This is Zenshi's story! I'm trying a new style, in bits and pieces. You'll find him on my dA.
Eyes of Wolves
- 1 -
.: OCTOBER, SIX MONTHS AGO :.
The ship was eerily quiet for a workday, and continued to be so until the blazing sun had set, leaving a blanket of simple black to fall over Edo. He raised a hand to the glass along the ship's starboard side, but refrained from placing it. His breath misted across the surface, and he guided his fingertips in light circles until the fine blur faded away.
"Lieutenant," came a husky voice.
He turned.
"Estimated arrival time of the Captain and his crew is approximately 2100."
A nod, and the crewman scurried away.
Zenshi moved away from the window, taking long, languid steps that guided him towards the ship's bridge. Not one for many words, the Yato managed to communicate silently with most of the crew members, speaking only when he deemed necessary. There were few that completely understood the nuances of his nonverbal gestures — among those, Abuto and for the most part, Kamui — while most of the rest were quick to catch on.
He fingered the fanciful gold filigree that lined his eastern-styled apparel, absently pondering where the former resent for the overly extravagant filigree had gone. If the Harusame's 7th Division needed a more finely dressed diplomat, they would find none. Zenshi had, at some point, adopted the outfit as his own; he didn't mind using the regal stature it lent his broad shoulders to intimidate.
The crash of scent and sound and murderous intent that bombarded his senses alerted him to Kamui's return. Leave it to their captain to return to his own ship with all the excitement that this dreary planet could offer.
"Lieutenant Zenshi in cabin one, Lieutenant Zenshi in cabin one," droned the intercom.
Zenshi turned on his heel, trying to separate the dread from the exasperation.
.: APRIL, PRESENT :.
There were three things about Edo that fascinated the young Yato man with hair of a mysterious midnight hue.
One was the hospitality of strangers — at least, most of them. A majority of humans were so open to talk, to touch and feel, that he was subject to a fair portion of culture shock.
Two was, of course, earthling food. A subject, he found, was most intriguing to his race.
Three was — no, not the thinness of the air and the potency of the sun — the radiated warmth of the people he became acquainted with. Perhaps they were anomalies in the green-speckled planet. He would not know otherwise.
But for the most part, as he watched the young woman — whose name he, regretfully, still could not recall — wrap his arm in gauze, he was pleasantly surprised by the care and attention with which she tended to him.
"If you'd like, we'll be havin' dinner in about an hour," she said simply. The woman stood and quietly exited, leaving Zenshi to his own devices.
How immobile I am, was all he mused to himself. And how Kamui would laugh.
But that was no matter. He found that he was a simple man — the mention of Earth's exquisite cuisine and its particularly enticing, aromatic flavors was enough to mollify him for the time being.
.: OCTOBER, SIX MONTHS AGO :.
"So we've secured a line with Harusame's 6th Division," Abuto drawled through half a yawn. "It seems they might need our backup in their upcoming negotiations."
Most of the crew was listening, but rather characteristically, Kamui was not. Attention to affairs amongst their own was primarily Abuto's area of expertise — with an attentive shadow, Zenshi, under his wing — and the redheaded captain could care less. Unless, that is, there was blood involved.
"We'll be moving fast, and it'll be quick," Abuto said. "Hopefully."
"Hopefully," echoed one of the crew members, sighing as he twirled his umbrella and waited for the man next to him to grow tired of the swinging apparatus.
"While you'd probably be safe telling your wife you'll be home in about a month, you'd also probably be safer fighting your beloved danchou." Abuto jerked a thumb at Kamui, and a ripple of the crew's customarily uneasy laughter made its rounds. Kamui readily ignored his co-captain and gnawed on a leg of who-knows-what.
"I want two of the petty officers to accompany Zenshi to the bridge," Abuto continued. "Zenshi, you're making the calls this time."
The bland glance that the young man returned evoked a few chuckles from the rest of the Yato. Had Zenshi been a more expressive person, there would have been a much more pained look on his face.
"Oh, Zen," laughed Kamui, finally speaking up. "That means you have to talk."
A grin split the redhead's sharp features. Zenshi, as was usual, did not say anything. He simply wondered what he should make of his old friend's remarks — he wondered a lot about everything and nothing at the same time.
.: APRIL, PRESENT :.
The fatigued Yato found himself lingering at the threshold of what seemed like a very intimate, private family dinner. It was a simple kotatsu, set in the middle of the room, hosting a very vibrantly boiling hotpot full of Earth's lovely yet mysterious delicacies. Zenshi felt as if he was intruding. He began to back away.
"Ya can c'mon in, ya know."
His hand involuntarily grabbed for the umbrella handle that was not there; he was momentarily startled by the absence of his weapon and his shield, but he was quick to compose. His eyes all but flickered to his side before rising swiftly to meet hers.
The woman who had tended to his wounds.
No, she had done more than that. But that's what he would call her for now.
Alongside her sat two others: the proprietress of the place, a beautiful young woman with thick, glossy black hair. She deftly maneuvered herself in her wheelchair until the young boy — her son, a curious creature with unruly brown nest for his hair — helped her sit. She had a soft voice and a beckoning smile. Zenshi supposed he could not refuse both of them, especially not when the boy eagerly leapt aside and offered the now-vacant spot.
"Do you like hotpot?" asked the woman with the rosy cheeks and soft, pink lips.
Zenshi's gaze swept from her, to the boy, to the other woman. The third was quiet, tilting her pipe in her fingers.
"I wouldn't know."
.: EIGHTEEN YEARS AGO :.
The man must be insane. He must.
That is what the nine-year-old thinks when he is gripping the knife with his bare hands, trying to push it out of his flesh. There is hardly any thought left by the time he gets the knife out of his eye — his eye, which is probably done for, which is probably falling out, but he doesn't know because he can't see — and only pure Yato blood racing through his system. Everything is on fire, and though it is fear that races through his arms and legs like rabid dogs, his Yato blood prevails and he is tackling the man to the ground.
The man is not Yato; he doesn't smell strong.
His right hand is on his right eye — the vision has smudged into a painful, gritty black. With his left hand, he is turning the assailant's knife around, ignoring the dreadful crack when the Amanto breaks his thin child's bones. His wrist will have mending, but this is nothing he can't do.
The lights are suddenly on, it's overly bright. The sharp cries, the howls of anger, both are disconcerting. But by then, Zenshi has plunged the knife into the assassin's heart, only to hear him hoarsely whisper:
"It seems that the son is just like his father — I mistook you for him."
But how could that be true? He is only nine years old, with long blue-black hair and emotionless eyes.
The assassin is gone like a firefly extinguishing its light.
He doesn't know, but even then, he looks like his father.
.: APRIL, PRESENT :.
"What's your name?" asked the boy, his curiosity lighting up with slightly grimy face with a smile. The mother looked like she wanted to reprimand him, like she wanted to take a rag and scrub his cheeks clean, but refrained.
"Zenshi."
"Zenshi…what? No last name?"
He shook his head.
"How'd you get those scars? Are you from Earth? I don't think so, huh?" The child was overly bubbly; he reminded Zenshi of a little girl that used to live down the street from him.
"Quiet, Seita. Let the man eat in peace," scolded the mother.
"That would be a long story to tell," Zenshi told them.
"We've got a long time," replied the woman. She took on one of her inviting smiles. It was hard to back out of the conversation. "I'm Hinowa," she began decisively. "This is my son, Seita. And this is—"
"Tsukuyo," the other woman cut in curtly. She let the pipe drop from her lips, tilting it in her hand until it teetered precariously between two fingers.
"Tsukuyo…?" Zenshi lingered, slightly dipping his head. She offered a flat smirk.
"No last name."
"No last name," he echoed. Zenshi rubbed his throat, as if he had spoken too much. If it was anything, his words had been a rather dry, wan offering of thanks for what she had done for him.
"So how'd you get those scars, Zenshi-san?" piped up Seita again. Persistent, the boy was.
Zenshi had expended his words for the night. Despite the goading and coaxing, he would not succumb to the boy's pleas.
"Seita," accosted Hinowa, cutting the boy off in his tenth cry for a story. "Leave him alone."
"Then answer me this, and I'll be quiet," Seita exclaimed. "What are you?"
"Seita!"
"But Mom!"
"Yato," Zenshi replied, far too easily for his comfort. "The Yato Tribe."
Had he been asked to explain why he was here on Earth, he probably would have struggled. But he would not have held the deep apprehension he had in his heart from the few words he had just uttered.
Because the blood within him was real, and it never stopped flowing.
.: SEVEN YEARS AGO :.
He's coldhearted and stoic and independent. He knows this, and Kamui knows this, and his father knows this. His mother will deny the first, but she is the embodiment of warmth, love, and everything one could possibly crave of an emotional bond.
That's why, when it's offered, he doesn't hesitate to pack the few belongings he needs and step aboard the ship.
He doesn't wait for Kamui's taunting words — he simply followed the red of Kamui's hair to where the blood would paint them all the same color.