It really doesn't work like that, you know.
 They think it's a magic wand.  Wave it at anything and make it better.  But it doesn't work that way.  There is no magic cure-all.  If you crack the pot, then I can try to seal it together again.  But if you smash the pot to the ground, there's nothing that can be done.  Sometimes things are broken so badly nothing can fix them.
 That isn't a fair thing to say... they don't all think of it that way.  Chichiri doesn't.  He knows how easy it is to break something beyond repair.  He's the only one in the group older than I am, and perhaps he knows it as well as I do.  I can't imagine anyone knowing better.   Even I thought for a while that it could fix everything.  You imagine that you're invulnerable when you're younger.  I can see that invulnerability in Tasuki's recklessness, in Miaka's hope.  They can't imagine being broken.  They think that, while others may fall to the ground, they will be forever sturdy and safe.
 It doesn't work like that, though.
 The first time, by water.  A flood washed half my village away, and with it my home.  And my family.  They only found the body of my mother washed upstream, and she was barely recognizable.  Her face was pale blue, and her eyes bulged.  It was foolish of me to even try, but I couldn't help it.  My power had just emerged a few months before, and I had never tried it on the dead.  Perhaps this gift the gods gave me would prove a true miracle.  Perhaps it could bring back that which was lost entirely.
 Of course it didn't work like that.
 Seeing your mother dead is something that never leaves you, I think.  Even as a man, I still remember that I was not always the largest figure in the village and that sometimes when I was smaller I would stretch my arms up and she would lift me, and carry me for a little while.  She was a very kind woman, and she was the one who taught me to be kind to those who are smaller.  Every stray cat or dog in the village came to our house for dinner.  My father said it was a waste of money during hard times.  Nonetheless, she kept the tradition as long as she lived.
 The second time was by earth.  A little girl somehow found her way into a cave, and the earth swallowed her entirely.  By the time they dug her out and I reached the scene, it was too late.  Her mouth and nose were filled with dirt, and her eyes were open like my mother's.  Her own mother screamed at me to save her, but I could only look at her sadly.  After screaming at me a few minutes, she fell to the ground, cradling the child, sobbing weakly.  I would have given anything then to save the child.   Or to heal the mother's wounded heart, I would have gladly handed over my entire right hand, symbol and all.  I would have given anything.
 But that isn't how it works either.
 Even if you're willing to give anything, that doesn't meant that your all will be enough.  Sometimes it doesn't matter what you offer the gods, they have taken what it was they wanted and they don't care to trade.  It's a harsh lesson, and one that I have seen taught far too many times to too many people.  But people learn to rebuild, somehow.  Her second daughter is strong and healthy, as far as I know, although she isn't allowed to play out alone in the woods.
 The third time was by fire.  A small fire broke out, burning one home entirely before dirt and water stopped it.   The father was dead already, and a woman and her two children were dying.  I'd learned long before of my limitations in healing, and there was a decision to be made.  A woman, a daughter, a son.... I finally chose to heal the son first, almost arbitrarily.  The thought crossed my mind then, a strange thought, that perhaps that limit wasn't total.  Perhaps if I gave everything, if I stretched past those limits, I could give this child a mother... If I gave my chi entirely...
 But it didn't turn out that way.
 I looked up and saw a face tinged with worry,  one face in the whole crowd,  a woman with pale hair and delicate skin and frightened eyes.  Then I knew that I could not give my life to this child's family, because I had already given my fate to another, and she did not want to lose me.  The selfishness of my decision should have ached in me, but instead I accepted it that I could not die yet.  It wasn't because I was afraid of death... ever since my family died, I had known of the inevitability of death.  It was the thought of her crying and sad that stopped me.  The boy was adopted by an aunt and uncle, and taken to a nearby village.
 The fourth time was by air.  An illness, taken in by the lungs, racking the body with fever and pain until death finally released the victim.  I did not arrive in time.  I hated myself for it then, but now I realize that with the strongest love I still cannot outrun the air.
 Because it doesn't work that way.
 Shouka was the most beautiful thing I have ever known.  If asked, I could never name one thing in particular that made her any better than any other woman in the village.  She was not beautiful because she was extremely well-shaped in face or body,  nor because of clothing or hair styling.  If I was forced to say,  I suppose her eyes were what was most beautiful about her.  But her whole form exuded beauty and delicacy, and the thought that something so graceful and ethereal could love something as plain and mundane as myself was almost impossible to believe.  Things that are frail and beautiful have short lives, though... butterflies appear only in summer and roses wilt quickly.  I should have imagined some illness would take her; she was too lovely for a loud disaster.  The gods took her quietly and with whispers, because even they were ashamed to destroy something so beautiful.
 It's strange, the number four.  Four elements, four directions, four gods.  The first was Nuriko, who in another life and a different time could have been another Shouka, but Nuriko had a strange delicate strength that surpassed his shichiseishi gift.  The second was Chiriko, who was broken too soon and too slowly, crumbling into nothing before my eyes.  The fourth was Hotohori, the emperor,  who was beautiful like Nuriko but without the strength, running eagerly to his death to scream one last time in a vain attempt to gain the attention of his love.
 I was the third.
 Chichiri surprised me then.  I had expected screaming denials from Tasuki, or Miaka, or even Tamahome.  But I thought that Chichiri should understand that when my time came I had to go.  He was right... we were the same.  And it isn't anyone's fault.  It isn't even the fault of the Seiryuu shichiseishi, I imagine... why would they decide to march to their deaths, if they understood what they were doing?  Perhaps it isn't even the fault of the gods themselves.  Perhaps it is simply fate.  I was glad to have my fate... unlike Nuriko or Chiriko or even Hotohori-sama, I was able to save some others.  I didn't die fighting, I died to heal.  I thought it was kind of the gods to bless me in that manner, because fighting has never suited me.  I'm too large for it.  When I was growing up, I learned to be careful when playing with the other children because I could hurt them.  I never outgrew that... the same way I never outgrew my mother's fondness for animals.  When this whole play is over, I'll be glad to be with her and Shouka again.
 I had never seen Chichiri cry before.  Perhaps he doesn't know it as well as I do after all.  He'll take good care of Tama-neko, and I'm glad.  He's angry at me for smashing myself to the ground, but I didn't.  I simply let myself go.
 Sometimes it works out that way.