Chapter 4
He slid the shoji shut behind him. His parents sat at an angle to one another, and he sat in seiza opposite the vertex. He served himself, as he had since he was old enough to know how not to burn his fingers on the kettle. It was quiet when he blew on his tea.
"The beginnings of a lovely spring, wouldn't you say, Takeshi?" his mother said. His parents were beyond affection.
"Yes, a cool summer is coming, I think," his father replied. His father rarely called his mother by her name. Kyuzo couldn't even remember him saying it. Silence hung as the small cakes were bit into. Kyuzo let them pass; he still couldn't stand their sickly sweet taste. His parents talked on, and he lost himself in their congenial conversation.
They had always been like that, behaving as though they were strangers on a train, passing the time. The three of them stood out from the rest of their family, or rather, blended easily with the silent background. When they were amongst them, they appeared to have been denied their inheritance of the power of speech. And he was a defenceless toddler when his aunts pounced, pinching, shrieking, cooing.
"Thank goodness he looks like his mother," they said when they first saw him. Obviously, he learned to be more evasive. He could already deliver an incredibly cold stare by the age of eight. He never sulked, no mood swings: he was a dream to raise. He was an even greater kohai. He had bested his sensei three years. His sharp mind was only matched by his blade. Despite all this abundance of talent, he was never boastful, and very few knew his name.
"More tea, Takeshi?"
"I'm fine for now."
His mother always used his father's name when she spoke. So as not to forget, he was once told. Home was vaudeville. They continued to talk, he in silence. The meaning of their words so deep and complicated that none but those with such a bond could hope to interpret.
The silences in between were near stifling. The glances at him flitted too quick to be seen, but scalding enough to be felt. But, why didn't they say anything? Or could they not?
They continued to talk to themselves, never once mentioning him, or the impending battle, or even the strange and yet unexplained presence of Aya; she could barely be called a distant relative. After a while, their voices became a solemn hum in the background, and he concentrated on the fire under the kettle. Each flame appeared to act of its own accord, doing whatever it could to reach the kettle. Some flicker and disappear, but those that reach the kettle made a black mark on it. He grinned as he watched a bright blue flame lick the tip of the spout.
"Weather like this brings back memories," his father said softly. His mother smiled, but she didn't reply. She looked at her son and radiated pride, then grief, smothered as quickly as it came. Kyuzo didn't need to see her face to feel her sentiments. He did not say anything to comfort her. What could he have said, anyway?