Chapter Text
Rui Kamishiro was a great playwright. Or at least he thought so. He was one of the few people who weren't rich, but were literate; and he had a huge imagination. He should be looking for a wife or something, and get a job, but when he was 16 he left the house and began traveling, living basically as a drifter, crossing lands and writing. He mastered writing with tiny letters, so he could save up on paper.
He wrote his plays in a way they could be both played and read. He even got a troupe to perform with his script once, but no one wanted to watch the show, so they said they won't work with him anymore. Rui continued his journey, then. Once he stopped in a small kingdom. The prince was pretty handsome, and Rui couldn't lie but admit to himself he got a small crush. Of course, he was fully aware he shouldn't even be dreaming of this; but who can stop a playwright's creativity.
Rui would write about anything. Comedies or tragedies, realistic or fantasy, romance or war. Or combine everything in a way no one thought of before. That's probably why all he met was rejection.
Not that this could stop him. He'd memorize the shorter of his stories and perform them alone to villagers. For that, he learnt how to manipulate his voice to better express the characters.
He had to run away from one of the villages after its inhabitants accused him of being a witch. How else would he be able to switch voices, if not by using magic?!
That's how the young author lived. Not too rich, not too poor. He'd either sleep under the sky, or sometimes someone would allow him to spend a night or two at their place. In exchange, he'd help with things like babysitting. The kids liked to listen to his stories, though.
Sometimes he would get temporary jobs at restaurants or inns, but never stayed in one for too long. His record was a month. He just felt the need to travel, to discover the world, hoping someone would understand him.
He's been a travelling writer for about 6 years and was utterly surprised when he realised he managed to return to his home town. Feeling nostalgic, he decided to stay there for a bit longer. Unfortunately, he couldn't find his parents, and when asked, he heard that his mother died 5 years earlier, and father moved away after that. Well, the lifespan isn't too long in those times. If someone was 40, he was considered old. Rui's mother dying at 33 wasn't anything unusual, rather impressive, actually.
More unusual was Rui somehow still being alive at the age of 22, given his mostly careless lifestyle. It's really surprising he didn't die from any infection or disease. Because in the times of poor medicine, you cough today, tomorrow you lay in bed, on the third day you're in the grave.
Fate wasn't so fortunate for the writer, though. Rui managed to live for so long, was gifted with a talent, yet no one ever listened to his stories the way he wanted to. And it seemed no one ever would. Especially since the author could feel he doesn't have much time left, as one day he got a cough attack which spilled a bit of blood on his paper.
No treatment for tuberculosis was known at that time, and definitely no that would be accessible to Rui. That's why he just accepted his fate and used as much of the time he had left to write and write. In the two weeks that turned out to be his last, he started to write a journal on his worsening state. How he felt his clothes getting more loose on him, how he would notice himself getting paler. He probably won't have a funeral, as he's not rich, known nor with family, and his body will probably rot somewhere in the forest. Heh. Passing away under the trees wouldn't be so bad.
With a tiny bit of hope, Rui starts to write less new works, and more about himself. He even manages to sketch a few portraits of himself. Not ideal, he's not this type of artist, and it's hard to draw yourself when you have a high fever and the only reflection available is the water in a forest stream. But there is something. Maybe someone will find his notebooks and read them, and appreciate them.
Rui Kamishiro was a great playwright . Or at least he thought so. But he never got the chance to be recognised for his works. Right now, he's laying on the grass somewhere. He doesn't care where. He's hugging his bag, where he carries the work of his past few years. The sun is setting. Rui doesn't want to close his eyes. He knows he'll never open them again. But eventually, it's completely dark around. The moon has risen, the stars illuminate the sky. The air is warm. Truly a beautiful night to pass away in. Rui takes his final breath and closes his eyes. The forest is quiet. And so is he.