The snow tumbled gently down on Kurogane's body where he lay, hot, thick breaths escaping his lungs in a cloud of condensation that all but evaporated into the icy air as they rose. He bit down on his teeth, feeling his fingers tremble and his breath shake, overcome by exhaustion as a thin layer of snow settled against his body, lying in a delicate film over him as though trying to bury him alive, the same as any rock or lump or wood, the very same as the ground he lay panting on, propped up against a tree as the world slowly tilted and span in his vision.
His mind trapped in a thick haze, the burning blaze of his forehead was registered numbly and without consequence, as if the thought were trying to push its way through water, its pace slow and draining energy swiftly as it plundered on. In the end he gave up on thinking. He clenched at the hilt of his sword at his waist desperately, needing something solid and familiar to clasp on to as though to comfort himself and give him hope as his breath trembled and his thoughts slipped away, motionless on a snow-swept night on the mountains.
All was quiet and calm, silent save for the faintest whisper of wind carrying fragile flakes of snow he could barely feel against his sweat-drenched body. He had no idea how long it took for his consciousness to finally slip away, to ebb into the darkness of the peaceful night.
***
He awoke within a room with a fire crackling nearby, punctuating the silence with its crackling spatters - comforting, life-affirming and warm. Kurogane felt as though his body was slowly thawing, gradually soothed back to life by the fire in the corner and the warm quiet within the room. However, he was instantly wary, gripping for the sword at his side and finding that there was none. He flicked his eyes about the room and found it was empty bar himself and the fire spluttering peacefully beside him.
Without the strength to move, already feeling a hot and sticky sweat oozing from his skin, he lay himself back down, reasoning he should bide his time regaining his strength and he watched the flickering glow of the fire on the ceiling, bathed in a deep and warm orange that shifted gently with each spit and crack of wood. His eyes refused to close, trained solidly against the ceiling as his mind span restlessly, wondering who had taken him here and why, thinking anxiously of his mission at the other side of the mountain pass and Tomoyo-hime.
Furrowing his brows in bitter remorse, he wondered how protected she would be without him at her side. He was assured only at the thought of Souma's loyalty, of her refusal to stay anywhere but her princess' side.
And then he nearly laughed to himself. So much for making it over the mountains.
The panelling opens with a dry, wooden scrape and behind it a man carrying a tray stands. His kimono pools about the floor boards, dragging slightly though strangely his sleeves are rolled in a peasant manner and his golden hair seems to gleam in the firelight, shining warmly, tumbling down and trickling against his neck in a loosely-held pony-tail. His pale skin glows a creamy white and the steam drifts appetisingly from the bowl he carries, forming miniature wafts of clouds in the cold, icy air.
Without a glance towards Kurogane, the man balances his tray on one arm and slides the panel smoothly shut with a muffled clack, sealing them together in the warm, fire-lit room. Finally, he looks down upon Kurogane and smiles, taking in his fierce glare, eyes deeply narrowed in both apprehension and suspicion.
"Don't worry, I'm only trying to help," he says and his voice drifts softly to where Kurogane lies, its soothing lilt wrapping warmly about him though he tries not to allow his suspicions to be dulled.
He makes to get up but the blonde man snaps, "Don't move," and Kurogane is immediately stilled, gritting his teeth at once with annoyance and exertion. It felt like the fibres of his muscles were prepared to snap as he tried to prop himself up with his arms and thankfully, he collapsed back down on to the futon.
So he was resigned to lie about here in some strange room… how pitiful…
Now the man was kneeling at Kurogane's side, laying a hand against his burning, sweat-soaked brow, pursing his lips in thought while Kurogane lies back down on his futon with silent relish, the painful knots in his muscles unwinding. This man's hands are thin and cold, he realises, his eyes are pale and depthless… It seemed his thoughts were still jumbled are clouded, lying in a stinted, tangled mess in his mind from which he could barely define and remove sense and coherency. It panics him for a moment, makes him fear he may be caught off-guard as this stranger busies himself about him but his motions set Kurogane slightly more at ease, smooth and careful.
If the other man realises Kurogane is staring at his strange manner of clothing or odd colouring then he merely smiles the apprehension away, gently laying a soaked rag against his forehead, the cold water trickling blissfully down his skin in icy sluices. The man then rearranged his pillows so that he could almost sit upright, propped up beside the fire, silently and without a single glance. He raised a glass of warm water to Kurogane's lips, boiled and cooled in a separate room, and he drank it with pleasure, for a small moment forgetting that he was allowing another man to care for him and barely caring at all as the warm water slid soothingly down his throat – not hot enough to burn and just cool enough to gently warm him from the inside. From his new sitting position, he could see the details of the man's face with greater clarity – the soft, curved shape to his face and large blue eyes, a chilling hue, the sharp edges to his features and his thin, smiling lips… it was a careful smile: polite yet welcoming, pleasant but at the very same time distant.
He removed the water with the same steady care and now clasped a soup bowl in hand, slowly lifting the spoon, brimming with a liquid, lurid green, to his lips. Kurogane's mouth remained shut, glaring pointedly towards the disgusting soup, deeming this blow to his pride to be far too heavy for him to tolerate.
The blonde man sighed. "It's only herbs. They'll help to cool your fever." He paused, glancing between the ill samurai and his home-brewed soup. "Would it help if I swallowed some? To prove it's not poisoned?"
Kurogane's eyes narrow, tempted to blurt out, 'I'd like to see you try to feed me your damn soup!' only to find the words stumble and dissolve in his mouth, another bead of sweat forming against his skin. Overcome by confusion and exhaustion, he watches the other man raise the spoon and swiftly swallow the vile liquid it contained, immediately dunking it in the bowl again and bringing it towards Kurogane. Realising his stern pout and narrow eyes had gone unchanged, he lightly laughed. "My, my, you must have been more important than we first thought… If it's the spoon-feeding you're hesitant about then feel free to lift your arm and feed yourself." He dribbled the soup from the spoon back into the bowl and held it out towards Kurogane, easily in his reach.
'Gladly' Kurogane thought to himself with a smirk, latching out only to find his arm trembled and felt like a leaden weight against his body. It shook, shining with a thin layer of sweat and he hastily snatched it away and burrowed it under the covers again.
The other man raised his eyebrows, giving a triumphant smirk. "Thought so…" he mumbled, averting his gaze and dipping the spoon back into the soup. "Just remember who's offering you shelter and food until you're well again. And who has your sword locked in his room." At which he gave a curved smile, knowing and wicked, his eyes sparkling with an enthused gleam.
Kurogane gave a weak snort, recognising blackmail and, after another hesitant pause, reluctantly allowed the blonde man to tip the soup into his mouth, opening it just a fraction. And though it was warm, slipping easily down Kurogane's throat with a soothing heat, the taste nearly caused him to gag. It had the bitter and undeniable taste of raw vegetation, flakes of steaming weed and grass, sitting repulsively on his taste-buds. He wished he could raise his raise his arm and feed himself, give himself some independence at the very least, he wished to snatch the bowl straight from the blonde's clutches and walk straight out the door without having to deal with his meddling, but still this man had potentially saved his life and it would be wrong to say he didn't feel the tiniest sliver of gratitude to him for that. In the meantime, unfortunately he would be forced to trust him.
The blonde man smiled gently, even through Kurogane's reluctant glowers, barely acting as though he were feeding another man at all, whispering as he spooned yet another dose of that vile soup into Kurogane's mouth, "You have nothing to prove to me. And I have nothing to prove to you. You will leave and no-one will ever recall that a scholar cared for a samurai." Strangely, this did seem to soothe Kurogane, relaxing his tensed muscles and allowing himself to fall back on to the pillow at the sound of his softly-spoken words.
A scholar, eh? Seemed to suit him somehow, mixed and mysterious as he was…
And once his meal was over, the scholar set his soup bowl down on to the tray and helped him to lie on his back once more. He stoked the fire, rechecked Kurogane's temperature and tidied away the dishes, all with surprising silence and swiftness.
When he was done with this, he smiled down on his lodger, serenely, comfortingly, and simply said, "My name is Fye. But you should rest now," in that same gentle breath that washed so peacefully over Kurogane. Fye placed the back of his hand against his forehead again, stroking it with care, and much though it sent a stab of frustration through Kurogane, he shut his eyes as commanded. Wary at first, he soon found himself drifting into sleep as that hand brushed lightly over his brow, sinking into a deep and solid darkness, an utterly silent slumber.
a/n: Posted especially for 09/09/09! This fanfiction is based on an old Japanese short story called the 'Chrysanthemum Promise' by Ueda Akinari about a scholar who takes care of an ill samurai and eventually they become good friends and then more than friends. When they part, they agree to meet again on the day of the Chrysanthemum Festival on 09/09. I won't spoil the ending though. I have to admit, I did take quite a few liberties but I didn't want to make it OOC or too difficult to write. I hope you enjoyed it and I would love it if you told me if you did since I barely have any of this written and it would definitely entice me to post more ^^'