[ Watashi ]

[ Tomodachi ]

[ Saint Seiya ]

[ Clamp ]

[ Fanfiction ]

This fic is a continuation of Night-Painted Hearts, and the latest installment in my chronicles of the Sumeragi clan. This fic can perhaps be read without knowledge of what went on before, but I doubt it. It will use concepts developed in two previous fics of the series, and it will use some of the characters of Night-Painted Hearts. I'd say that the minimum to grasp what's going on in this fic is to be aware of what happened in Night-Painted Hearts.
The series contains the following fics, in chronological order (not the order in which they've been written):

• Erin's Gift
• The Other Side of Twilight
• Night-Painted Hearts (with When Evil Smiles as a prologue)

Fuu-chan.

"Men !"

Yahiko winced imperceptibly as he stepped into the dojo. The cry kept echoing in the vast room, and the sound effect wasn't a pleasant one. Very soon, other calls of "Men !" joined the first and filled the air. Despite himself, he smiled as a feeling of familiarity rose inside him. No matter that years had gone by, still he felt that he belonged in this place. Now, if only Kaoru would be wise enough not to accept students whose voices were undergoing the awkward process of breaking, everything would be just perfect.

Reporting his attention on the room, Yahiko focused on the likely reason for his coming to the Kamiya dojo. Oh he came to visit Kenshin's family often enough, but he usually did so in the evening when Kaoru wasn't teaching. Besides, he was also busy helping out Tsubame at the Akabeko. His eyes quickly scanned the group of students exercising in the middle of the dojo, beyond Kaoru's immobile figure.

Eight.

Well, that wasn't so bad. Yahiko observed their movements as well as the play of light and shade while arms lifted and then came down in rhythm. He watched hands desperately gripping shinai hilts and thought with a sigh that at least three would have painful blisters by the end of the training session. Shoulders would be stiff and backs would ache from the strain of always keeping straight. Of the remaining five, two were obviously experienced. Their swings were smooth and showed a rather good mastery. Still, none of the teenagers could have warranted Kaoru's calling him to this particular training session. Weird. An almost imperceptible draught interrupted the young man's train of thoughts.

Wrong direction.

A small southern breeze had risen right after dawn, but this had come from the west. Reflexively, Yahiko pivoted to face the far corner of the dojo, and all of a sudden he realized there was an odd shadow, darker than the wall's, standing there. A solitary silhouette was repeating katas on its own. Either someone who had just been disciplined by Kaoru for improper behavior, or a student who wasn't yet good enough to join the group. With a sigh, Yahiko stepped toward the stern female teacher. All that was well and good, but it still didn't explain why he had been asked to come here today. Kaoru liked to use him to give a final piece o advice to departing students--usually really good practitioners with a bit too much recklessness or arrogance for their own good. Crushing their ambition or their spirit herself would have been a waste, so she relied on Yahiko to dispense a last, useful lesson.

Not that I mind. With an inward grin, Yahiko acknowledged that he was glad for the excuse to exercise his hard learned Kamiya-Kasshinryû. Besides, technically he was still heir to the style, so it was only fair he helped Kaoru deal with the brighter students she didn't want broken. The hot-headed fools and the truly violent ones, she dealt with herself, and sent them home sniveling with bruises to nurse. Either they mended their ways and came back, or they never dared touch a shinai again, which was as it should be.

"Just why am I here?" Yahiko asked with the faintest trace of annoyance in his voice as he reached Kaoru's side.

"Hush!" she replied at once, her gaze set on the eight people training in front of her. "Ryûnosuke, hold your shoulders correctly! Makoto, your arms!" The young woman's voice cracked in the air and Yahiko smirked when he saw the two boys struggling desperately to correct their mistakes. Kaoru could be a very harsh teacher and taskmaster, but she was good. Oh yes, she was, even if Yahiko would never admit so in front of her.

She was the best.

"The usual," she suddenly whispered, still facing her students with her legs slightly spread and the palms of her hands resting on the hilt of her own shinai. During a few minutes there was silence, a silence only interrupted by the shuffle of bare feet on the dojo's wooden floor and the regular breathing of the students. They were better than Yahiko had first thought, at least they knew how to control their bodies. Eventually, Kaoru lifted the tip of her shinai from the floor and hit the wood in a slow, deliberate motion, signaling the end of the session.

"Good." She nodded, smiling. "That'll be all for today. You can all go, since it's Asano-san's turn to clean up the dojo. Don't forget to sand and oil your shinais properly. If I see a single splinter on anyone's blade, I'll set its owner to do all the chores of the dojo for a full month."

Asano-san?

Yahiko raised an eyebrow in surprise. Even though he didn't care much for politics and the likes, he knew the name. The Asano family had a house here in Tokyo, a very big and luxurious mansion at the western edge of the city, close to the shoreline. They had appeared out of nowhere soon after the Emperor and his administration had moved in from Kyoto. Supposedly, they had played a part in the Meiji Restoration and had managed to end up on the right side of the fence. What could a member of such a rich family be doing in Kaoru's small, unknown dojo?

Yahiko shrugged, giving up on trying to understand the whims of the rich and powerful. It wasn't interesting in the least anyway. As the last student exited the room, Kaoru called, "Bran, you can stop now. Come here, please."

At those words, the shadow in the far corner of the dojo finished its kata and then pivoted toward them.

A bokken.

It was a bokken the student was holding in his left hand. A bokken, not a shinai. Blinking in astonishment, Yahiko berated himself for not having noticed that earlier. He should have been more attentive. If Kaoru realized that he had missed the fact, he'd be in for a lecture. Yahiko could only hope that his body hadn't betrayed the surprise he had felt.

"Sensei."

The student gave Kaoru a deep bow, and Yahiko abruptly found himself staring into a pair of grey eyes. There was nothing striking in the color, it was dull and unremarkable in itself, vaguely reminding Yahiko of the mud in the streets of the hide tanner's quarter after a bad autumn rain. No, there wasn't anything special or beautiful about it, except that it didn't belong with that face. Then, Yahiko remembered the name that Kaoru had called the young man.

Bran.

The sound of that name was alien and weird at best. His attention drawn to the person standing in front of him, Yahiko at last noticed all the details that should have struck him when he had first laid eyes on the shadow training outside of the students' group.

The height, too tall.

The shoulders, just a bit too wide.

The hands.

And the nose, too big for a Japanese face. Not that it didn't fit with the man's face. The student's figure was a rather harmonious one, the proportions were correct, but it was just completely outside of the norm Yahiko knew. True, Saitou and Shinomori Aoshi had been tall, but not like that. Taking in the student's silhouette, the night-blue hakama and the plain beige keikogi tucked under it, the black hair gathered in a small pony tail, Yahiko decided that he couldn't be faulted that much for not having spotted the young man's alienness at once. If Asano Bran had been training with the others, then yes he should have picked up the strangeness of his features immediately. The differences would have been too obvious to miss. But on his own and dissimulated by the dojo's shadows, he had just felt too ordinary for Yahiko to waste an attentive look upon.

"Bran is the reason why I asked you to come here, Yahiko," Kaoru was saying, as if oblivious to his confusion. His train of thoughts cut off by the sound of her voice, he gave her a nod, trying very hard not to stare. "he's leaving for Kyoto at the end of the week to rejoin his father, so he won't be able to continue his training."

"His father?" Yahiko blurted out the question before he could control his tongue. It didn't make sense. After all, the Asano family had established itself here in Tokyo, and--

"O' Sullivan," the student supplied with a lopsided grin, "Gwenaël O' Sullivan. He's one of the chief engineers in charge of coordinating the construction of the Tokyo-Kyoto train line on Kyoto's side."

A bastard.

Unspoken, the harsh word hung between them.

A half-blood, Yahiko realized as he answered the silent challenge of the muddy grey eyes and stared back at Bran steadily. The young man had expected him to flinch or avert his eyes in disgust, that much was clear. Yahiko understood that, just as he understood the hard light in Bran's gaze. The lines of that face were set in a half-contemptuous, half-mocking mask that Yahiko knew, even though his had been a bit different. He had known rejection, he had know abuse from other people. The son of a samurai who had fought on the side of the Bakufu, he had been an outcast since his birth, and he knew how that felt.

"Asano Bran," Kaoru said softly with an emphasis on the last name, "has been a student of this dojo for four years, and he has learned much. He must leave, but I owed it to him to show him the true strength of Kamiya-Kasshinryû. Yahiko," Kaoru turned toward him, "as one who inherited the techniques my father taught, will you show Bran what it means?"

Yes. Nodding, Yahiko stepped beyond Kaoru to stand in front of Asano Bran. Yes, Yahiko knew how it felt to be an outcast, even if he could never truly understand how it felt to be Bran.

How it felt to be a bastard son forced to live in the family of his mother.

How it felt to bear that family's name and that face while walking the streets of Tokyo.

"Are you ready?" he asked the young man with a smile.

Something that might have been uncertainty flashed in those eyes, and then Bran shrugged. "Yes." Then both of them bowed to each other. Behind Yahiko, Kaoru stepped back, the sound of her light steps raising an almost imperceptible echo in the dojo.

"Hajime!" Just as Kaoru's clear voice rang in the air, Yahiko shifted his weight on the right foot and flung himself forward.

White oak met bamboo with a ringing clack, and Yahiko danced aside, smoothly freeing his shinai from Bran's bokken. He was good, Yahiko had realized that at once. Swift and agile despite his size, the other knew how to balance his body and use his weight. Bran seemed to be roughly of the same age as Yahiko, perhaps a year or two younger. Now that their combat had started, the young man's mask had lost its scorn, and the grey eyes were locked on Yahiko, intent. Bran sincerely liked Kenjutsu, that much was obvious. Now that he knew that Yahiko was facing him as he'd have faced any other student, he had shed a part of the walls surrounding him, enough for Yahiko to know that he might have become friends with the weird teenager. Yes, teenager, Yahiko decided as he parried another attack. Bran had to be younger judging by the not-quite-reckless quality of his moves. Perhaps seventeen or eighteen, and it was time someone took him seriously and treated him like an equal.

And defeated him.

Kaoru couldn't do that herself, Yahiko understood this. Not to salvage Bran's pride, but because Kaoru and the Kamiya dojo must have been the adolescent's refuge from the outside world, and that couldn't, mustn't be broken.

So, Yahiko smiled as he watched Bran flinging himself at him, time to show you, I guess.

In a fluid motion, the bokken came up, high above Bran's head.

Not yet.

Step.

Not yet.

Step.

Not yet.

Ever so slightly, Bran's left shoulder shifted in preparation for the attack's final part.

Now.

As the bokken came down, Yahiko lifted up his arms and caught the wooden blade between his crossed wrists, blocking the move without letting go of his own shinai with the Hadome that Kaoru had taught him years ago. "This is the arcane of Kamiya-Kasshinryû," she had told the dumbfounded teenager, "but for it to be effective requires absolute precision and a great speed of action, because you must follow the Hadome defense with the Hawatari attack to defeat your opponent. Failure to place the Hawatari immediately after the Hadome will result in leaving you completely defenseless, at the mercy of your enemy." Yahiko had used the formidable combination against Enishi's henchmen, and it had worked perfectly. Powerful, it was, as powerful as it was demanding.

Bran's grey eyes widened in surprise, and in the same time his body swung backward. It was as if the young man's left foot had slipped over wet wood. In a fraction of a second, he transferred all of his weight to the heel and he fell back.

Bran's hands let go of the bokken.

Yahiko saw all this in a slow motion, just as he was starting to twist his arms in order to throw his opponent to the floor of the dojo. Impossible, was the faint thought that came to him. While he fell, Bran made a sweeping movement of the right leg with the clear intent of tackling Yahiko. Instinct took over, then. Discarding incredulity, Yahiko whirled aside and released his own hold on the bokken. Dimly, he heard the wooden sword hit the floor as he pivoted to face Bran, the tip of his shinai within an inch of the young man's face.

It wasn't what Yahiko had planned. How Bran had known what to do, how he had been able to act on his understanding with such speed, Yahiko didn't know. Had Bran been a seasoned fighter, their positions would have been reversed, and that thought stung.

The grey eyes were almost squinting, locked on the kissaki held right before them. For a few seconds, nobody moved, then Bran clapped the palm of his left hand on the floor. "I think you win," he said with something that might have been laughter in his voice. As Yahiko searched his opponent's face, he realized that, yes, he was indeed laughing.

Bran was happy.

The adolescent smiled, and Yahiko took the shinai to his belt with a self-conscious cough. Then he bent down and held out a hand to help Bran up. The other took it, and as he lifted him up, Yahiko noticed something white on Bran's chest: his keikogi had slipped a bit over the left shoulder, widening the opening at the front.

"Undershirt."

Yahiko's head snapped up at the word. Bran was watching him with that unpleasant smirk of his once again. In an instant, the sincere laughter and happiness had vanished to be replaced with scorn and haughtiness. "Gaijin sweat stinks so bad it's an insult to proper people. I've learnt this the hard way, and now I try to behave and inconvenience my betters as little as I can."

"Ridiculous!" Yahiko waved the words away with the back of his left hand. "Sweat is sweat, and it stinks all right," he concluded with a grin.

For a moment Bran regarded him with curiosity, then he shrugged. "You're the same as Kaoru-sensei, you don't make any sense." Bran stepped beyond Yahiko and went to retrieve his bokken. Once he had securely set it at his side, he straightened and added, turning to face Yahiko once more, "Not that I mind." The quiet words quickly faded into silence, but Yahiko heard what was hidden behind them--words that Bran couldn't voice aloud:

I'm sorry.

"Thank you for the sparring match," he told Bran with a deep bow to cover for the compassion that had come to his heart and must be visible on his face. Pity was the last thing that Bran needed. What he needed was to realize there were people who'd accept him in their world and respect his strength, people stronger than he, who had nothing to gain by stooping so low as to befriend an alien, and thus who would do so sincerely.

"I'm the one who should thank you for coming, Miyoujin-san, and for showing me that move. It was truly spectacular." The young man bowed, deeper than Yahiko as was proper, and then bowed to Kaoru as well.

As Bran set to work cleaning up the dojo, Yahiko went back to Kaoru's side and sighed. "Go ahead and say it, why don't you? I'd rather have it done."

Kaoru smiled, a smile that didn't touch her eyes, and told him, "The speed in your sequence was inadequate. There was an opening in the split second between Hadome and Hawatari, and as I warned you he would, your opponent used it to his advantage."

Yahiko's shoulders slumped as he heard the rebuke that he knew he deserved. Being Kenji's mother and raising the boy with Kenshin hadn't softened her when it came to kenjutsu training and Kamiya-Kasshinryû. "Still," he said in a futile attempt to defend himself, "I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw him let go of the bokken and swing backward, falling in order to get my feet from under me. That was one damn shrewd move, don't you think?"

"Shrewd...." Kaoru's whisper trailed off into silence, and Yahiko suddenly realized that she was still focused on Bran, who was kneeling at the other end of the dojo, cleaning up the floor. "Sneaky, rather," she eventually countered with a shake of her head. "Bran is good," she sighed. "He's been training for four years, always coming first and leaving last, as if this was the only place in the whole world where he could truly exist."

"Maybe he believes it is."

"That's why I called you." Kaoru smiled, a bit sadly. "To show him that the whole world isn't prejudiced against him." That was of course the truth, but they were numerous, the people who'd reject a half-blood out of hand. Torn between two heritages so different, how could one find one's identity? "It wouldn't do to have his heart hardened against everything and everyone. Even if it's good to be able to protect oneself, Bran is ruthless enough as it is. Thank you for showing him everything isn't as set as he believes it is, Yahiko."

"Any time." Yahiko shrugged. "I kind of liked him anyway. It's a pity he's leaving."

Ruthless. Yes, Yahiko could see why Kaoru described Bran so. The adolescent had to be, he supposed, to bear with his environment.

"Let's go!" Kaoru said suddenly with a smile as bright as a summer dawn. "Kenshin knows you're here, and I'm sure he's waiting for us." As they both turned toward the dojo's exit, Kaoru froze and looked back above her shoulder.

"Bran!" she called. "Once you're done, join us on the main terrace. Kenji made me promise you'd come and say a proper good-bye. I think that boy will again try to get rid of his share of cake by making you eat it, but never mind," the master of Kamiya-Kasshinryû finished dramatically.

"Yes, Kaoru-sensei," came the most unenthusiastic reply from Bran. Yahiko's brows went up in surprise as he heard a loud sigh coming from the student, and beside him Kaoru chuckled softly.

"Liar." She shook her head, trying hard not to laugh while she watched Yahiko's dumbfounded face. "A liar and a thief, yes," she grinned, "I think that describes Bran best when the mood comes upon him. Let's go, he'll join us soon enough. He just loves helping my son to disobey."

With that, Yahiko followed Kamiya Kaoru out of the dojo.

The dancer held out her arm toward Sumeragi Yuta in a graceful motion.

She was beautiful, but the adjective didn't do her justice. Everything in the Daimonji-ya was beautiful and perfect. That was the way it was supposed to be, the way of Yoshiwara's great houses. Sumeragi Yuta barely nodded when he was carefully poured a cup of sake, focused as he was on the dancer and on the haunting melody coming from the shamisen played by a musician next to her. He was a regular customer of the place, he came to what was the greatest house of geisha in the Floating World at least twice a week, more if he could afford the time--if his duties as a liaison between the clan and the Emperor's palace allowed.

This house soothed his nerves, always raw after a session with the old imperial administration officials. "You're a good shougi player, Yuta," Tokio had once told him, dismissing his concerns and the arguments he had opposed her with a careless flip of the hand. It was as if she didn't realize how difficult it was, how taxing it could be to deal with the palace officials without losing one's mind.

Or losing one's soul.

His eyes locked on the woman dancing in the dim lights of the room, Sumeragi Yuta smiled in bitterness as much as in exhaustion. He had first come here around four years ago, shortly after his sister had started a bloody feud between herself and the Sakurazukamori--after Tokio had decided in a rash move to step aside and abandon the Sumeragi clan. Oh he knew why she had done so, deep inside his heart he was grateful that she had had the strength and courage to make herself a target, thus ensuring the clan's safety. She had left Kyoto with that wolf of a husband of hers, but she hadn't officially relinquished leadership. The clan had been headless, directionless ever since. Yuta of course understood the reason for that as well.

Nobody would dream of contesting Shunsuke's status as your heir, ane-ue, he shook his head sadly.

But she hadn't trusted her own brother. Well, perhaps he had given her reasons to think like that. Fools, the both of us. In the aftermath of her departure, Yuta had left Kyoto for Tokyo, where the emperor resided, and for years he had done all he could to keep the old communication channels open and to preserve the Sumeragi clan's status. Tokio hadn't cared about that, Tokio hadn't grasped the importance of retaining their proper place in the mundane world. Always, she had been focused on the spiritual side of things, on the balance it was their family's sacred duty to protect.

That, and of course there was the matter of the grudge she kept against any who had participated in the Meiji Restoration, be it on one side or the other.

The fact that she had married Saitou Hajime, ex-captain of the third Shinsengumi troops was an extremely amusing breach in her principles. He couldn't fault her for that, no matter how he had enjoyed reminding the arrogant wolf that his was the smaller status. They loved each other truly, those two, and when he wasn't busy attempting to mend the harm a hasty decision of his sister's had made, Yuta couldn't begrudge Tokio that piece of happiness. The spirits knew she had paid for it, and paid dearly.

All this doesn't help the current situation, he thought dryly. Reminiscing was a stupid waste of time. Reaching out for his cup of sake, Yuta admitted to himself that Tokio was gone and that she had made the right decision. In the privacy of his heart, he was angry that she hadn't come to him to find another solution--in the privacy of his heart , he was ashamed at his relief to know she wasn't coming back.

All of a sudden, the music stopped, and the dancer bowed to him in a willowy movement.

Eyes blacker than a moonless night met his.

For a few seconds, he sustained the eerily dark gaze, then she straightened, smiling. Yuta was the only customer--the only person--who ever stared directly in the dancer's eyes. She had told him so once, and she had laughed. It amused her that he could hold her eyes with his, he knew. She frightened customers and servants at times, he knew this also. Four years ago, on the night when he had first entered the Daimonji-ya, he had just been after a place so crowded that he'd be ignored. He had been after a place where his existence wouldn't be noticed and where he'd be able to give his mind a rest. Urgent inquiries had come from the imperial palace, demanding explanations and details pertaining to the Sumeragi clan's involvement in dirty political business. As luck would have it, Tokio had sided with those sustaining the emperor's wishes, which meant that Yuta had been able to preserve the clan's interests in the palace.

"We're not high-ranking nobles currying favor."

Yuta allowed himself an unpleasant grin as that pronouncement of Tokio's popped up in his mind. No, ane-ue, we aren't, but we have a place, and we must hold it. With a weary shake of his head, he waved for the dancer to sit by his side if she so willed, his mind still lost in memories. There was the slightest sound as the woman knelt on Yuta's left, and a faint scent of jasmine enveloped him.

The same as on that day.

Somehow, Yuta had managed to avoid being led to a room and to avoid being attended by musicians or geisha on the night when he had walked into the Daimonji-ya for the first time. Keeping to the shadows, he had gone to the darkest spot in the great house, where the echoes of shamisen and crystalline voices faded--to a spot where it felt as though he had stepped outside of the world.

Into the dark.

When he had opened a sliding panel, he had found her, huddled in a corner, her shoulders shaking. Weeping in absolute silence.

"What are you doing here?" she hisses as she whirls around, her body so tense that it hurts. There are no tremors in her voice, no trace of sobs or tears. There cannot be. Her right hand has reached inside the rich kimono she's wearing, and her fingers are gripping the small dagger's hilt tight. If the intruder makes a move toward her, he'll die.

Die.

Inwardly, she shivers as the word echoes. Far away, hidden from the mundane world, a myriad of leaves rustle, as if they had been disturbed by a sudden gust of wind. Perhaps it's the great tree's way of expressing its distress.

Perhaps it's the great tree's way of crying.

Sakura.

The word enfolds her and ice encloses the universe. That word locks her heart and soul away. That word shapes her, defines her, all that she is and will ever be. There is neither choice nor chance. She's a prisoner, for eternity.

All that because of Sumeragi Tokio.

Fury and pain fill her at the evocation of that name. True, she made a mistake on the day she thought she could paint the Sumeragi woman's heart as easily as one of her other preys', but the Sumeragi had no right--

No right!

"I'm sorry, I thought there wasn't anybody here." Brought back to the reality of her and now, the woman looks into the stranger's dark brown eyes. "Would you mind if I stayed here for a while? I'll be very quiet, and--"

"I told them I didn't want any customers tonight," she cuts him off curtly. What are those fools thinking, going against her given instructions so carelessly? Do they want blood to be painted all over their renowned house's walls?

Ruffle of fabric.

All of a sudden, she realizes that the man has just sat down beside the door, inside her room. Slowly, she unsheathes the dagger.

"I didn't come here as a customer."

No, of course not. He's come here as a prey with an unhealthy wish to die. Fool.

"I came here so I could hide and rest, like you."

The stranger's gaze is locked on her. Those eyes are looking straight at her, without fear. He sees death, she knows he can see the severing of his life in her eyes, and yet he just sits there, smiling. There's exhaustion and grief in his stance.

Anger.

Regrets.

Guilt.

Slowly, he tilts his head backward and rests it against the sliding panel, closing his eyes.

Trusting.

Listening to the sound of his regular breathing, the woman who was once a little girl named Keiko wonders if the man is mad. There's a faint aura around him, a sign of his awareness of the spiritual. He's felt the threat on him, she's sure he has--and yet it's as if didn't care.

As if he was too tired to care.

Now he's put himself at her mercy, depending upon her forbearance.

Damn the arrogant fool!

Who does he think he is?

Time goes by, an endless thread of ebony beads told by the withered hand of an insane ghost. In the distance, the woman can hear the haunting melody of shamisen and the ethereal echoes of human voices. The world is far away. Here she stands with a stranger at the threshold of the night. It's a frightening word, night. Many people understand this on instinct and are wise enough to stay indoors, close to the light of a lantern or next to a fire. Normal people would have shied away from her lifeless corner in the Daimonji-ya, knowing better than to challenge the darkness...but not this man.

Slowly, very slowly, the woman glides toward the intruder, puzzled despite herself. His presence has disturbed the black flood of memories and unwanted emotions that plagued her until now. The great Sakura's presence has withdrawn somewhat, for a reason she cannot name. It looks as though the man has fallen asleep for real. His body paints an almost imperceptible shadow on the sliding panel. He feels real, solid. As she observes him, the scent of magic comes to her nostrils. He's not doing anything, though. It just comes from him, it leaks away from him like blood.

A wound.

Who is this man?

Why has he come?

Perhaps it would be wiser to kill him and make his body vanish. Perhaps he's really seen her, perhaps.... As those thoughts collide inside her mind, her right hand crawls back inside her kimono to reach for the dagger.

Blue.

She freezes. His aura has shifted somewhat. The blue of exhaustion and despair shimmers around him. As she focuses on him, she realizes that the dark brown eyes are open.

Watching her.

There's that knowing light in his gaze again. In a slow, deliberate movement, he turns aside and heaves out a sigh. His neck is a pale stain in the night.

An invitation to kill.

The woman's heart skips a beat and she blinks, swallowing hard. The hand inside her kimono is shaking--she is shaking with a sudden turmoil of emotions she cannot name.

"Lost, the both of us," he tells her suddenly. His eyes are still set on hers, true and unafraid. "Will you let me stay?" he asks softly, holding out his hand to her.

Fighting the reflex to recoil, she considers his question in silence. It doesn't make sense, and in the same time it does. Killing him would be the smart thing to do, most likely. He's a danger to her, even if it does feel like he has no strong ability to use his talent. Magic keeps leaking out of him and he does nothing to stop it.

A failure, probably.

Yes, a failure like her.

Without knowing why, she reaches out and allows her fingertips to touch the man's outstretched hand.

"Sumeragi!"

Her hand closes upon his, and abruptly she realizes that she's voiced her surprise aloud. The soft hiss echoes in the room and then fades.

"Yes," he nods, a lopsided grin twisting his face. Again, tremors shake her body as she stares at their intertwined hands. "Will you let me stay?"

It all hangs upon her answer. Life or death, light or dark.

Sanity or madness.

From very far away, she can feel herself gripping the man's hand tight, as if she was holding on for dear life.

An anchor.

"Your name?" she hears herself asking.

"Yuta. Sumeragi Yuta." He's smiling in the darkness.

A sad, beautiful smile.

She bows her head in acceptance, and slowly arms come around her, bringing her close to Sumeragi Yuta. She allows this because the embrace is gentle, careful even.

He's warm.

His heartbeats are steady.

The blue of his aura shifts toward green, as if her presence was enough to heal a part of the pain. It's not logical. There's something mad, chaotic in the turn of events. The woman knows this, just as she knows that she could undo it all. The choice is hers, but in a whim she decides to let this strange fate have its way. With the smallest of sighs, she leans her head against Sumeragi Yuta's chest and closes her eyes.

In the distance, the melody of shamisen echoes on.

"You're weary."

The sound of the dancer's voice brought Yuta's mind back to present matters. He gave her a silent nod, knowing better than to deny the obvious--knowing better than to dissemble a thing he knew she had picked up as soon as he had stepped into her room. Wordlessly, she waved at the musician in dismissal, and the teenaged girl went away with just a bit too much haste.

Afraid.

Yuta could hardly blame the adolescent when he knew that even the great house's owners were wary of intruding in the dancer's quarters. Wisely so. For four years, there had been a weird, unspoken truce between Yuta and the woman. There was a bond between them, that both acknowledged but neither understood. He came to the Daimonji-ya because of her, he came to this room from which customers were banned. The only room in the house where nobody dared intrude without a specific invitation from the dancer.

Except for him.

"The palace officials again?" she abruptly asked, holding out the cup of sake to him. He took it with a nod, wondering for the thousandth time what was the source of her information. Tonight as some other nights, instead of having to ask for her, he had been quietly ushered to her room in the moment he had passed the Daimonji-ya's threshold.

As if she knew how badly he needed her presence.

Well, not "as if". She knew, just as he sometimes did. In the years since their first encounter, there had been times when he had come here to find her shut out from the outside world.

The wreckage of a person, like on that first night when he had held her in his arms.

When she had wept in silence.

Why she let him see her like this, why she let him touch her and reach her heart, Yuta didn't understand. He didn't question, just as she had never asked anything beyond his name. She had been there in the nights when he had thought he could no longer bear with the strain of holding the clan together. Lovers they were, bound by the whimsical threads of fate. Kindred spirits, or perhaps each a part of the other. Close, closer than words could ever tell, and yet as distant as night and day. There were times when she didn't make sense, when she would disappear for weeks or just stay silent, holding on to him wordlessly. There were times when she danced for him, her eyes set on him.

Glinting predator's eyes.

He knew, and she knew that he was aware of her. It amused her. It was a game. A deadly one, to be sure, but she was as entangled into the web she had woven as he was. They both recognized the truth, and they were content with living in a strange, ever-shifting chaos of feelings and emotions.

Yuta closed his eyes with a sigh as the dancer's fingertips brushed against his left cheek, leaning in the gentle caress. "One day, they'll drain you dry." The tone of her voice was a distant one. There was no rebuke in it; she was merely stating something that she knew would happen if things went on the way they were. "Don't think I'll allow that," she suddenly whispered in his ear.

Fiercely.

He didn't move, he didn't hold her tight as he longed to. It would have been the wrong thing to do. Holding her would have meant claiming her, and she didn't belong to him or anyone.

She was the wind.

And he loved her.

With slow deliberation, he set his cup of sake on the floor and told her quietly, "For weeks now, they've been pestering me. They want to see the clan head. They keep requesting an interview, and I keep dodging their questions. My sister is gone," he added with a bitter smile, "and she's not coming back. As to Shunsuke..." shaking his head, he went on in a low voice, "the boy is out of control--has been since the day Tokio left. There's no reasoning with him, he refuses to deal with his own family. I suppose I failed the clan where he's concerned." Bowing his head, he added sadly, "I suppose I failed him." Silence reclaimed the room while Yuta focused on the feeling of the dancer's hand brushing through his hair. "I've been able to stall and keep our problems hidden from the palace, but this time I don't think I'll be able to," he eventually said. "There's something brewing. A storm much stronger than those I've known in my years as a liaison between the clan and the imperial palace."

At that, she looked at him, her black eyes glittering with what might have been anticipation.

Or hunger.

"A great wind is rising in the West," she smiled at him, "and nothing will stand in its way." Carefully, she rested the palm of her hand against his cheek and added, "I'll never let it have you, though. I'll never let anyone or anything have you." With her free hand, she extinguished the one small lantern in her room, and Yuta embraced her, bringing her close to him. It was all right to do so, now.

It was all right to let go, once the light was gone.

It was all right to drop their masks, once darkness had come and engulfed everything.

Things didn't look good.

Humming quietly to myself, I tapped the fingertips of my right hand against the low table to let a bit of the frustration out. I'd lose the upper left corner, there was no way to prevent white from connecting there. Taking my eyes off the board, I looked at my opponent and clenched my teeth when I got a glimpse of the satisfied smile on his lips. So, uncle Yasuhiko had seen it as well.

Big deal.

Of course the stupid, arrogant man had seen it! He had been trained at the strategies of Go since infancy whereas I had started learning when my dear father had dumped me at the door of the Asano family's mansion in Tokyo four years ago. I fought the urge to laugh as uncle Yasuhiko quickly averted his eyes upon realizing I was watching him. Yeah, right, don't look into the bastard's grey eyes. They might bite! I shouldn't have challenged the man to a true game. I should have gone along with his habit of tutoring me and ridiculing me twice a week, but as I'd be gone within two days, I had wanted to get this small revenge of my mother's family.

Just this once.

It wouldn't be as easy as I had envisioned it, but I wouldn't fail. Refusing to answer white's kikashi, I went instead for the komoku on the lower left corner. Uncle Yasuhiko's right eyebrow went up quizzically, but on my left Akiko smiled with a small nod. Akiko-neesan, I reminded myself sternly to use the correct form of address. Reaching down for the steaming cup of tea on my side, I took it to my lips and drank a sip, looking above my opponent's balding head.

The room was perfect, in a Spartan kind of way. There was hardly any furniture at all except for the weirdly low chairs and the equally low table. It was the way people decorated houses with good taste, I had been told when I had set foot in this remote country four years ago. It sure was the opposite from the salons of Paris or the old houses in Vienna. I wasn't sure I liked either. I wasn't exactly fond of extremes, but it was also true to say that my dear family's warm welcome might have prejudiced me against the way they chose to decorate their home.

But then, who could blame them for having been less than happy upon finding a shameful bastard they had thought gone for good waiting at their door? I couldn't, when I was of a mind to be fair about the whole matter--which wasn't often. Convenient, my father had called them. A convenient shelter where I could learn and wait until I'd be needed. I had gone along with his wishes, what other choice did I have?

A sudden glint of metal drew me out of my reverie, and I grinned.

No choice at all.

With that knowledge came a familiar, distant pain that was easily sent back to the shadows of my mind. Uncle Yasuhiko had played his turn, and it looked like he was following after me.

So, a small victory wasn't enough for him, he wanted to crush me and have me resign.

Like hell.

Reflexively, I took a stone and set it against the white one, countering the move and responding to the attack by another one. Fuck you, uncle dear. As I brought my left arm back at my side, the lantern's light reflected upon the ring on my middle finger and the three bracelets on my wrist, but nobody in the room seemed to pay attention. The jewels hadn't elicited any response, they hadn't even drawn stares, neither from my mother's family, nor from Kaoru-sensei or Miyoujin Yahiko. No, they had never bothered anyone. What bothered people were my eyes and my size. My face was wrong. I was wrong. I was an oddity and a mistake--that had been made clear to me during an interview with Asano Nagamichi, the Asano clan head, on the morrow of my arrival.

I was a stain on the family's honor that they had to bear with.

When I had looked upon the disgust plainly written on the old man's face, I had wondered at the connections my father had, who could force a clan like this to take me in--to remember almost at once I was better off ignoring that for as long as I could.

Not that Gwenaël O' Sullivan would allow me to escape.

I'd follow the path set before me, just like he had done.

There was nothing else to do.

Nothing but pay.

The game went on under the scrutiny of most of the family members currently residing in the Tokyo mansion. I emptied my cup of tea and was given another one. Patiently, they waited for me to resign, all of them except Akiko.

Akiko, the only other child of my mother, but a proper, respectable daughter who had borne the weight of our mother's sin for years after her death, until I had shown up to lift the burden from her shoulders. I had thought she'd be my fiercest enemy in the clan, but instead she had revealed herself to be a steadfast ally. To this day, I still didn't understand why.

I liked Akiko.

The black stone made a ringing echo when I set it right next to the tengen, and a muffled gasp escaped some of the audience's lips.

"A rather nice attempt at turning the tables on me, boy," uncle Yasuhiko commented grudgingly. As usual, he had refused to call me by name.

No attempt, old bigot.

When he played, I followed right after him, letting the game unfold. Eventually, he conceded that we were done, and we started counting territories.

Now.

Smiling, I gathered the black stones in lightning quick, precise movements while he did the same for white. On my left, Akiko's eyes widened ever so slightly and my heart skipped a beat when I noticed it, but she held her peace. Very soon, both uncle Yasuhiko and I were done. Then his face paled visibly as it became obvious that I had won by one and a half moku.

"Thank you for the game," I told him with as much scorn as I could manage. Livid, he bowed in the same time I did and then I stood up, leaving him to clean up the game and gather the remains of his shattered pride.

A strong wind was blowing from the west, flapping my jacket's far too wide sleeves and threatening to undo the small braid I had gathered my hair into. "Boys don't braid their hair," Akiko had told me with a sigh, rolling her eyes heavenward in a comical fashion. Of course, I had protested that I was an adult, but she had scoffed at that. "Adult? In body perhaps, but you're still a selfish and uneducated child where your behavior is concerned, Bran." She was the only family member who consented to use my name.

I'm adult enough, Akiko-neesan.

I leaned against one of the pillars supporting the terrace's roof, and stared out into the night, smiling. In the distance, I cold hear the thunder of the waves.

If only I could be elsewhere.

If only I could erase my name.

If only I could wipe out my existence.

I laughed at myself and at the wind. Tomorrow I'd pack and the day after that I'd leave for Kyoto.

I'd never set foot in the Kamiya dojo again.

I bit my lower lip, denying the senseless sadness that wanted to invade my heart. The emotion was stupid and futile, I had no use for it. The sound of light steps intruded in my thoughts, and I snorted inwardly. I was a fool, maybe Akiko had been right to call me a child after all.

"I knew you had gained up on uncle Yasuhiko, Bran." My sister came to stand beside me. Her eyes set on the invisible shoreline in front of us, she added with a bitter smile, "But I'd never have thought you had grown so quickly as to defeat him without even a single moku handicap."

Silence followed that quiet statement, during which I wondered why she had bothered to come. It was useless, and she knew it. With a slight shrug, I acknowledged the fact that she was an honorable woman with strong principles. It was likely she couldn't let the matter rest and must confront me with it. It was likely she thought she couldn't abandon me.

Again, I laughed in the night.

And the silence between us stretched on. It looked like she didn't intend to leave. Perhaps I hadn't been rude enough.

"Why did you shame yourself like that, Bran?"

My heart skipped a beat when the words hit. I laughed once more, harder, as the fingers of my right hand gripped the pillar of wood of their own volition. I expected her to go then, furious and disgusted with a honorless bastard like me, but still she didn't move.

She waited.

Eventually, I turned to face her and stared at her steadily. "Cheating is one of the means to win a game, onee-san. Had I been caught, the shame would indeed have been on me. As it is, nobody but you noticed, and since you didn't bring it up, the shame is on dear uncle Yasuhiko. That's all there is to it."

Something flashed in her eyes, and she gave a vehement shake of the head. "No, Bran, that's not all there is to it and you know it full well! It doesn't have anything to do with uncle Yasuhiko or your hatred for the family, it has to do with you!" Her gaze locked on me, she added in a whisper, "It has to do with the way you tear at yourself."

I sustained the look in her eyes for a while, refusing to listen to the sound of her words echoing within, then at last I shrugged. "I don't hate your family, Akiko-neesan," I told her softly, "and the rest is just irrelevant nonsense." Turning back toward the night, I went on, "In two days, I'll be out of your life, so you'd be better off if you stopped worrying about the bastard casting shame on you."

I distinctly heard her sharp intake of breath as my words reached her, but instead of leaving as I had been sure she would, she came at my side and gripped my left arm with all her strength.

"No!" Between clenched teeth, she hissed, "Damnit, no! You're my only sibling, Bran! You're family and I know you. Nothing you can say will change the truth."

I sighed at that and bowed my head. Had my father known about her beforehand, had he known what an extraordinarily strong person she was, it was likely he'd have changed his plans and found another place for me. Perhaps I should have sent him messages and warned him that she was a nuisance and that her presence disturbed the fragile balance of mind I had achieved.

There could be no doubts within.

The lines were clearly drawn, and I knew where I stood in the order of things.

I knew my place and my purpose.

Perhaps I should have tried harder to make Akiko my enemy. It was what my father would have done. Even so, no matter how annoying she could be at times, no matter how tiresome her loyalty and sense of honor could get, she was a disturbance I found myself grateful for.

Taking a deep breath, I focused on the hand gripping my arm and on the ocean's thunder in the distance.

And I smiled.

End of chapter 1.

Notes

Shinai: bamboo sword used in kendo. It's the weapon Yahiko uses.
Bokken: wooden equivalent of a katana.
Bran: literally, raven. The name belongs to Celtic lore, and is also applied to a mythic king in Welsh literature.
Keikogi: jacket made of cotton material, used in kendo.
Kissaki: the tip of a shinai's blade.
Kikashi: a move in go which forces a submissive reply while leaving potential behind a position
Komoku: a 3-4 point, close to one of the corners of the go board
Tengen: the center point of the go board
Moku: a single point territory, the intersection of two lines on the go board.

On to Next Chapter

Back to my Fanfic page.