He could have shed more happy tears. He could have told her a million stories. One was a good place to start.
He told her the story a passing traveler had told him a year ago, about the goldfish that swam from the mouth of a mighty river to its very source and became a dragon. His excessively detailed origami danced across the background of stars as his paper unfolded the tale. The moment when the humble little goldfish suddenly blossomed into a great, long dragon, the many golden papers folded up small inside the tiny fish unrolling into a mighty creature, was breathtaking and delightful, a true demonstration of how very far his skills had come in the years since she'd last heard one of his stories.
Kubo was so happy to tell her one, particularly one so pleasant and peaceful and uplifting. The children of his village loved the goldfish who became a dragon, and so he'd gotten to hone the tale over countless retellings. He was happy to tell her a story, knowing that from her perspective, she had only a little while before been despairing and afraid at the end of her life, with no way to know he'd live and be safe.
The dragon tale was a good one. A "look how far I've come" story, a "things became happy and beautiful again" story.
All the while through he glanced at her, waiting for the moment when her spirit would fade and he'd have to guide her wordlessly back to the safety of his quarters.
As her eyes stayed bright and her face attentive, his wonder only grew. At the close of the story, he'd settled on his third question.
"Mother . . . I never did ask you."
He'd started. Then father had interrupted, and Beetle's question had distracted him from it.
"Why didn't you tell me you were you? When you were Monkey?"
The question had puzzled him for years. He knew there had to be a reason. He just couldn't figure out what it was.
no subject
He told her the story a passing traveler had told him a year ago, about the goldfish that swam from the mouth of a mighty river to its very source and became a dragon. His excessively detailed origami danced across the background of stars as his paper unfolded the tale. The moment when the humble little goldfish suddenly blossomed into a great, long dragon, the many golden papers folded up small inside the tiny fish unrolling into a mighty creature, was breathtaking and delightful, a true demonstration of how very far his skills had come in the years since she'd last heard one of his stories.
Kubo was so happy to tell her one, particularly one so pleasant and peaceful and uplifting. The children of his village loved the goldfish who became a dragon, and so he'd gotten to hone the tale over countless retellings. He was happy to tell her a story, knowing that from her perspective, she had only a little while before been despairing and afraid at the end of her life, with no way to know he'd live and be safe.
The dragon tale was a good one. A "look how far I've come" story, a "things became happy and beautiful again" story.
All the while through he glanced at her, waiting for the moment when her spirit would fade and he'd have to guide her wordlessly back to the safety of his quarters.
As her eyes stayed bright and her face attentive, his wonder only grew. At the close of the story, he'd settled on his third question.
"Mother . . . I never did ask you."
He'd started. Then father had interrupted, and Beetle's question had distracted him from it.
"Why didn't you tell me you were you? When you were Monkey?"
The question had puzzled him for years. He knew there had to be a reason. He just couldn't figure out what it was.