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1.
This will be the last time he'll see her.
He has never seen his master so broken, swallowed up by a canopied mass of pillows and blankets. Her body is a small, wounded shape at the center of the bed, and in the dim moonlight he can see the half-moon gashes along her back and shoulders, the myriad lacerations like bias marks splitting the tender plane of her skin. Her eyelids flutter. His throat tightens as he watches her breathe.
The ablution was brief: sinking to his knees, he cried and sobbed a thousand apologies, the names of his sins tumbling out like the clatter of dice.
I risked my name for you. My life for you. I stung you because I wanted to protect you.
There is a lock of hair which has fallen messily over the side of her face. Quietly Kazuma reaches a tentative hand out, pushing back that lock and letting the tips of his fingers linger. Even now, her skin is warm and soft and he hates himself for allowing the indulgence. The rims of his eyes darken as he rises to a stand.
No one sees him leave. His shadow rises, a large dark shape cutting across the stony archways of the compound.
xXx
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2.
She is about to do something she knows Kazuma will not approve.
The ballroom to the Heaven's Colloquy is a panoply of glitter and colors, the weight of Tsuguha's death a stark contrast to the ballroom's festive mood. Bishamon does not feel like celebrating. She is on edge, every muscle in her war god's body screaming to jump and fight and just get on with it already, but it will still be a few hours yet until the matchmaking ceremony, a few more hours until she can leave. Already she can hear the same themes repeated from last year - scandalized whispers, gossip about Tsuguha's death, another shinki who died stinging her. What utter recklessness. A disgrace to her godly name.
She doesn't want to be here. She doesn't want to mingle, doesn't want to endure their fake smiles and misplaced concern. She is tense and on edge and is ready to fling herself through the nearest window when she feels it: Kazuma stepping close, then reaching out to hold her hand.
She looks up, shocked. Kazuma catches her eye and smiles at her reassuringly. "Don't worry," Kazuma says, gently. He smiles and squeezes her hand, steadying her. "I'm right here with you."
His hand is warm, and her heart breaks, but just for a moment; she steels herself and smiles back at him.
"Thank you, my Kazuma," she says, because like her shinki, she's good at pretending. She continues to act as if everything is okay.
A few hours later, she tells him she's had enough of this crowd, she's going to step out to get some air. He nods and rises, about to walk with her, when she turns.
"I'll just be a moment, Kazuma," Bishamon says.
She can see it: the startled hurt that flickers across his features. She knows the distance has been tough on him, but he smiles and nods, telling her he understands.
She pushes open the doors. The light from the ballroom spills out into the darkness like a pupil dilating in a wide-open eye, and as she hitches up her ballgown she can feel the wind rising, the faces of leaves trembling in the autumn air.
xXx
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3.
Kuraha watches the two of them getting dressed.
That is the thing when your vessel form is a lion: people often forget that you are in the room.
"You don't want to wear it?" Kazuma is saying. He's holding the garment bag containing their dress uniforms over his arm.
"No, Kazuma. I don't much feel like celebrating at the moment." She sits at the window sill, quietly.
Kuraha watches as Kazuma frowns at her, trying to puzzle out the lady's moods. Ever since Tsuguha's death, she has once again withdrawn into herself; Kazuma-san doesn't say much, but Kuraha knows her silence pains him. "Let me find you a dress," Kazuma says after a moment, and disappears into her closet.
He comes out carrying a pale silk ballgown. Quietly Bishamon steps out of her clothes while Kazuma helps her dress, sweeping back her hair to pull up her zipper.
The dress is breathtaking: thin pale silk, which drapes over her like a cloud, the gold of her hair pooling around her shoulders, she is a vision, resplendent in the afternoon light. But the lady frowns and fidgets, uncertain fingers pressing against the deep V of her neckline.
"Is this really okay?" Bishamon asks. She looks at her reflection in the mirror. Kazuma smiles.
"You look fine," Kazuma says. "You're beautiful," and he looks away quickly before Bishamon can glance back at him. She laughs affectionately, pulling him close and hugging his arm.
Kuraha raises his head, watching. There is an ease with which the lady and Kazuma-san talk to each other, and in this moment it is as if nothing has happened between them. Kazuma buttons his shirt while Bishamon turns him around and straightens his tie, and for a moment their eyes catch.
It is a look that Kuraha is used to seeing: centuries' worth of love and understanding, a thousand words packed into a single glance.
But then the lady smiles, and Kazuma-san laughs, and there is an awkward embarrassed moment where the two of them seem to want to lean into each other, but instead just laugh together nervously.
"Kuraha," Bishamon says, turning. "Do you want to stay a lion or a human?" And Kuraha sees how the lady rests her hand on the small of Kazuma-san's back.
"Lion, Ojou," Kuraha says.
"Very well, then." Her eyes are sparkling. "Watch over the others until we get back."
"I will, Ojou." He swishes his tail lazily.
They turn to leave. Kazuma-san fusses over the lightness of the lady's dress-Veena, you need to wear a coat, you'll freeze-and the lady shakes her head and acquiesces to him, letting him drape the heavy coat across her shoulders. He dusts off the cat fur from the fabric, then gives the coat a satisfying tug.
If you ask an old man, he'll tell you that the two of them will be fine.