Warning: graphic violence of a sexual nature
Chapter 12 The Final Barter
"Through the violence and the rage,
By the grace of love, be still.
And the spirit that breaks free from the cage
Is the one they cannot kill."
"Children of Paradise"
Justin Hayward
Three days.
Ikkaku had been walking for three days. He'd not gone into any towns or villages. He'd not even stopped at any of the settlements that dotted this northern country. He'd taken his meals from the small but well-stocked satchel Yumichika had prepared for him on the morning of his departure. He'd slept in the open, far removed from civilization.
He had not chosen any specific route. His state-of-mind was such that order and purpose had no place. He hadn't searched for a confrontation. He hadn't even thought about it.
Instead, as he walked in the darkness, gazing at the distant lights that marked the existence of homesteads and villages, he found himself wondering what kind of lives the souls within were living.
Did the occupants of those dwellings feel as if they belonged there? Were they happy? Were they cared for? There was a time when Ikkaku would have envied – even despised—them for their fortuitous circumstances. He would have asked himself why he did not deserve the same joy as others.
But now, he was asking himself why had he fled just the thing he had so coveted in others? He had felt at home with Yumichika. He knew Yumichika cared for him. He'd been . . . perhaps not happy, but at least content. And that was more than he could say for any other time in his life.
Then he'd gone and done something stupid and thoughtless.
And Yumichika had forgiven him.
Finally, someone gave a damn about him – truly, genuinely valued him. At last, he knew what it felt like . . .
"You just aren't cut out for the contemplative life, child."
. . . to be wanted.
It was a heady sensation, but also frightening. What kind of guarantee did he have that it would last? Other events in his life – at least his life in the living world – had started off with promise.
They had all ended dismally.
He did not want his relationship with Yumichika to take the same sort of downward turn.
Yumichika, in one soul, had taken the place of everything Ikkaku had never had.
"He's a very clever child, but he has no aptitude for a life of serenity and prayer. He—he's not at all restful. He's combative. He doesn't get along with the other novices. He just doesn't fit in here. It's not his calling."
"I'm at my wit's end! What else am I supposed to do? The boy can't come back to the house. My wife won't stand the sight of him—"
"Which is your own fault—"
"I know my mistakes. You don't need to remind me. The point is she won't have him in the house, and his mother's name can't even be spoken in her presence. What am I to do? I can't throw him into the street. He's my own flesh and blood—"
"When have you ever cared about that? You just don't want the townspeople to think badly of you. It's your reputation you're worried about."
"Not just my reputation but my entire family! My standing in this town is something I've worked a long time for. I'm not going to let one mistake ruin it."
"Then you will have to find someplace else for the boy. He can't stay here."
"I tell you . . . I wish his mother had taken my advice, and then this problem wouldn't exist."
"You would take an innocent life to spare your own inconvenience?"
"It's not a life if it's not born yet."
A long silence followed.
"I think you have much greater things to worry about than your reputation, Madarame-san. Your soul is in jeopardy. Not only that, but your attitude is endangering your child's soul. I pray he does not grow up to be like you."
He would never forget it.
One conversation among dozens – spoken as if he weren't even there to hear every word. Or as if he didn't understand the things being said. But he had understood. Even as a small child, when many of the words were unknown to him, he'd understood the sentiments. He'd learned early on what it meant to be unwanted, and he had decided long ago that if no one wanted him, then he would beat them to the punch. He would want no one. He would repel and repulse everyone before they had a chance to reject him. There was nothing worth desiring in any human soul anyway.
He had lived that way his entire life and carried that mindset with him into Soul Society. It was little wonder to him that he had ended up in the lowest district of the Rukongai; but rather than bemoan his situation, he had relished the chance to indulge his anger and hatred, and he took it with him into every district he visited.
And then a man at a well had given him a cup of water. That same man had stood up to his temper and his belligerence, had taken him in and taught him what selflessness was. Yumichika had shown him, for the first time in his life, how it felt to be welcome, to be wanted. He'd taught him the meaning of patience, of forgiveness.
Ikkaku had not known how to react. He still didn't. It had been only the fact of Yumichika's tolerance that they had managed to stick around each other long enough to form a friendship.
Ikkaku frowned. He had almost destroyed that friendship in a moment of weakness. That realization had made him aware of just how deeply he cared for Yumichika. How could he make it up to him for the hurt he had caused?
This was the question that followed him as he journeyed further over the next several days. The northern land into which he sojourned was mountainous and green, even in winter, the lower elevations covered with pines, the upper reaches rocky and snow-covered. Some of the valleys were narrow and rocky with fast-flowing brooks running clear over fine gray pebbles; others were wide with expansive water meadows and shallow, slow-flowing streams with thin layers of ice forming at the edges.
It was, by far, the most beautiful country Ikkaku had ever seen.
Yet, it wasn't just the look of the land. There was something else. It was the feeling he got walking through the forests, following the paths of the streams, hearing the sounds of winter birds he had never heard before, somewhere deep in the blackness of the forest. The smells, the way the air felt against his skin. It was as if the landscape had its own riatsu.
Late one morning as he descended one of the mountains, he came to a broad glade where the morning dew had frozen on the grass, making the whole place look like it was covered in crystals. Yumichika immediately came to mind. This reminded him of the glade where Yumichika had come to Soul Society. He stopped and looked about him. There was a derelict, half-tumbled down ruin of a stone dwelling in one corner. He could even make out the overgrown boundaries of a small garden. It was an idyllic setting, but one Ikkaku could never accept. So far removed from any sign of civilization. So quiet. So dull.
He began walking again, finding an old, worn path on the downhill side of the glade. He had not gone far when he heard the pealing of a bell, and coming to a break in the trees, he saw below, a small village. He decided it was time to go in search of something to supplement the dwindling contents of his satchel. He quickened his pace.
Just outside the village, he met a man on the road, pushing a cart filled with square cuts of peat. As he overtook him, he was surprised when the man regarded him with a friendly grin.
"It's going to be a cold day," the man remarked.
"Feels like it," Ikkaku replied, surprised that he had no inclination towards his usual demeanor. "Let me help you with that."
"Oh, you don't have to," the man replied.
"I'd be happy to help," Ikkaku insisted.
The man relented. "That's very kind of you." They walked on a bit. "You just passing through?"
"Yeah. Just . . . roaming around, I guess," Ikkaku replied. "I live to the south, on the Ulandsee."
"Oh, nice country, that," the man nodded appreciatively. "I've only seen it once, but I still remember it like it was yesterday."
"The scenery is beautiful," Ikkaku agreed, leaving unspoken his opinion of the more unsavory aspects of the place.
"Do you live in the village?" Ikkaku asked.
"No, I live up the valley just a short way. Did you come through the valley?"
"No, I came over the mountain," Ikkaku answered.
"Ah. Well, if you had come through the valley, you'd have passed my peat farm," the man explained. "Everything's still pretty old-fashioned out here."
Ikkaku grinned. "In Mito, as well."
"Is that the name of your village?"
"It's where I live," Ikkaku replied, not completely agreeable to the idea of accepting Mito as his village. It was where Yumichika lived – and that was the only reason Ikkaku stayed there.
"Well, if you're used to the old ways, then you'll find plenty to like while you're visiting," the man stated.
"Right now, I'm hoping to find some sake," Ikkaku said.
The man chuckled. "Oh, there's plenty of that – the best around. And then some."
Ikkaku regarded him askance, speaking the question with his eyes.
The man answered readily. "There's tastier spirits than wine, my friend. If you have some time, I'd be happy to show you."
Yumichika held the kimono up to the candlelight and nodded once in approval. He had done a good job. The lack of glossy gold thread and the substitution of matte thread dulled the visual only minimally. It was a find piece of work, and he felt it would sell easily at the weekend market in Paikuu. With any luck, it would bring enough to buy some fresh fish for kibbeling and enough oranges to make a decent pakash, what with Hali on the way. Yumichika felt there should be some small indulgence allowed for the observation of a holiday. He smiled as he admired his work and hoped that Ikkaku would be back in time to see it before it sold.
Nearly two weeks had passed since Ikkaku's departure, and Yumichika admittedly was getting worried. He still believed Ikkaku had intended to return, only now he wondered if he'd run into trouble. After so many months without fighting, perhaps he had fallen out of practice and met with someone capable of defeating him. Yumichika would wait one more week before setting out to search for him.
He set the kimono aside and stretched with a yawn. It was nearly midnight. He hadn't meant to stay up so late, but he'd been inspired, and he'd not wanted to break his rhythm. And he'd also hoped that during the late hours, Ikkaku might finally return.
But he hadn't, and the work was finished. It was time to turn in. As he stood up, he heard a shuffling sound on the front porch. His immediate thought was that Ikkaku was back, injured, and struggling at the door. Yumichika never locked the door until he went to bed, so if Ikkaku were having trouble, he must be badly injured.
He was about to slide the door open, but instead it opened from the other side.
Hinsamoi stood in the door way.
Yumichika visibly startled. "Hinsamoi . . . I—I wasn't expecting you. It's so late."
"I know," Hinsamoi replied. His eyes darted quickly around the room. "Madarame is still not back?"
Yumichika felt the warmth rising in his cheeks.
"I expect him any minute," he lied.
"Do you, now?" Hinsamoi asked, clearly expecting no answer. "No one ever knows his comings or goings. He's unpredictable."
Yumichika wanted the visit to end. "I was getting ready to go to bed. Was there something you wanted?"
Hinsamoi leaned in past the doorframe. He spoke in a low, lurid voice. "You know what I want, Yumichika-san."
"Is that why you're here?" Yumichika frowned. "You know I don't do that anymore."
"Because of Madarame." It was a question and a statement.
"Partly."
"I miss you, Yumichika. We all miss you." As he spoke, he took a step forward, clearing the way for more men to step into view.
Yumichika's pulse quickened. "Why—why are you all here? I told you, I don't do that anymore."
"Until now," one of the men stated, leaning in to cast a leering gaze. "You've been carrying on this game long enough."
Yumichika did not reply but reached out to close the door. Hinsamoi and two more men lurched forward to block it. Yumichika made only a brief attempt to close the door, but it was clear he could not overpower the men on the other side. He had only one choice. He raced to the wash porch where he was met by several more men.
He turned back, but Hinsamoi and the others had already moved in behind him. They took hold of his arms and dragged him to the floor where he fought frantically, knowing full well that he could not defeat them. They were much bigger than he was and much stronger; but if he could manage to elude their grasp, he might be able to flee and outrun them.
He was too terrified to even think of calling on his abilities, and Hinsamoi noticed this right away. He planted a knee on Yumichika's stomach and knelt close. "What's wrong? Can't you use those seductive tricks of yours?"
Yumichika bucked him off balance and twisted violently, breaking loose from the men holding him down and managing to get to his feet, but he had no chance. He heard the laughter as they caught him again. They spun him from one to the next, until at last, he did something he had never done before. He clenched his fist and struck one of them across the face, knocking the man to the floor. The action surprised all of them; but while his attackers stood momentarily stunned, Yumichika one-shotted a second man and bolted for the front door. He made it outside to the garden and had his hands on the gate, but that was as far as he got.
Kaso, the oil-monger, reached an arm around Yumichika's neck and pulled him back. But this move Yumichika could defend against. He used the same move he had used on Ikkaku in the orchard, stepping back to throw Kaso off-balance, and then hurling him over his shoulder. He leapt over Kaso's sprawled body and grabbed the latch on the gate again; but this time, he felt arms wrap around his waist. He held onto the gate with all his might until two of his assailants began pounding on his arms. His left hand slipped loose under the beating, but he felt the bone snap in his right forearm.
A cry of pain burst from his lips, and he was pulled back into a maze of arms where he was held fast as he screamed for help. Hinsamoi stepped in front of him and laughed with a small shake of his head.
"You can scream as much as you want," he said. "There's no one in this village who's going to help you. They're more likely to join us."
Yumichika, shaking with pain and terror, looked back at him, unable to find his voice or even think of words to say. Nothing was going to stop them. He knew that.
"You thought you could just take yourself away from us," Hinsamoi went on. "You thought you could leave us behind for Madarame." He leaned forward, his face directly before Yumichika's. "You can't get away from us. You'll never be able to take yourself away from us." He reached his arms around Yumichika's waist and untied his obi. "You belong to us."
Yumichika jumped up, put his feet in Hinsamoi's chest and pushed him away. As he and the men holding him tumbled to the ground, he heard a voice calling to him.
"Master! Master!"
Yumichika scrambled to his feet. "Help me!" he called out desperately. "Help me!" He headed for the gate again, only getting a few steps before someone grabbed his ankle, and he slammed to the ground. He was pulled to his feet and the kimono torn from his body. He was punched and beaten until he could no longer support his own weight. His knees buckled and he found himself being held up only by the arms of the other men.
Hinsamoi appeared in front of him again. "Why are you even trying to fight us? You know you don't have a chance. It's time for you to pay us back for all the months you've been withholding." He paused and a dark gleam showed in his eye. "After this, you won't owe us anything."
The reikon was frantic.
He knew what was happening. He knew the danger his master was facing, but he could not reach him. He called out again and again, but other than his master's one cry for help, he received no response. The terror was too consuming, the pain too great. It was so powerful, it frightened even the reikon.
"Kimi . . . master, " he pleaded, "Answer me . . . please, answer me."
And still, there was no response – only the fear.
The reikon could not be sure that his master was even hearing him. "Use me . . . use me like you used to. I know I told you it was wrong, but it's the only way. Don't let them do this to you. Come to me! Come to me! Let me help you!"
His pleas went unanswered.
Yumichika could not move.
How long had it been going on? How many times had they assaulted him?
He didn't know how many men there were. Or whether they were using their own bodies or other implements to carry out their attacks.
He no longer cared. He had ceased to be aware of anything but the pain. The men's riotous laughter had faded into a faint echo. Their taunts and insults were incomprehensible. The entire episode felt like a terrible dream from which he could not wake up. The things they were doing to his body seemed detached and far away, but the hurt was immediate. And somewhere, in the remote corners of his mind, he could not help but chastise and berate himself for having been so wrong about the direction things had been taking. How could he have ever fooled himself into thinking that these men would ever do an honest business with him? How could he have thought they would feel anything for him but contempt?
They had been plotting the whole time, waiting for Ikkaku to depart so they could take their revenge. And it wasn't a revenge directly solely at Yumichika. It was aimed at Ikkaku as well. But it was a foolish plan, for while Yumichika could not strike back, Madarame could. With all the anger and hatred in his heart, Ikkaku would have no qualms about killing every single one of them.
"Look at me. Yumichika, look at me."
It was Hinsamoi's voice.
Yumichika focused long enough to bring the man's face into blurred view.
"This is your own fault. You know that, don't you?" Hinsamoi accused. "You made the wrong choice. And I'm going to make sure everyone knows the choice you made." He raised his hand, in which a pair of tongs held a glowing, red ember from the brazier. "Hold his head."
One of the men grabbed his jaw and started to turn his head to the side, but the sight of the ember stirred what little strength Yumichika still possessed, and he began to fight as best as his injuries would allow.
"Hold him down, you idiots!" Hinsamoi ordered, at which several more pairs of hands quickly subdued Yumichika's struggles.
A searing pain preceded the smell of burnt flesh, and Yumichika felt the bile come rushing up his throat. But his convulsions did nothing to dissuade his attackers, who snickered and jeered as they watched Hinsamoi inscribed his message first on one cheek, then the other.
When Hinsamoi finished, his audience cheered his accomplishment. He felt several cool droplets against his skin, which had grown hot and fevered with lust for the pain he was inflicting. He looked up into the sky, for they were still outside, at the bottom of the steps into Yumichika's machiya; and he could see that it was starting to rain.
It was time to conclude the night's activities. Turning to Youni, he handed him the tongs. "Bring me another ember."
As Youni went inside, Hinsamoi turned back to Yumichika and fondled him with perverse tenderness. "A final parting gift . . . to ensure you stay pure from here on." He rolled Yumichika onto his stomach just as Youni returned with the ember.
"No one else will have you now," he announced.
"Stop."
Hinsamoi looked up to see who had spoken. To his surprise, Yori stepped forward.
"You don't need to do that to him," he stated plainly. "Look at him. He's going to die, anyway. You don't need to take it that far."
Hinsamoi gave a sneering laugh. "Why are you drawing the line here? You didn't care about everything else we did to him."
"This is too far," Youni said in an even voice. "It's too grotesque."
"For you, perhaps," Hinsamoi said dismissively, then turned back to complete his task.
This time is was Bakla, the metal smith, who intervened, taking firm hold of Hinsamoi's shoulder.
"Yori's right," he said. "He'll die soon, and we've made our point."
Hinsamoi jerked away from him and stood up, tossing the ember and tongs to the ground. "If you don't have the stomach for it, then fine. I'm not going to argue with you bastards." With that, he left the garden as the rain started to come down more heavily.
Within seconds, the garden was empty.
Except for its owner.
He had been searching for what seemed an eternity. In this world, where time held no sway, it might have been a lifetime. Panic had overtaken him, for he could not hear his master's voice or even sense his riatsu. Yet, he had to still be alive, or else he would no longer exist.
At last, he stopped his frantic search and settled down to concentrate his senses. In his mind's eye, he could see nothing. There was no sign of his master. Just as he was about to despair of ever finding him, a faint sound reached into his consciousness.
It was crying . . . his master crying. The sound drove a stab of agony into his heart. It was a sound he should never hear. He closed his eyes and followed it. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself in the cavern where the pool was.
Lying at the water's edge was Yumichika, and he was not moving.
"Master!" the reikon cried out, swooping to his side and dropping to his knee next to him. "Master! Kimi . . . kimi-san . . . "
The mosaic of light that always surrounded his master's body was dim; and looking at his injuries, the reikon could see why. Yumichika had been tortured and tormented and left to die slowly and in agony.
The most gruesome injuries were the two kanjis, one burned into each cheek.
Madarame's Whore.
They were horrific, and yet the reikan knew they were not the worst injuries by far. The greatest damage was hidden inside, only hinted at by the fluctuating patches of dark color pushing through the pale light. A terrible fear took hold of him. He did not know if he had the energy to heal such extensive damage.
He placed a gentle hand on Yumichika's broken arm, only to be met by a moan of pain and a terrified attempt to withdraw.
"Kimi . . . it's me, it's me," he said softly.
"D-don't touch me," came the feeble response, fearful and barely a whisper.
"You have to let me try to heal you," the reikon implored.
Yumichika's answer was chilling.
"Let me die."
The reikon drew back in horror. He was not about to let his master die. He would do everything he could to save him. But it pained him to see Yumichika so afflicted and to know that his best efforts may not be enough.
"You're not going to die," he said with assuredness. "I won't let you."
Amidst moans of agony, he gathered Yumichika into his arms and set off for the maroon room. During the journey, he could not stop looking down into his master's face. Even in his barely conscious state, the desolation and defeat were fully palpable; and this worried the reikon more than anything else, for if Yumichika were not willing to fight his way back, the reikon doubted that he had enough power to heal him on his own.
He could hardly believe it, but he found himself hoping and wishing for something he had never imagined he would want: Madarame's return.
The sun was just above the horizon. In thirty minutes it would be dark, and it looked like the rain was going to start again at any second. Ikkaku quickened his pace. He could reach the village before nightfall if he hurried. Instead of searching for a warm, safe place to sleep, he would be in the assured comfort of Yumichika's home. Even better, Yumichika would prepare a good meal and have something clean for him to wear.
A smile crossed Ikkaku's face. He'd been gone for two and a half weeks, and the time away had done him good. He'd spent most of that time in the village in the mountain valley. It was called Venla, and he'd grown very comfortable there in a short period of time –so comfortable, in fact, that he'd not once felt the need or desire to fight. That was quite an accomplishment.
He reached the outskirts of the village as the wind began to pick up, sending the people hurrying indoors. As he passed through the streets, he was met with the usual glares of hatred, but this time there was something different. There was an element of smug satisfaction that Ikkaku could not account for.
As the first drops of rain began to fall, he increased his pace, reveling in the fact that he'd be safe indoors when the full fury of the storm broke, drinking sake and listening to Yumichika's enthusiastic recounting of the events of the last two weeks.
But as he drew near the machiya, a chill fell over him. Yumichika's riatsu, which had become fairly present to Ikkaku, was absent – or not quite absent, but only barely perceptible. Ikkaku's fear escalated when he saw that the gate was open, banging in the wind.
He raced forward and coming around the edge of fence, stopped dead, unable to move for several seconds. The sight that met his eyes was something from a nightmare.
Yumichika lay face-down and naked at the bottom of the steps in front of his machiya.
"Yumichika?" he whispered. "Yumichika?" He took a few stilted steps into the garden, before breaking into a desperate run. "Yumichika!" He slid to his knees beside him. He could hear his own heart pounding in his ears as he took in the damage. Yumichika's body was covered with bruises and abrasions, certain areas swollen and distended, clear indication of what had been done to him.
"Yumichika . . . " Ikkaku's voice was strained as he gently rolled him onto his back. A gasp of horror escaped his lips, and he turned away to retch. Yumichika's face was a ghastly mask of blood, vomit, and mud-caked wounds.
The rage exploded in Ikkaku's heart. He was looking at the purposeful infliction of the most brutal beating he had ever seen – and he had seen a lot. Ikkaku wanted nothing more at that moment than to find those responsible and kill them. He didn't want a fight. He didn't want a contest. He wanted their deaths.
But he had a more urgent matter to deal with. He had to get help, for Yumichika's injuries were beyond his ability to handle. He lifted Yumichika into his arms, took him inside and laid him on the bed. Then he went back outside, oblivious to the wind and the freezing rain, and headed for the village healer, whose home was on the other side of the village.
He pounded on the door and called out, "Open up! I need help! Hurry! Open up!"
The doctor, whose name was Lukan, opened the door. He was a large, heavy man with drooping eyes and many folds of chin that gave him the look of a walrus. He displayed no sense of urgency. He did not even acknowledge Ikkaku or inquire after the emergency, but rather stood staring without speaking.
"I need help! It's Yumichika—he's—someone's beat him up and—and—" He couldn't bring himself to say it. "He needs help badly!"
The doctor was unconcerned. "I'm busy."
Ikkaku was stunned. He knew that Lukan had been one of Yumichika's patrons, but he had not imagined that would stand in the way of him fulfilling his calling and helping someone in need.
"But he—he could die, and I don't know what to do!" Ikkaku persisted. "Please, you have to come help him, please!"
"I told you I'm busy," Lukan repeated, starting to shut the door.
Ikkaku stopped him. "What about your assistant? Someone has to help! I don't know what to do!" He was as close as he'd ever been to panic.
The doctor looked at him with a coldness that seemed contrary to his profession. "My assistant is not here. Maybe you should find some friends or neighbors who can help you." He paused. "If you haven't chased them all away."
He shut the door.
For a moment, Ikkaku stood in shocked immobility on the doorstep. The doctor was refusing to help, not because he was busy, but because it was Yumichika who was the victim. The bitterness had not abated at all; it had only taken deeper root, and Ikkaku was struck with the sickening thought that Lukan might have been one of those responsible for Yumichika's current predicament.
He broke from the doorstep and ran back towards Yumichika's home, stopping from time to time to call out for help. But no one responded. It was not lost on him that he was the reason no one would help. He was the reason this whole thing had happened in the first place. He had taken Yumichika away from the men who had come to expect his services; and while he'd never believed that they had gotten over it, he had also never thought they would resort to such a despicable action.
When he got back to the machiya, he found himself at a complete loss. He stood next to the bed and rubbed his hands together nervously.
"Yumichika . . . what do I do? This is something you always took care of. I don't know what to do." He took several deep breaths and tried to calm his thoughts.
He could start by cleaning away the dirt and blood. After that, the ointment might help.
But first, he closed and locked the door, not trusting that the men who'd done this were not going to come back to finish the job. Then he brought some water and wash clothes from the porch, securing that door as well. Returning to Yumichika, his ire was the only thing that kept him from breaking down at the sight of such brutality. As he washed away the blood, the extent of Yumichika's injuries became more apparent. The injuries caused by the sexual attack were horrible enough, but it was the message burned into Yumichika's cheeks that caused Ikkaku the greatest pain. The message made it clear that the only reason they had done this to Yumichika was because of Ikkaku. But given Ikkaku's strength and readiness for a fight, they had not dared to attack him. Yumichika had been a much easier target. They must have been anxiously waiting for Ikkaku to leave the village just so they could take out their rage.
He smeared the healing ointment over Yumichika's body, drew the blanket over him, and sat down on the floor. He had reached the limit of his knowledge. And his abilities. Now, all he could do was wait.
Yumichika had never known such pain before. Even when he had resided in the world of the living, where his pain had been continual, still it had been dull and tolerable. This pain, however, was a fire that burned in every part of his being –so much that he thought death would be preferable to the suffering.
"I'm not going to let you give up."
It was the reikon's voice.
"I don't want to stay . . . let me go . . . please," Yumichika begged in the silence of his mind.
"I won't do that, master," the reikon replied. "You have to keep fighting."
"It hurts too much," Yumichika protested.
"You must hold on, give me more time to heal you," the reikon implored. "I can make the pain stop, but you need to stay with me. I need more time."
Yumichika gave no response. The physical pain was not the only hurt he was suffering. Even if the reikon could heal his body, would he be able to erase the memories? Would he be able to ease the frightening thoughts that were surfacing as Yumichika's coherence returned? The realization that he had misjudged the situation from the beginning. He had never stood a chance of winning the villagers back over. Ikkaku had been right: they'd hated him. They'd hated him for taking himself away from them. The reikon had been right: he'd been given a gift that he'd horribly misused, and now he was reaping the results. Yumichika had been wrong. Wrong, willfully blind, and arrogant in his self-certainty.
Beside him, the reikon moved his fingers slowly over the bruised flesh of Yumichika's abdomen. The injuries that lay beneath the skin were even more extensive than the reikon had believed, and his greatest fear now was that he did not even have enough energy to return his master to a point where he could continue recovery on his own strength. The reikon's energy had been steadily fading since he had begun healing Yumichika; and although he was loathe to admit it, he did not feel he had the courage to go the full length of sacrifice and forfeit his own existence to save his master – even though he knew Yumichika's death meant his own death.
It was with this recognition of his own weakness that the reikon appealed to his master once more. "I can't give you the will to hold on, kimi. That has to come from you. Please . . . please, master, I don't want to die."
Yumichika had not stirred once, not given any indication that he had any awareness at all. For almost two weeks, Ikkaku had sat at his side, watching him fearfully, expecting that at any second, he would stop breathing. Even though the outward signs of Yumichika's injuries were slowly healing, Ikkaku could not kid himself. He knew that Yumichika was still closer to death than life. It was a terrifying truth.
To keep his mind from growing too morose, he often directed his thoughts towards the question of who was responsible.
He was already certain of the part of the answer.
Hinsamoi.
The merchant had never forgiven Ikkaku for that night in the hutch. He'd never forgiven Yumichika for abandoning his former activities. And he'd already shown a predilection for inflicting pain. Now, he had exacted his revenge against both of them. He had to have known that Yumichika would not fight back – or even if he did, he was so slight and inexperienced, he would not have stood a chance of prevailing.
It made Ikkaku's blood boil. The speed and ease with which everyone had turned against Yumichika was vile example of the true wickedness of the villagers. But that wickedness had existed long before he'd met Yumichika. It was only his appearance in Yumichika's life that had brought everything crashing down. He was the reason Yumichika was on the verge of death, and it was his own self-centered lack of resolve that had set up the circumstances under which Yumichika had been left vulnerable.
He had cut Yumichika off from his customers, engendering their resentment. He had then fallen victim to his own lustful desires, the guilt of which had driven him to flee. And his lack of courage had kept him away much longer than he'd planned. What else could he possibly do wrong? For all his promises that he would protect Yumichika, he had failed miserably, and now how was he to make things whole again?
That was, if Yumichika even survived. And that was no certainty. As the days wore on, and Yumichika remained silent and motionless, Ikkaku began to despair of his recovering.
To occupy some of the dreadful hours, he began cleaning up the house. The entire place had been ransacked, yet nothing was missing. Fortunately, there was still plenty of food, although it had been scattered over the entire place. Ikkaku collected it and returned it to the cupboards. He never stayed away from Yumichika's side for more than a few minutes at a time, and each time he returned, he hoped for an improvement. But Yumichika remained unconscious.
Ikkaku had guessed from his injuries, that at least two days had already passed before he'd found him. During that time, infection had been festering, pumping poison into Yumichika's body, driving his temperature up to dangerous levels. Ikkaku had placed cold wash clothes on his skin to try and lower the fever. This had driven Yumichika to shivers, so Ikkaku had added another blanket. He'd had no idea if what he was doing was helping or hurting, but he had no one else to ask. He had never realized how much he had taken Yumichika's medical know-how for granted, and now he wished he'd paid more attention.
He had thought more than once about fetching Kaekae, for surely the old man would have some store of knowledge beyond what Ikkaku possessed. But he could not risk leaving Yumichika for the thirty minutes it would take to go to the sea and return. He would not leave Yumichika alone to possibly be brutalized again, and he did not dare move him.
Ikkaku's world had shrunk down to this one room and this one man.
The reikon heard a soft groan.
His eyes shot open onto his own reflection in his master's eyes. He had been laying beside Yumichika for some time now, his strength very nearly depleted; but still, he had one hand under his master's back, the other resting on his broken arm. Yumichika had turned his head to the side and was regarding him with a sad, tired expression.
"Master," the being exhaled, relief washing over him. "You're awake."
Yumichika's words surprised him.
"You're pale."
The reikon swallowed down his emotion. "I'm fine. You—you . . . you didn't give up."
Yumichika was persistent. "Why do you look like that?" he asked in a weak voice.
The reikon could not believe that, with all his master was suffering, yet his first thoughts were not for himself but for someone else.
"I'm just tired . . . from worrying about you," he replied.
Yumichika spoke slowly. "You're crying."
The reikon was stunned. He reached up and touched his fingertips to his cheek. They came back wet.
"I am," he said, the disbelief clear in his voice. The shadow of a smile crossed his face. "I don't know why."
A long silence ensued, then Yumichika spoke again.
"You stayed with me."
"Did you think I would leave you?" the reikon said.
Yumichika hesitated for several seconds before saying, "He did."
The reikon knew of whom his master was speaking. "You're talking about Madarame? He came back. He's been at your side for the past two weeks. He's terrified that you're going to die."
Yumichika looked away.
The reikon reached up and put his fingers over Yumichika's cheek, where Madarame's name was burned into the flesh. Hideous as the wound was, he had not yet directed any healing energy to it – or the other cheek – as they had not presented as dangerous a threat to Yumichika's life as the internal injuries had. But now, he felt he should give some small part of what little energy he had remaining to the task; for the last thing Yumichika would need was a constant reminder, every time he saw his reflection, of who had precipitated the entire ghastly situation.
"Madarame has a lot of faults, but you can't accuse him of not caring," the reikon went on. He lowered his eyes. "I was wrong about him. He may not know his own mind, but the one thing he does know: he cares about you. It scares him, but he can't help it."
Yumichika did not want to talk about Ikkaku.
"Everything still hurts," he groaned.
"I'm still healing you, master," the reikan said. "It's just . . . it's going to go slowly. But you have a decision to make." A pause. "How much longer are you going to stay here in this world? It's time for you to wake up, master. You can't continue to hide in here. Madarame is waiting for you to wake up. He'll be able to help you, as well. You have to decide . . ." His voice was faint. "Are you going to live or die?"
Ikkaku was drawing water from a barrel he had placed outside below the roof drain when heard a shallow cough from within, followed by soft mumbling.
He dropped the pot he was carrying and was at Yumichika's side immediately.
"Yumichika!" he implored, putting his hand on Yumichika's shoulder and squeezing gently. "Yumichika, do you hear me?"
Several seconds went by, and then Yumichika's eyes opened slowly. His gaze fell on Ikkaku, and he stared blankly. For a long moment, Ikkaku was afraid he didn't recognize him. But then in a voice barely audible, Yumichika spoke.
"Ikkaku . . . "
The relief that flooded into Ikkaku's senses threatened to drive him to tears. The feeling was completely foreign to him – the feeling of caring about someone that much. He didn't know how to handle it. But the last thing he wanted was to appear weak or flustered in front of Yumichika – especially now when Yumichika would need him to be strong.
"It's about time," he said with a smug, expectant grin.
But Yumichika did not return the humor. He looked utterly devastated – confused and dull. The injuries to his face made his appearance all the more pitiable.
Ikkaku abandoned his attempt at levity. "How do you feel?" he asked.
Yumichika was sluggish in replying. "Bad."
"Are you in pain?"
A nod.
"Is there anything I can do? I don't know anything about stuff like this. You're the one with all that knowledge."
A long silence was followed by Yumichika's considered reply. "Brew maysa leaves . . . in some sake."
Ikkaku raised an eyebrow. "Sake?"
"Maysa's for—infection. The sake for pain."
"Okay," Ikkaku nodded, fetching the leaves from a shelf over the basin and setting about fixing the brew. As he worked, he talked. "I've been worried sick about you," he admitted, feeling somehow less inhibited when he was not facing Yumichika, when he was engaged in other activity. He went on, "This—this shouldn't have happened to you. If I'd been here—"
"You wouldn't have been able to stop them," Yumichika interrupted, his voice a little stronger.
Ikkaku stopped and turned back to him. "Them?" He walked back over to the futon. "Yumichika, how many were there?" His manner had turned dangerously serious.
Yumichika looked anywhere but at Ikkaku. "Eight or nine . . . I'm not sure."
"Eight or nine . . . " Ikkaku felt the horror all over again. He clenched his teeth to keep his temper from exploding. "Did they all—did they all . . . " He could not finish, but his meaning was clear.
Yumichika stumbled over his answer. "I don't know. I couldn't tell."
"Do you remember what happened?"
Yumichika nodded. "I remember. It just . . . it became confusing, and I was . . . everything got hazy."
Ikkaku looked at him intensely for a long moment before bursting out, "Yumichika, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say to you. I wish I hadn't gone away. This is all my fault."
"Ikkaku . . . stop, please," Yumichika said in a feeble voice. "You didn't know they would do this."
"I shouldn't have left you," Ikkaku insisted. "Yumichika . . . please forgive me . . . for everything."
"I don't blame you," Yumichika replied.
"But it's my fault—"
"Ikkaku . . . I'm too . . . I don't want to talk about it, please," Yumichika replied.
Ikkaku hesitated. Clearly, the pain was too fresh. He turned to finish preparing the elixir. He brought the cup over to the futon and held Yumichika's head up to help him drink it.
"Is there anything else I can do?" Ikkaku asked, setting the empty cup aside. "I—I feel so useless."
"No," Yumichika replied. "I just want to sleep."
Ikkaku nodded. "Okay. I'll be right here if you need anything."
