Title : For Love and Honor
Author : lynlyn
Yahoo ID and email : cloud121383
Warnings : Main pairing is Kuroro/Kurapika; I'll try to put in some minor Killua/Gon and Hisoka/Irumi for those pairings' fans – and if you don't like shonen-ai, you're still welcome to read, but homophobic sentiments will be ignored. But I'll be focusing more on the storyline, and the rating probably won't go any higher than implications. Also watch out for the war issues. I'll try not to go too much into details, but expect violence and nameless character deaths. This is extremely AU – I've completely departed from the canon, and am basically using the HxH characters in a whole new story. As such, I can't completely guarantee that everyone will stay in-character
Summary : Duty, conduct due to parents and superiors; the action required by one's position or occupation; assigned service or business, esp. military service; a moral or legal obligation. When duty calls, will you serve faithfully, even knowing that the summons was wrongfully invoked?
Rating : PG-13 for adult themes, some swearing, and violence.
Disclaimer : I do not own Hunter X Hunter and The Last Samurai, their characters, or anything associated with both. I'm not writing this for profit; I'm only doing so for personal satisfaction, plus the fact that I want to try my hand at writing semi-professionally. Any resemblance of the characters or the story itself to actual people and situations is entirely unintentional and accidental. Characters you don't recognize, however, are my own creations, with names probably snitched from other books or anime. I won't make a fuss over the original minor characters, but I will be pissed if anyone uses any of the major ones without my permission.
A/N : I'd like to thank Mistress 259 for a great proofreading job, and Yukitsu for giving second opinions. Bug them for updates to their fics; we're not getting enough of either. Happy New Year!
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FOR LOVE AND HONOR
Chapter 1 – For Duty
There is nothing glorious about war, nothing glamorous about heroism and sacrifice. The old stories of great battles won and lost told by fireplaces and over mugs of beer are glossed-over tales for romantics, revised by idealists who have never held or fired guns in their entire lives. War medals and pensions might bring some measure of prestige and comfort, but they're only given as balms for tired and troubled souls – or worst case, awarded posthumously in recognition of brave deeds done by martyrs.
No piece of gold-plated metal can ever recover the lives and the innocence lost in a war.
Of course, there is some honor in fighting and winning and living to tell the tale, but futures don't usually matter in the here and now, when all one can see before him is death and destruction, soil churned into blood-red mud by trampling feet, sweat and fear tainting the very air into a sour miasma unfit to be breathed in by fatigued lungs. Firearms and weapons everywhere, guns and swords and rusted bayonets giving off their own metallic stink.
And the silence. Unnatural, heavy and oppressive, a barely discernible murmur of unease running thick through the ranks of waiting soldiers. The forest was quiet, the birds and other inhabitants having been scared away long ago by the tremors of hundreds of intruders marching and hacking their way through the foliage. The army had ground to a halt for now, but here and there green recruits shifted nervously, and an old veteran or two tried to stretch stiffening limbs back into working order. Horses whickered and tossed heads and pawed at the ground impatiently. The wan morning light caught and glinted off the occasional shined muzzle or belt buckle. Most of the visible movements were caused artificially. Any other motion native to the deathly silent forest was being swallowed up by swirling fog and creeping shadow.
Kuroro Lucifer knew what caused his men's unease. Hell, even the dullest runner in his platoons should have figured it out by now – they were walking into a spectacular ambush. Low visibility and eerie surroundings – the terrain was entirely unfamiliar to them, but they were very much within enemy territory. His esteemed commanders had committed their side's first mistake by stupidly giving the other side the advantage of being able to fight on their own turf.
If he had time to do so he would have gone back and pointed out a few more of the fatal errors he had spotted, never mind knowing that they probably wouldn't listen to him. He was just a lowly captain, anyway.
But he still wanted to try, to spare everyone the defeat that he could clearly see – these men are going to die. The army's three other commanders had pulled the best fighters back into reserve, for one reason he understood but didn't want to accept.
They were going to use the frontliners – his division, some three hundred men all on foot – as bait.
Even more crudely put, they were being used as testers. Examine the enemy's capabilities first by deploying a few disposable decoys, and then adapt accordingly and decide if they had brought enough manpower to stomp the rebellion out. If yes, push forward with the more powerful reserves; if not, abandon the frontliners for dead and retreat.
This was probably Zenji's idea. He was always going on about wanting to check the abilities of the Kuruta, and maybe even discover some of their coveted clan secrets.
The Kuruta clan was perhaps one of the most powerful among the influential court clans; should its members decide to enter into politics, the clan could probably take over the entire system within a week. But for as long as anyone could remember, the Kuruta had always refused to accept or assume positions of authority in the government; their power did not come from money or social status, but from what they were and the work they did.
All the Kuruta were martial arts experts and combat specialists; it was even rumored that their bloodline descended from the great warlords of old. Through the ages they had served as bodyguards of key persons in government and society, but they weren't for hire, and their services could not be bought by just anyone. The Kuruta chose whom they wanted to protect, and the decision to stay by their wards' sides was usually lifelong and binding.
Just as well that they only chose to protect people with high moral fiber and near-saintly disposition – diplomats, scientists, philosophers, government officials with more than a few beneficial political contributions under their belts, people that society could not afford to lose – and the respect accorded to them once it became known that they have been offered Kuruta protection could reach godlike proportions. It was tantamount to having the endorsement of the deities themselves.
Whether the Kuruta themselves knew that their well-meant tendency to favor and work for only a select group of righteous people influenced and shaped the currents of the power-playing within the empire's political circles had been the subject of more than one heated debate. Kuroro personally thought that they did, and while he counted himself part of a faction that believed in the effectiveness of their system of coddling only those who deserved the honor, an equal number of disgruntled politicians felt that it was high time that they be rid of the Kuruta's "machinations".
Which brought them to the situation they were in right now. Long story made short, said disgruntled politicians had finally succeeded in worming their way into the minister's good graces, and had somehow convinced the old man that the Kuruta were dangerous, and thus have to be exterminated immediately if the nation wanted to keep her current peaceful and prosperous status.
Of course, they were the only ones who thought that, but since when did authority listen to what the little people had to say? The Kuruta had done well in keeping the government from falling into complete and utter corruption, but even they could not stop the onset of decline and death that every empire would have to go through.
No, Kuroro Lucifer did not want to fight with the Kuruta. He was also willing to bet his late father's medal collection that at least a third of the army dispatched for this particular skirmish felt the same way he did. For one thing, the Kuruta were fierce fighters. "Death given flesh and form" could not even begin to describe their skill in battle. They didn't kill needlessly, and reports from previous confrontations indicated that they left the opposing side's wounded behind instead of finishing everyone off, but they showed no mercy towards soldiers they met in battle.
And secondly, if they had to boil the entire war down to the universal good and evil categories, the Kuruta clearly belonged to the good side. It meant that Kuroro and his men were fighting for the bad guys. It was not doing anything good for morale. And short of going AWOL or defecting to the other side, they all had no way of escaping the task required of them.
"Sir, it's been an hour…"
Kuroro spared a glance for the young man who stood by his fidgeting horse, at the badges of rank sewn into his uniform's sleeves. Barely out of his teens and already a lieutenant – though he suspected that the appointment was done more out of need and ceremony than because of what the boy may have achieved. Kuroro gave him a reassuring grin.
"The scouts reported that they'd be here." Well, the last surviving scout did, a choked warning of horror and despair, right before he collapsed, dead from injuries and exhaustion. "Which means that they will be here, and we've prepared to meet them head-on." As prepared as they will ever be, but still not enough. Three hundred normal soldiers armed with bolt-action rifles against a hundred warriors trained since birth, in defending against and countering any type of attack known to man. No, not enough. And damn him if he thought that he could rely on Zenji and company backing him up if the battle turned ugly. "Look sharp and stay alert. We don't want to be caught off guard, now, do we?"
He knew he was hiding his own unease behind bluff and bluster. He was playacting, trying to show confidence and hoping, at the same time, that the rest of his division would feel the confidence he himself did not have. Oh, he could count on his own skills, and he knew that he could get out alive if he acted on his own, but he had to look after his men. The higher-ups had demoted him to his current rank, but he was still the highest-ranking soldier among the frontliners. They had no one else to turn to.
A horn sounded somewhere in the fog in front of them, low and mournful and echoing, and it seemed to Kuroro that the army gave a collective jump. Metal rattled as swords were pulled out of their sheaths, guns were cocked, grips tightened about hilt and stock. Commanders bawled orders for preparation, and Kuroro cursed under his breath as the army nearly lost all sense of order and calm. His men, at least, stayed relatively still. He had given his orders more than an hour ago, and they knew what he wanted them to do.
Kuroro mounted his mare, noting with detached curiosity that someone had been holding the reins for him. The lieutenant handed them over as soon as he had settled on the saddle – and he realized that he hadn't bothered to ask for the youth's name.
"Thank you, Lieutenant…"
"Farman, sir. Harold Farman."
Harold. The boy's name meant 'army leader'. Kuroro squeezed his eyes shut at the irony.
"Well, Harold, I'll give you this piece of advice, before everything starts going to hell. Don't be afraid to run. If you can't handle it anymore, don't try being a hero. Just run."
"S-sir?"
That was one of the last conversations he would be having with anyone from the government's side for a very long time. Kuroro shut everything out, ignoring anything remotely distracting, but opened his senses as wide as possible. If he concentrated hard enough he could almost feel the earth trembling in anticipation of the inevitable clash between life and death…
They materialized out of the fog like so many gray wraiths, movements more fluid than quicksilver, hands grasping swords and spears and scythes that flashed and cut through the air like knife through melted butter. They were wearing masks, traditional masks of the kind children squabbled over in the seasonal festivals. Feline and canine, avian and reptile, depicted in all manner of paint imaginable. If they weren't embroiled in a battle Kuroro would have stopped to admire the masterful artistry that decorated each and every individual mask – grinning grim reapers, they all seemed to portray, but he had no doubt that they served the double purpose of protecting the flesh within.
To his side's credit the line held in those first few critical moments before the battle itself. There were several misfires, and a few soldiers ran screaming at their first good look at a charging Kuruta, but the frontlines held. Kuroro prayed to whatever god was listening that the flanks would be able to estimate the correct time to move.
The maneuver he wanted to pull off wasn't new, but he had added in a little twist: the line wouldn't be able to hold for any longer than a few minutes anyway, so why bother trying to fortify it, when he had a way of forcing the central division – led by one Colonel Azrael – to engage in battle?
Thoughts of tactics and strategy vanished immediately from Kuroro's mind as the Kuruta rammed into the frontlines like raging water on stone. His soldiers had begun firing a few seconds ago, but Kuroro couldn't tell if the shots had any effect on their opponents. He had been doing the same thing; his ammunition went as fast as he could load and fire the bullets, and from his higher position on his horse he could see that he wasn't missing, but…
It was one thing to hear about the abilities of the Kuruta in rumors; it was another matter entirely to see them fighting right in front of his eyes. They were fast – faster than anything Kuroro had ever seen before, and the bullets the soldiers were firing at them seemed sluggish in comparison. They struck without hesitation and doubt, they dealt killing blows mercilessly, they defended and counterattacked expertly. They were also insanely strong. After fending only five blows from swinging swords Kuroro's arm was already getting numb.
To be technical about it, his division was doing quite well – until the line broke a dozen meters to the left of Kuroro's position, and the foremost Kuruta chargers reached the waiting second division. That was when hell started. The trap had been sprung; the left and right flanks closed in on the hundred or so Kuruta ranged along the center as soon as word of the line breaking had reached them. Kuroro had been right in thinking that the flanks would push the Kuruta further in and force Azrael into action. What he hadn't been able to gauge was the real depth of the other three commanders' cowardice, or whether they had any plans of fighting at all.
The third division's four cannons were being fired to cover the army's retreat.
"S-sir! Second through fourth divisions are being ordered to fall back!"
It was one of his runners. Kuroro couldn't tell how old; the blood running down the side of the boy's frightened face made him seem paler, younger than he really was. The cannons boomed in a continuous roar, and the battlefield shook with each resulting explosion.
"The first division?" He didn't have to ask; he already knew the answer.
"F-first are to h-hold their position, k-keep the enemy from pursuing, t-time indefinite –"
A mortar shell whizzed by, trailing acrid smoke that billowed and blinded. Kuroro had no time to duck or yell out a warning; the projectile hit and exploded less than fifty feet away, far too close to where they were, and his poor mare finally snapped and reared in fright, throwing him off her back in the process. Her frantic whinny changed midway into a shrill scream of pain as shrapnel flew and embedded themselves into the nearest upright figures. He had to scramble out of the way as her bulk toppled backwards to crash on the unyielding forest floor. Kuroro was left staring at her heaving side and belly, where debris stuck out of wounds as big as his palms. The thought that he had been saved her fate because she had thrown him off flitted through his mind before he remembered the young runner who had been with him…
Or not. Kuroro found him on his back, eyes wide open but already filmed with death. A piece of wood longer than the standard-issue daggers they used had impaled him right under the left collarbone.
Kuroro was able to spare breath for a couple of obscene oaths, even though the intended recipients were far away and could not hear him. The cannons belonged to the third division, but the second division had a special platoon armed with mortars. They were firing at the general direction of the Kuruta, but they obviously weren't realizing that the Kuruta were extremely mobile, and that they were hitting more allies than enemies.
His awareness of the battlefield suddenly increased, the contrast between one moment and the next so sharp it was painful. It was almost like he had been seeing everything as if muddled by a dream – but now he was having one of his "sharp" moments, as his subordinates liked to call it. Without looking Kuroro knew that the defeat he had foreseen was happening. His flanks were pushing, but the cowards were running away, and so there was no one to push back; the Kuruta were now turning around to hack through the line that had appeared behind them. People were dying left and right; he could feel each sting, hear each scream, almost taste the blood flying and spraying through the air –
– movement to his right, a flash of midnight black in the corner of his eye –
He raised his sword out of pure instinct and reflex, the burnished steel barely catching the surprisingly heavy blow of a thinner blade. Kuroro found himself staring down at a fox mask, the eyeholes dark and at first seeming eerily empty. He noted that his opponent was holding another sword besides the one he had blocked. He kicked his defenses into high gear; if the Kuruta brought both swords into play he might not be able to deflect all the blows with his single katana.
Their blades started to slip. They would end up crashing into each other if neither yielded. Just as Kuroro was trying to decide if he should move, the Kuruta jumped back and raised both swords in a ready position. Kuroro didn't follow, but he whipped his dagger out from behind his belt and adjusted his grip on his own sword.
The Kuruta didn't attack at once – he seemed wary for some reason – and Kuroro had time to realize that his opponent was smaller than most of the Kuruta he'd seen.
Am I fighting a girl, or a kid?
He was just wondering; he wasn't going to commit the mistake of underestimating the enemy, but it seemed that he was still going to be punished for the errant thought. The Kuruta crouched and lunged forward in a single smooth motion, and Kuroro blocked the first strike, deflected the second, feeling as if his shoulders might come out of their sockets at the force of the impacts. He ignored the pain, forced one of his opponent's swords away and attacked, only to have it blocked as well. They went on like that for a few more rounds, attacking and defending, neither side giving way, form and footwork getting more advanced and complicated as they flowed from one stance to another.
Eventually it occurred to Kuroro that their fight was dragging, he was taking too long. He decided to press the advantage of his height and greater body mass to overpower the smaller Kuruta. He leaned forward and started to push his opponent back… or tried to, anyway. The Kuruta wasn't budging a single inch! Kuroro could practically feel the smugness oozing out from behind those dark eyeholes. He suddenly felt childishly spiteful, like a kid who wasn't getting his way in a ridiculous game of tug-of-war. He abruptly changed tactics and leaned back and to the left.
With no one pushing back, his opponent stumbled forward, unbalanced and unguarded. Kuroro slashed at the exposed back, but the blade only met thin air. The Kuruta had crouched down so fast it seemed that he had disappeared, and his foot was driving back and up and into Kuroro's neck. He heard the snap of something breaking, felt pain shooting up and down his windpipe, and almost blacked out from a sudden inability to breathe. The next thing he knew he was on his knees, gagging and gasping and desperately trying to suck in air through a bruised neck, eyes blinded by bludgeoning black spots. He tried to stagger to his feet, tried to see where the Kuruta had gone to – looked up and met furious red eyes, darkened to a near black by the cover of the fox mask and the shadow of the smoke trailing from the fires caused by the explosions all around them.
Kuroro scooted backwards as far as his rubbery arms allowed him to, then finally found purchase by jamming his sword into the earth and pushing himself upright, but he could barely move, let alone try to defend himself or run away. He started to pray for a miracle, anything to intervene – even a stray mortar shell would be welcome just about now, as long as it distracted his opponent long enough for him to get his breath back.
Of course, nothing ever happens the way you want it to. The next potential distraction came in the form of a cannonball barreling into the nearest copse of trees, and Kuroro stared in morbid fascination as the impact tore through a group of soldiers who had decided to use the ancient trunks for cover.
Screams mingled with the cracks splintering the air as the wounded trees started to collapse. He could see one particularly tall pine leaning towards their direction, and he backed away hurriedly, sword still up in a pretense of defense. He fully expected the Kuruta to pursue him, but his opponent took one look at the behemoth about to crush them, and almost as if he believed the falling tree to be below his notice, nonchalantly stepped backwards a few steps. The uprooted tree crashed with a deafening groan.
The ancient pine was unbelievably wide. Even lying on its side its branches stuck up to form a wall several feet tall. Now reason dictated that he seize this chance and retreat while he had the time – it would take the Kuruta more than a few seconds to circle around; but like a moth drawn to the mesmerizing dance of a candle's flame Kuroro felt rooted to the spot, unable to turn away as a pair of haunting red eyes stared back into his own through a gap in the leafy barrier before him. He could feel his Kuruta opponent measuring him, gaze almost burning into his soul as if by a look alone his worth could be judged.
Well, it seemed that he had been found lacking, for after a few seconds the Kuruta turned away. Kuroro blinked in surprise, the sudden loss of contact leaving him feeling curiously disappointed and slightly disoriented. Through the leaves he watched his opponent walk away with two smaller, similarly garbed figures trailing behind. A moment later they were gone, black outlines blurring into the background of dust and smoke.
The disappointment that had sprung up after he realized that he had been dismissed so casually was harder to dispel than the vision of the three Kuruta disappearing into the smoke like the ghosts they were sometimes compared to. Kuroro probed further, and was disconcerted to realize that a part of him had actually wanted to continue fighting, to prolong the encounter that had very nearly resulted in his death. If the pain in his neck wasn't so bad he would have given his head a thorough shake, just enough to chastise himself for his irrationality. Sure, he gambled occasionally, but he wasn't one to risk his neck on a mere whim. If his subordinates knew they would have given him hell –
Subordinates. For what seemed like the hundredth time that day Kuroro cursed, this time berating himself for his lack of attention. He had utterly forgotten that a battle was still raging around him. The last meeting he had with his commanders, back in the command tent, felt like a lifetime ago. His great and oh-so-powerful commanders, who had sentenced three hundred good men to their deaths. And he wasn't any better, zoning out when he could have been fighting, or saving a soldier or two from dying a horrible death. But as Kuroro looked around him it dawned that he wouldn't have made much difference even if he hadn't had that one-on-one with the red-eyed Kuruta.
Without the support of the main army's powerful artillery the first division had broken like glass smashed by a hammer. All around him soldiers lay dead or dying. Wood from felled trees and supply carts and guns littered the forest floor, some already being consumed by the flames from explosions. Here and there blood-stained platoon banners covered the muddy ground, some ripped beyond recognition by panicked hands. The desecrated sigils were the last things on his mind, and yet he couldn't help but compare the sorry state of the once-fine cloth to the division he had, for a short while, commanded. The government side had lost, nearly a third of the thousand-man strong force that had been sent to the battlefield that fateful day destroyed, the rest retreating under the orders of cowards. The Kuruta had only a hundred warriors. And even more unbelievable, none of the corpses he could see belonged to the rebelling tribe. They had won without a single casualty, an outcome virtually unheard of, considering their lesser numbers compared to the government's army.
Kuroro swallowed the bile that rose at the back of his throat as he thought of the command he had been given: Hold position, keep enemy from pursuing. Well, that point is moot now. Was he still obliged to follow that order, now that the first division was in tatters? Of course he was. Or at least, he had to gather up the survivors and organize some form of working command. The "keep enemy from pursuing" clause, though, would be a bit harder to enforce.
A shout drew him away from his planning, and Kuroro turned to see a group of soldiers who seemed less wounded than those lying on the ground around him. They were doing their best to tend to their injuries, and at the same time looking out for fellow survivors, their movements quick and furtive so as not to draw the attention of the Kuruta. They were the closest thing he could see that resembled a point of recovery, and he started to walk. He had barely taken a step towards them, though, before his right leg exploded in pain.
Reflex made him throw his hands in front of him as he toppled to the ground face-first, and Kuroro realized his mistake a second too late as the muscles around his injured collarbone spasmed in protest. He rolled to his back, mind unable to decide between cradling his left arm and shoulder, and reaching for his right leg, which was bloodied beyond recognition. He looked around wildly, and his confusion turned to fear as he spotted a pair of Kuruta standing a few meters behind him. The one at the front was holding a rifle in his hands, turning it over and around in inspection, while the second stood further away, hands clasped behind his back at attention.
If he wasn't literally fighting for life and limb Kuroro would have found the sight that greeted him bafflingly amusing. The Kuruta that had shot him was easily the largest person he had ever seen, with fingers that reminded him of sausages and double – no, even triple chins. It was the first Kuruta he had seen unmasked, and the face that floated above the rotund body was pale and cruel, with a small mouth and narrow eyes. It occurred to him that his attacker was more likely a member of another defecting clan, and not necessarily Kuruta, but the notion was lost as the rifle swung around to point at him again.
"Guns are great!" the fat Kuruta remarked. "This model is a bit slow, but I still think it's better than rusty old swords and bare fists."
"Your father uses bare fists when he fights."
"You're ruining an already ruined day, Gotong," Fat Kuruta threatened angrily. "I can't believe Father wouldn't let me fight! He lets Killu go on missions but forbids me to go out… It pisses me off!" There was a dull thunk and the sound of skittering, and Kuroro surmised that some unsuspecting piece of wood had just been kicked across the clearing.
"Your talents lie elsewhere, Miruki-sama. Your father only thinks of your safety," Gotong replied consolingly.
"What good is a demolitions expert when his bombs aren't being used?" Miruki muttered darkly. But he looked at Kuroro, and down at the rifle, and his mood brightened as suddenly as the sun breaking out from behind storm clouds. Kuroro listened in horror at the sadistic glee he could hear in the Kuruta's voice.
"Hey, maybe if I tweaked this a bit and showed it to Father he might agree to use it!"
"Tweak?"
"Watch this, Gotong. I might not be able to beat Killu in a wrestling match but when it comes to bombs I know more than anyone else. I'll have to get rid of the manual bolt first, of course, then raise the rate of fire –"
Kuroro couldn't see what was being done to the army-issue rifle from his position on the ground, but he knew that he didn't want to be around to find out. He started to struggle to his feet – or rather, his one good foot. His right leg was ruined, and there was a very high chance that he would lose it, but it wouldn't matter if he didn't live to get it to a doctor. Gotong was watching him, but he was beyond caring. He didn't even know what he would do once he was able to stand – limp away and hope that the obese Kuruta would have difficulty catching up because he was too fat?
Kuroro never got to his feet, though. He froze on his knees, ears registering the quiet click of a gun being cocked. He looked up and recoiled instinctively. The gun was leveled at his forehead, the barrel a mere dozen strides away. Miruki was frowning, seemingly displeased with his would-be target.
"Too small."
"What?"
Miruki started to look around, and the gun lowered. "I want a bigger target," he explained to his companion. Kuroro was too relieved to feel insulted by the size comment. But his relief instantly changed to horror when he realized that the Kuruta was now peering intently at the group of survivors who had hailed him earlier.
"Perfect!"
"No, don't –"
Bolt-action rifles have one fatal flaw; they couldn't be fired continuously. Empty cartridges had to be removed manually before new ones could be inserted. They worked well against single, distant targets, but they were less effective against multiple advancing enemies. The modified rifle had no such limitation; Kuroro could only watch helplessly as the unfortunate victims all fell in one unceasing roar.
"Surprised?" Miruki cackled, smugly watching the shell-shocked faces of his family's head majordomo and the nameless soldier whose leg he had shot out earlier. "That's not the only thing this baby can do. Do you want me to make it more explosive, Gotong?"
"Its power is truly amazing, Miruki-sama, but I don't think your father –"
"Nonsense! Did you see how the blood misted the air? I can taste it all the way from here! It would have been nicer if they'd screamed more before they died, though. Now for the finisher."
Kuroro was only half-listening to the Kuruta's cruel chatter. His eyes were flicking from one burned body to the next bleeding corpse, never lingering long, and his head pounded fiercely with each visual jump. It was a sensation he had never known, and it confused him greatly. Kuroro had seen people being killed before, prisoners being tortured more ruthlessly than the act he had just witnessed, and yet he was feeling a rage unmatched by any emotion he had ever felt before. Dimly he saw the rifle being swung around to point back at him, and dimly he felt himself looking up to stare blankly into the face of his executioner, but nothing mattered except the blood thundering through his ears, the frightening sensation of something powerful within him breaking loose…
"Miruki-sama," Gotong warned, warily eyeing the kneeling soldier.
"I know. He's coming into his power quite spectacularly, isn't he? But now I have no choice. Old man Netero wants us to leave survivors alone, but in this case even that goody-goody Freecs will agree with me when I say that I should kill this one before he becomes a problem in the future."
Kuroro didn't even flinch as Miruki edged forward to rest the gun barrel squarely against his forehead.
"So it's nothing personal, if you get my drift," Miruki remarked to the unresponsive soldier. "Goodbye."
In an instant of clarity Kuroro saw what he had to do. As if cued by some subconscious survival instinct, every muscle in his body tensed simultaneously. He acted the instant the shot spat out, moving as swiftly as the Kuruta he had battled earlier, head and upper torso twisting down to avoid the bullet, left leg surging up in a coiled spring, and right arm grabbing at the knife he kept in his right boot. Kuroro exploded from his semi-crouched position, blade out in a wide, deadly arc. His slash caught Miruki square in the neck. It was over in the blink of an eye; the Kuruta didn't even have time to cry out.
"Miruki-sama!" Gotong, whom Kuroro now assumed to be some kind of manservant, jumped forward to catch his fallen master. Incredibly, the fat Kuruta was still alive. His beady eyes bulged out in terror, and he gurgled miserably as he tried to breathe through a punctured windpipe. Kuroro staggered around trying to regain his balance after his desperate lunge, but he kept an eye on the pair. His strike had been true; blood spurted out no matter how hard Gotong applied pressure to the wound.
"How dare you!" the man roared at Kuroro, "Do you have any idea what you've just done!" Not waiting for an answer, he placed his index finger and his thumb in his mouth and whistled – one long, shrill blast that carried across the battlefield.
The loud whistle summoned two more Kuruta, who seemed to appear magically out of the air. Kuroro knew that they were in fact moving too fast for the normal human eye to follow, but how he knew was an issue he didn't have time to address.
"Gotong? What – Miruki-sama!"
"Take him back to the healers!"
One of the newcomers complied without asking anything else, disappearing with Miruki in the same manner as he had arrived, but the second one stayed behind, pinning both Gotong and Kuroro with glares that looked decidedly unfriendly.
"Gotong, you were expressly ordered to keep Miruki-sama back in the village to stop this kind of thing from happening. What went wrong?"
"I wasn't firm enough," Gotong answered cryptically in a self-deprecating growl. "I will answer to Silva-sama later, but for now I need to deal with this dog."
Kuroro blanched. He had just heard the answer to the question the manservant had shouted at him. Silva wasn't a very common name, and the one he knew who went by it wasn't a person you could afford to cross, even in peaceful times. He was the patriarch of a clan rumored to be on equal standing with the Kuruta – probably even higher in terms of sheer combat power. Kuroro had just signed his own death warrant, any chance he had of coming out alive now dissolving into thin air.
Gotong saw that he knew, and the manservant smiled at him grimly. "Yes. That was the second son of Silva Zaoldyeck. For my failure I will take my own life in front of our Master, but not before I hand you over to him cut up and served on a silver platter."
Oh, shit.
It would have been easier to just stand still and let the enraged Gotong fillet him however he liked, but Kuroro stubbornly clung to his sword and his life. Something primal was telling him to fight, forcing him to act like a cornered animal with nothing to lose. All his senses were wide open, and he felt ready to explode with the life thrumming though his veins. He managed to remain standing, even with his useless right leg, even when blades bit into his flesh and drew blood. One of his opponents was able to knock his sword away, yet he still went on fighting, picking up a spear-tipped flagpole right off the ground and proceeding to swing it around like a madman. He didn't even realize when more Kuruta joined Gotong in trying to bring him down, or that his desperate fight had caught the eyes of a number of important people; his world had shrunk down to the weapon in his hands, the enemies he had to keep at bay, their shouts of contempt and his own snarls of fury.
The attacks abruptly ceased a moment after he fell on all fours, body quickly losing the strength to support his weight with the amount of blood he had lost. Gotong and company seemed unwilling to rush him, though. Even down on his knees he had nearly decapitated one of them with one of his wild swings. They stood in a loose circle around him, daring each other to resume attacking, and he sat growling at the middle, waiting to skewer the first hooded figure he could reach.
"I'll take him," someone suddenly spoke from beyond the circle. The crowd parted to let another hooded Kuruta through. The mask looked familiar, and Kuroro's detail-oriented mind immediately placed it as the one worn by the warrior he'd fought earlier, but the eyes that looked down at him were cool blue. Gotong started to protest.
"I take full responsibility," the fox-masked Kuruta interrupted. "I fought him, but our battle went unconcluded. Had I killed him then your ward wouldn't have been injured."
That announcement should have proven that he was looking at the same person, but the need for recognition suddenly dropped down the list as Kuroro realized just how hemmed in he was. There were Kuruta everywhere; he was smack-dab in the middle of a sea of black cloaks and white masks. If he didn't feel nauseated at the sight of so many of his fellow soldiers dying, he certainly felt ill now.
The Kuruta who had spoken didn't waste time playing around with him; he immediately took advantage of Kuroro's disorientation and swiftly stepped up to his nearly useless left side, then batted the flagpole away when Kuroro tried to bring it around to knock him back. Lastly, a hard rap to the back of his skull with the dull side of a sword, and Kuroro dropped like a stone.
The blow didn't feel as hard as he would have expected, and as far as Kuroro could tell, was only meant to numb his senses. Had he been at full health he would have recovered from it quickly, within seconds, with just a dull ache and a lump. But he now understood that something was seriously wrong with him, something that went deeper than his already grievous injuries. What he took to be adrenaline, the energy that enabled him to fight his enemies off for so long, was draining away too quickly, leaving him feeling utterly hollow and weak. He hoped he was wrong, but he could actually feel his very life slipping away.
"You're bleeding yourself dry," he heard someone say over him. "Even if you got yourself to a medic you will still die within a few hours. I'll make this quick, I promise." The voice sounded apologetic, almost gentle, and Kuroro yearned to roll to his back and ask to see the Kuruta's real face behind the fox mask. He felt a hand at his back, reassuring, firm, and just as his vision and hearing went he heard someone say, "Wait." He didn't know if it was himself, making one final attempt at a struggle, or someone else, and the hand kept him company all the way until the end.
Kuroro did know that he would lose consciousness first before the Kuruta could run him through. His last coherent thought was one of relief for that small comfort.
--- end of chapter one ---
notes:
I know I promised that I'd finish Wild Hearts before working on anything new, but… I can't argue with the muses, now, can I? This one was inspired by the trailers of The Last Samurai, prodded into existence by episode 6 of Clamp School Detectives, and helped along by the Chinese history lessons I took back in high school. And no, it won't be as long as Wild Hearts. And now for the clarifications…
I'm far from being an expert on warfare and artillery, but I did my best to make sure that the technologies and terms I used were correct, and that none of them would conflict with each other chronologically. I placed the period sometime in the late 1800's (around 1870, to be exact), based on the Last Samurai's timeline. Of course, the so-called government here is fictitious, as is the situation that caused the Kuruta to rebel in the first place – but again, it's loosely based on any of a number of revolutions that occurred in Chinese history. There will also be no nen here, only vague references to a chi-like force that makes the Kuruta side's fighters more powerful than ordinary humans.
Kuroro's a bit out-of-character in this chapter… almost cowardly, actually – not at all like his calm and collected dancho persona in the canon. Don't worry, it's only at the start. He will get stronger in future chapters. But for now he has to get pushed around by the Zaoldyeck butlers. Anyone who's watched Tthe Last Samurai will know what happens next. (But be assured that I will deviate from the movie's storyline at the end. I am not going to let any of my Kuruta die just like that.)
The Kuruta's masks were inspired by the masks worn by the Anbu in the Naruto series. The black hooded cloak's almost the same, too.
Apologies for what happened to Miruki. It was either him or Zushi. He will stay dead unless someone objects violently.
That's everything important, I guess. Now, depending on where my muses take me, I'll either continue with chapter 2, or go back to Wild Hearts. Whichever I choose, I don't know how long it will take me to get another update posted. I started this more than 6 months ago, stopped when school started, and was only able to finish it after school was let out for the holidays. I'm really sorry for the long wait, but academics happened. (And I failed my thesis, too…) But I'll try my best to write a new chapter before the next term starts to get hectic. It's the least I can do to make up for the delay.
Thank you very much for taking the time to read this:)
January 1, 2005