Tears and Rain
By Gabi-hime
Chapter 5
Blood on the Tongue: The Choices We Make
The chill of the sound froze him instantly, shoving him gracelessly back into the role he filled so neatly. As a killer he had been nothing if not . . . precise. Now, the sharpness of the sound reverberated in his ears, tensing him, eating him from the inside out. It was as if the sound itself were the flat of the blade being scraped down the small of his back. It was as a splash of cold water is to a sleeper, but it was not necessarily an unwelcome splash. He rolled into the sound smoothly, seamlessly and shook off whatever gentle peace might have occupied his thoughts scant moments before. Now he was silent, animal, hunter, hunting those that he assumed were hunting him, still as a lingering shadow in the darkness next to the far wall, a slight hollow in the well warmed straw the only sign to mark his passing.
Suddenly the shadows of his two supposed hunters were figured large against the far wall. They were silhouetted by the moonlight, struck out in sharp relief. One was tall and lanky, the other small and half-twisted, weight shifted to all one side. He favored his left foot and wore a sword at an ill angle on his right. The other man was holding a katana, sheath and all, quite awkwardly in his left hand. These men were not assassins. For a moment he quite wondered if they were perhaps there by mistake. Only a fool would send ill-tempered vagabonds after Seta Soujiro, even while he lacked overarching support as from a mentor like Shishio. He almost had a desire to openly confront them and ask their business. Perhaps they were just lost and looking for a mark elsewhere.
But then the short one moved without a word and drew sharp-soft from his scabbard and struck the hollow in the straw where Soujiro had been less than a second before. The light in the interior of the barn was dim, and as such the intruder did not realize that he had struck nothing but straw for a full two seconds. By that time, Soujiro had accomplished two things.
First: he had come to the conclusion that there were still fools in the world.
Second: he had moved with the swiftness and grace of a sylph until he now stood directly behind the lanky assailant.
The twisted man, suddenly realizing that he had not struck any sort of killing blow at all (except perhaps, to a bit of chaff) grunted suddenly and loudly as if to call attention to the fact that his sword was now embedded to the hilt in straw. The taller man cursed loudly and with a marked Kyoto accent. Interesting. That would bear investigation.
Soujiro was about to further his investigation when, suddenly roused by all the commotion created by their less than elegant stalkers, Kuri started straight up from the nest she'd made in the hay and he was suddenly reminded that he had more than one obligation in this affair.
She looked witless, hair mussed and crowned with both straw and cherry blossoms, eyes wide and mouth open in a voiceless scream as she realized that the man standing almost over her was holding a naked sword which glimmered dully in the filtering moonlight.
Soujiro moved without thought, throwing the lanky man off balance with a light shove, and transposing himself between her and the sword without any complex deliberations. It was what he had to do. It was the only thing to do. He drew, flowing with his natural forward momentum, and his katana caught the shorter blade halfway up, notching the blade and throwing it off with a bracing protest.
The ringing of the metal shook Kuri into action, and she almost fell over herself scuttling backwards. She hit the piecemeal wall before she'd managed to backpedal any reasonable distance, and shied up against it, trying to make sense of the situation. Soujiro, her Soujiro, was standing with his sword drawn, having just thrown off the blade of another man, one who'd apparently been ready to strike her dead as she slept. There was another man in the straw, now scrabbling to his feet, and he too had a drawn sword. There were more naked blades in this small enclosed space than she had ever seen in the entirety of her life, and more danger bound up in the men that carried them than any she had every experienced. This she realized all in the breadth of a painful moment before drawing in her breath sharply, the force of her realization strong enough to overrule her survival instinct that bid her be silent and small and hope that they took no notice of her.
Her soft little cry drew the attention of both the strange men, their heads inclining slightly in her direction. Soujiro stood calm and assured of himself in the middle of it all, the darkness obscuring his face, keeping his thoughts from her, his soft, sweet voice the only measure of comfort she was allowed.
“Run.”
At first she wasn't sure that the command was directed at her. It might as easily have been a threat, a challenge issued to the two men. She remained frozen, eyes wide and near sightless, shocked into stillness. There was nothing on heaven nor earth that could have induced her to move.
“Now.”
Except the measured tremor that accompanied the sharpness of his command. She'd never heard his voice tremble so, as if it were on the verge of a nervous shriek . . . or perhaps a girlish giggle and this sudden trace betrayal of emotion was enough to spur her scrambling forward, on her hands and knees at first, through the straw and out into the standing maw of darkness.
There was desperation. Desperation in the tremor. Desperation and not a bland delight. Desperation from Soujiro. Had they killed him? Had they killed him already? Were they coming for her? Was he dead? If there hadn't been desperation, then why had he told her to run? She was running so hard, legs pumping against the uneven ground, running without direction, without guidance, running like a hare before hounds. Was he dead? Had they killed him? Were they coming? What would they do to her? Why? Why? Why? What was happening? Were they coming? Were they coming? They were coming, she could hear them behind her, the bad men. What would they do to her, when they caught her, rabbit run down by dogs? What would they do to her? What would . . . what would . . .
She threw on an extra burst of speed, desperate to escape, even as her heart hammered fit to burst. Running . . . running . . . They were coming, right behind her and she couldn't get away, had nowhere to run, no hole to dart down, and she stumbled over the uneven, rocky ground, falling face first into the grass and scrabbling desperately for purchase, raking hands raw against rock in a blind attempt to right herself, to get away, to run, god save her, if only she could run . . .
And then they were upon her.
The sprung trap was smooth: firm arms coming around her from behind and hauling her up, almost gently, with a rough-soft familiarity that she fought, struggling and twisting against them as hard as she could, as if they were a wire around her neck, a jaw trap on her leg, but to no avail. The arms held her silently and without apology and she soon fought her way into emotional exhaustion. Let it come, then. Death wasn't so terrible, if it was only death and if it wasn't . . . well she had expected no better a scant week ago. At least he'd given her a week to herself, spared her a week of his company. It was more than enough, and she was tired of running, tired of fighting against the unmoving, unemotional grip. She slumped still and let out a soft, desperate sob, biting it back the best she could, knowing that a dead animal is much less interesting to a fox than a live one. Maybe it would be fast . . .
“You covered more ground than I thought you would in five minutes,” came the slightly distracted voice, soft with wonder and amusement.
Upon hearing his voice alive and quite well, she truly slumped and her legs gave out from under her, but he was quick to shift his weight under her. As he did, he turned her easily to face him and he was rewarded by her burying her face against his chest as she sobbed desperately, clinging to him as if he were the only thing steady she had to support herself against (which of course, he was).
After a long while in the moonlight, the shaking, coughing sobs began to subside, but she kept against him, her grip on his clothes tight, the creeping, intense fear still there. She was lost, so lost, and had no idea what to think or what to say so she remained silent, suddenly very shy.
Absently, he brought his free hand up to stroke her hair, although whether to comfort her or comfort himself, he could not say. As his arm brushed hers, something warm and sticky transferred itself and she scented blood clearly in the air. She shied from the smell, as any terrified animal will, but then she caught sight of the fresh bloodstain on his sleeve and began to stammer incoherently.
He followed her gaze thoughtfully and then guessed the source of her distress, “It's all right,” he soothed, leaning close, nose lightly brushing against the bottom of her ear, even as his voice came breathy against it, “It's not mine. Next time, I'll try not to be so messy, since it frightens you.”
Kuri's eyes dilated from distress and she pulled hard against him, leaning as far out of his grip as he would allow even as she finally managed to form the half sentence, half whisper she'd been trying to get her mouth around for some moments, “ . . . killed them.”
He froze against her as if suddenly coming to a realization and then softly answered, “Yes.”
“Get away,” she cried so pitifully, straining limply against his grip that he almost let her loose, “Killed them . . . killed them. You killed them,” her sob was a broken, hurt thing.
Why now? Why had his hand been forced today, of all days, after he'd finally managed to begin to understand the nature of his life, after he'd finally begun to accept that he enjoyed her company and that doing so did not contradict the precepts of his journey. He had now alienated the only friend he had and the little boy inside him wept over it bitterly.
“I had to kill them,” he began softly, cupping her chin with his free hand so that perhaps she would look at him as he spoke, “They would've killed you, if I hadn't.
She didn't fight the guiding hand, and after a moment had gathered enough courage to look him full in the face, although she was still terrified at what she might find there: something alien and predatory, some horrible doppelganger who'd come to take the place of her blessedly bland and pleasant Soujiro.
She found no monster in his face, only a passing sort of sorrow and unspent tears.
“Ha-have you done it before?” she felt so tiny in his arms, although she knew that he was scarcely any bigger than she was.
He searched her eyes before responding softly, almost as an afterthought, “Yes.”
She brought her hands up to her face, covering her eyes as if to blind herself from what had happened, as if she could simply erase it and they could go back to living the way they had before, he as a boy and she has his companion. Now he was outlined in mystery and danger, an almost supernatural force. God, she'd been treating him as an equal!
“Soujiro-kun,” she started awkwardly, “No, Soujiro-san; Seta-san, I'm sorry, you must forgive me. I don't, I don't know what to call you now, sir.”
His voice was gentle and smooth as silk as he gently pulled her hands away from her face to look at her, “Soujiro-kun. Call me Soujiro-kun.”
“But . . .” she struggled against herself, trying to regain control, but then he hushed her again absently.
“I like it,” he murmured almost into her hair, and it was as if he considered the discussion closed.
She leaned against him, seeking something: comfort, stability, safety; something desperately. It was unclear whether she found it, but after a while, she slowly began to relax against him.
After some time, he felt it safe to address her again and did so quietly, dreading her response, “Kuri-san?”
“Yes?” her voice was small in the dark.
“Are you still coming with me?” he asked, and did not breath for a beat while the question hung impotent in the air.
Her answer was some seconds coming, as if she herself did not know how to respond. In the end, she realized that she had no choice to make. He was all she had. She laughed nervously, in an attempt to cover the awkward pause, “Of course I am. I told you that if you ever leave me behind, I'll hunt you until the day that I die.”
He laughed softly, something else ill-concealed behind it, “Yes, I'd almost forgotten.”
The silence held for a while longer, but then she pressed it again, seeking answers to questions she did not even know if she had the right to ask, “Why did those men want to . . . why did they try to hurt us?”
Soujiro shook his head and answered, “I don't know, but I believe they were here to deliver a message.”
“What . . . what kind of message?”
He cradled her close to him before answering, “I'm not sure exactly what kind of message, but I do know one thing.”
“What's that?”
He breathed in the familiar scent of her one last time before releasing her to stand on her own.
“We're going to Kyoto.”
To be continued in revised chapter six: Brotherly Love: If Wishes Were Horses, and yes, this marks a renewed interest in the Tears and Rain continuity. You might actually see Raindrops, if you're lucky XD
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