, hidden things of his religion which she shouldn't be witness
to.  The sharp intimacy of it made her eyes sting.

"Sorata," she whispered, even though she could feel that he was so deep in
trance that nothing short of a shriek might bring him back to normal
consciousness.  His fingers were leaving trails of light that glowed brighter as
night fell, adding to the hypnotic effect of his practice.  The air was
literally crackling while he pulled raw power out of it.  Arashi had spent too
much time in trance herself to be able to resist what he was doing.  She let her
head fall back against his shoulder and waited for him to finish.

********

She drifted off in his arms, only realizing that she had fallen into sleep--or a
trance of her own, so deep that it was indistinguishable--when she noticed that
the world had silvered into full night, lit only by what little moonlight made
it through the trees.  Sorata had stopped chanting and was simply holding her,
his head bowed to press against hers.  Arashi sighed and moved, her body stiff
from prolonged motionlessness; he helped her up out of the water onto the bank.

She shivered in the cool air, and Sorata peeled his shirt off to towel it
lightly over her.  She found herself staring at him, wanting to touch; he
noticed her attention and hesitated, looking back at her.  Being out of the
water, with what little clothing she was wearing plastered to her skin, made her
feel vulnerable.  It was a foolish feeling, she rebuked herself; ridiculous in
light of what they had already done.  She resisted the urge to cross her arms
over her breasts.

Sorata touched her arm lightly.  "_So_ beautiful, 'neechan," he breathed,
tracing up to her shoulder.  He bent and placed a kiss in the hollow of her
collarbones.  Before she could react, he had stepped away again, not quite
meeting her eyes.  "You should probably get dressed."

"Sorata."  She swallowed the honorific again, trying to suppress the wave of
insecurity.  "What is it?"

He trained his eyes on the waterfall.  "Looking at you makes me want--"  He
broke off and shook his head.  "I don't think it's a bad thing to want you, but
not here.  It's a holy place.  For you."  He looked around slowly.  Arashi
stiffened and began pulling her clothes on.  *For you,* his voice repeated in
her head.  The distinction hurt irrationally.  There were far too many places in
the country where Shinto shrines nestled against Buddhist temples, overlapping
in the minds of the people, for her to embrace such a sharp distinction.

When she finished dressing, Sorata came and peered at her.  The hurt must have
been visible in her eyes.  "What did I say?" he asked.

She was tempted to ignore the question--*_You're_ the emotionally perceptive
one, you figure it out!*--but instead she replied coldly.  "Ise is holy because
it is Ise, Sorata.  Not because of what I think of it."

He stared at her, and it was only a heartbeat before comprehension lit his eyes.
 "That's not what I meant, 'neechan."

"No?"

An arm went around her shoulders; habit and injured pride made it easy not to
melt against him.  Sorata's head tipped back to look at the edge of the moon
peeking through the treetops overhead.  "'How many long years / Has this ancient
shrine-fence stood / Wet with countless dews,'" he recited quietly.  "''And the
Moon of the Gods' Age / Is this selfsame autumn moon.'"  She could hear the
smile in his voice.  "Jubutsu Saka wrote that after making a pilgrimage here. 
He was a priest.  Most of what I know about Ise is from reading."  He looked
around again.  "Is this even a place where outsiders are allowed?  There're
limits on how far inside I'd be able to go for real, right?"

"There are," Arashi admitted.  Traditionally, no monk could pass the
Ioe-no-sugi, the Sacred Tree, and the place where they stood was far beyond it.

"It's nice to have a chance to see it."  The comforting arm around her invited
her closer, and she let herself be drawn to him.  His skin smelled warm, and
felt soft under her cheek.  "I did everything I could think of," he said, his
voice barely audible.  "I invoked every buddha and bodhisattva I know--lots of
our mantras are just their names, did you know?--and asked them to protect you."
 Arashi shivered, remembering the power in his voice.

The dream-Ise was shimmering around them--the image and life of the place were
shaped by Arashi's memories, but it was Sorata's dream, fading along with his
sleep.  She wondered how long it took him to wake up.

Sorata leaned back and stared down at her.  "'neechan, listen," he said.  One
syllable at a time, he shaped a name for her.  "Can you remember that?"  She
repeated it back carefully.  "That's the Sanskrit form of his name," he
explained.  "He's not one of the famous buddhas, but he's the one I feel most
connected to when I contemplate the mandalas.  If you meditate on it, he might
be able to add some protection for you while you're here."

Arashi shook her head, once again feeling the weight of what he was sharing. 
Mysteries from the hands and mouth of a boy-priest whose eyes were burning over
her.  "Sorata--"  *Star of Koya.*

"I'm going to get you out."  There was almost no trace of the lighthearted
Sorata she knew in those eyes.  "Invoke him.  Invoke every kami whose name
you've ever known.  Try to hold your memory together."  A small, horrible smile
twisted his lips, and she felt a sudden urge to kiss him, to erase it.  "I'll
fry her alive if that's what it takes, Arashi."

She did kiss him then, pulling him close, trying to warm the icy rage that made
him someone she barely knew.  "Will you invoke him too?" she asked, rolling the
unfamiliar name around in her mind and memorizing it.

Sorata kissed her forehead lightly, and shook his head.  "Not today.  Today is
for Acala Vidyârâja, who destroys the evils of the world."  Ise was fading,
yawning grayness opening beyond it.  He bent so that his mouth was close to her
ear, and chanted something that sounded nothing like what he had been saying
before.  "Namah samanta-vajrânâm canda mahârosana sphotaya hűm trat hâm mâm." 
Every syllable was carefully and coldly enunciated; Arashi almost asked him to
translate it, but changed her mind.  There wasn't enough time left before he
woke and left her.

Instead, she reached up and touched his face.  "I love you," was all she said. 
She used the most intimate form of the words for the first time in her life, and
was amazed at how easily they came.

She felt his breath hitch as he tightened his arms around her, his body pressing
hard against hers.  "I'll love you 'til I die," he whispered, and for the first
time she heard something in his voice other than calm acceptance of his fate. 
His hands moved restlessly on her back, through her hair.  "I wish it could be a
long time.  I wish we could just leave all of this and just be ourselves,
together, if you wanted it."  Arashi nodded against his shoulder, unable to
speak without betraying the tears that were fighting to escape; if she was
trapped, she didn't want him to remember her crying.  "I wish I could really
tell you what it was like when I saw you."  He laughed softly.  "It wasn't
really a choice--I just knew.  I've never been so sure of anything in my life,
except for things the Stargazer told me.  He would never tell me anything about
you--said I'd know."  His voice caught.  "Oh, gods, I knew."

The desperate strength of his embrace lessened as he began to fade out of the
dreamscape.  Arashi had just enough time to brush her lips against his once
more, to crush him against her in turn.  And he was gone.

The grayness seemed more oppressive than it had before Sorata had come, as if
Hinoto had sensed his presence but been unable to banish him--which was
impossible, Arashi concluded after a moment of thought.  It must have been her
imagination that made the emptiness seem even closer, its claws toying with the
edges of her mind.  She knelt and closed her eyes, and silently recited the
mantra that Sorata had shaped from his personal buddha's name.  And she waited.

********

X (alternate title: X/1999) is the creation of CLAMP, and is licensed in North
America by Pioneer/Geneon (anime) and Viz (manga).  Used without permission or
the intention of making a profit.  Please support the original work!

"The Dead and Dreaming" © 2005-2006 by Ysabet MacFarlane (ba087@chebucto.ns.ca).
 Light beta work by Chris Mitchell.

Comments and criticism welcomed at the above address.

The poem Sorata quotes (written by Jubutsu Saka in the 14th century, as part of
a diary account of his pilgrimage to Ise), can be found in chapter four of
"Religion in the Japanese Experience" (H. Byron Earhart).  Translation by A. L.
Sadler.

The Sanskrit chants (and the Japanese translation) can be found at The Shingon
Buddhist Intl. Institute website (http://www.shingon.org/home.html)).

This story may be reproduced and archived so long as the original text is
preserved and the author's name and contact information remain attached. 
Notifying the author of any such use is an appreciated courtesy.  NO CHANGES OF
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