What is this house?
Its foundations are trembling.
Brother cuts his own brother's throat...
- Maanam, "Kreon"
Katakura Kojūrō stood in the doorway leading to the great hall and, stony-faced, regarded the scene before his eyes. Hard was for him to comprehend what he saw and what had happened during merely two days of his absence. He clenched his jaw at the thought that perhaps his very absence had contributed in the tragedy which results he was watching now. He had only left to the regular inspection of the border posts in the south. Time had been as good as ever. Nothing had portended...
He clenched his fists. He was shaken but - he realized - not surprised. A premonition had made him hurry home. He had pinched his horse, ignoring the beauty of the summer eve. The scent of flowers, almost intoxicating, couldn't drive away the smell of blood he had unexpectedly remembered. Full-moon, rising in the velvet sky, couldn't draw him away from the dismal thoughts and the anxiety that wrung his insides. The visions that had kept coming before his eyes hadn't glowed with the calm moonlight. The bird-singing had been drowned out by the rattle of hoofs and the clatter of the swords he had pressed his hand to, looking for the firmness of steel, that had always offered him a comfort. And he rushed his horse even more.
All too late.
Lady Yoshihime was wailing over the body of her younger son, accompanied by, more or less sincere, weeping of the other ladies. Kojiro-dono rested in her arms - pale, cold and definitely dead. Blood on his chest had stiffened into dark carmine times ago. His face was quiet, as if the dead had came to him in the beautiful sleep... Hair scattered, in his mother's embrace, almost smiling, he seemed more child that he really was. The golden light of lamps was touching his delicate features, but it wasn't able to liven him in the slightest. The face of Lady Yoshihime, bending over him, was a mask of pain. Long ago had she run out of tears that had ruined her careful make-up, making her resemble a frightening demon now. Indeed, she impersonated the grief itself.
Kojūrō knelt by Kojiro's corpse and bowed his head, paying him last respects. He closed his eyes and prayed for the peace of his soul. He brushed away a thought he had never been particularly close to the young master. Kojiro was Date - a future and another branch sprouting from the family tree. Kojūrō looked into his lifeless face, and then his eyes, almost unconsciously, shifted to the youth's chest. Pang in his heart, he noticed the blow had been struck with precision and intent to kill. There had been no room for chance. There had been no room for hesitation.
Yoshihime raised her eyes on him, as if she only now realized he was there. Something flickered in her gaze. Kojūrō swallowed hard at the thought she had always disliked him. But then her eyes again faded away when, forgetting Kojūrō, she looked at her dead son, whose head was lying on her lap, and took up her lament.
Kojūrō fleetingly reflected she truly had to love him.
He didn't know which was cruelty and which was mercy: to tear the mother away from mourning for her son or to let her stay by his cold corpse. He decided on the latter, aware he wouldn't be happy with the former either. Hopefully, someone wiser would order Lady Yoshihime to retire - or she would lose her strength and let her maids take care of herself.
His legs led him to the kitchen, although he realized it only when a servant passed him a bottle of sake. He didn't even know if he had asked for it. He wasn't able to focus and think. He was under the impression the world had trembled in its foundations, making all familiar and clear suddenly turn strange. He was a warrior and looked at the death with experienced eyes. He lived in the age when killing in order to come to power was commonplace. Yet, until now, it had never happened so close, never been so tangible. Never before had he witnessed something like that in the clan he served. For a moment, he wondered if he should be so shocked at all; perhaps he should think of it only as of one page the people's life was being written in. For a moment, it seemed to him he didn't know anything.
He looked at the clear liquid, swirling in the bottle. He felt like drinking and forgetting all that had happened. If only had it been so easy... Besides, a general shouldn't turn to booze for comfort like a common soldier. He put the bottle on the table, only now paying attention to the surroundings.
"...challenged Kojiro-sama to a duel..."
"...ruthlessly took his life..."
"...didn't bat an eyelid..."
"...didn't even look at him, only turned and left with his blade dripping with blood..."
"...demon..."
"...heartless..."
Servants had to be equally shaken, otherwise they wouldn't speak so freely in Right Eye of the Dragon's presence. Perhaps, he could hear the shade of thrill in their voices, but, undoubtedly, everyone was terrified. The grief and the real mourning stayed in the main hall with Lady Yoshihime and her court.
He turned and left. He could imagine it all, even if he didn't try. His mind produced the images, one after another. The impassive look and stony face, precisely laid thrusts and cuts. And then, again, he saw the face od Kojiro-dono, amazingly peaceful.
He rubbed his forehead. The silver moonlight almost blinded him when he stepped outside. Had it been not for Lady Yoshihime's wail, he wouldn't believe the evening had been disturbed. The air was warm, the wind brought the scent of jasmine. The cicadas and nightingales were singing as always. The moon softened the angles with its light and lengthened the shadows.
He climbed to the last floor, guided not only with intuition, but experience as well. A slender silhouette loomed against the moon disc. Straight back, square shoulders. He seemed like a statue. He could stay there ever, unaffected, stony. The wind blowing from the mountains stirred his hair, and then the illusion of life disappeared. It seemed the brother laying some floors down wasn't more dead.
Kojūrō didn't dare to come closer. He cursed himself for that fear, wringing his insides and whispering it was a demon before him - a demon who, in cold blood, had murdered his own brother in order to come to power. For a moment he really believed it, when looking at the figure, repelling with almost physical coldness.
Masamune's shoulders fell almost unnoticeably. Kojūrō shook his head, cursing his own foolishness; cursing the world they happened to live in and where killing was the order of the day, as justified as breathing; cursing his own skills that, perhaps, had made his Lord a fratricide.
And cursing his own soul, relieved that it was Kojiro who lay dead in the main hall of the castle.
None of them was without blame.
Killing Kojiro didn't make Masamune a man. It made him seem more an immature child than ever before. And it made him an orphan, for his one blow stripped him of both brother and mother.
He came closer and stood next to his trust and closest companion. A single tear glistened in the moonlight and slid down the cheek, in strangely ideal way combining with Lady Yoshihime's lament, audible here too. Kojūrō thought never before had Masamune and Yoshihime expressed such an unanimity. And then, right away, he realized what price had been paid for them to reach it and asked himself who had paid more: Yoshihime, who couldn't acknowledge her first-born and had incited the younger son to takeover... or Masamune, whose hands had been stained by the blood of his brother.
Kojūrō cursed the order of the world. Praised by the tales and passed through the history, it seemed somewhat heroic, right and justified. The reality was left with tears and blood. And harms no-one was to blame for and no-one could redress. There was no poetry in it.
Masamune staggered, and Kojūrō reached an arm to support him. Masamune stiffened, but then his muscles relaxed. He closed his eyes. "Only for a moment," he whispered in a hoarse voice, resting his forehead on Kojūrō's chest.
Kojūrō embraced his shoulders, shaken by a silent sob. He remembered his life by Masamune-sama's side. He remembered all the times when this brave boy had came to him with these words. Only for a moment. Wronged by fate since being a child, he had grown up to become an extremely bright person. Only sometimes, when honour of man and of the first son of noble house couldn't ease his pain, he appeared to shed the shameful tears on the shoulder of only man he could trust.
Date Masamune. One-Eyed Dragon. Demon.
He was a human like the others.
Kojūrō said his farewell to Kojiro-dono, once more cursing himself for a thought it was better that way.
He could have never served him.
He took a deep breath, inhaling the mountain air that smelled of resin. The moonlight was bathing the scenery all the way to horizon. The cicadas were still singing, and nothing else was interrupting the quietness of an evening. For the first time that day, Kojūrō felt the calmness settle upon him.
The only man he would gladly die for was here by him.