Shall We Go to Otsu?
Chapter 19: Second Thoughts
In which Tomoe puts her affairs in order.
He'd startled her at the door. For a moment, seeing him in his day clothes, and with his sword in his hand, she caught her breath at the sudden idea that he was going to attack her. But then he moved aside for her to enter and slipped out behind her, all in one graceful movement, like a dance for two.
Even after he'd left, she couldn't relax. His absence was not a relief, as she'd imagined it would be when he'd rushed past her. She had no idea where he was, or what he was up to, or whether he would return. She didn't like it when she didn't know what was going to happen next.
And the conversation had not satisfied her, and she couldn't figure out why not. She'd gotten to say every cruel thing she'd wanted to, and he was cut by it, she could tell. She should have been feeling release, vindication, but she was in as much turmoil as ever. Why should that be? She wasn't sorry she'd hurt him. He deserved it. But there was something, something else in her mind. What was it?
She thought back to that moment in the doorway, the glimpse she'd gotten of his face. She'd expected to see anger there, perhaps even hate, a hate matching her own. But that wasn't it at all. Was it guilt? Why didn't that appease her? Shame? Surely that had been her goal. She couldn't think about that right now. Her spite and grief and tears spent, she was exhausted, body uncoordinated with fatigue. She stumbled over to the futon, collapsed on top of it, and was asleep. She'd not had the wit to notice it was ready for her.
Utter silence and blackness filled her night, and utter silence and emptiness greeted her when she woke. Somehow, she had expected him to return in the night, and was disappointed that he hadn't, although she couldn't imagine what he would be like when they met again. She remembered the things she'd said to him and, in the light of day, was now horrified by them, by her boldness and callousness. It was as though she'd been drunk, out of her mind.
She must apologize, but what could she say to soften the sharpness of her words? Even as she tried to craft a speech, she saw the futility of it. The accusations, the judgments she had flung at him were the sort that created permanent rifts. She knew that honor would not allow him to acknowledge her presence now. Her own honor dictated that she keep out of his way, come to that. Even an apology would be too much, an intrusion amounting to a demand.
No, from this time forward, they would be ghosts to each other, each taking care of their own needs in silence and solitude. If she was lucky, that is. His particular honor might demand considerably more of him.
She should prepare herself, write a couple of letters. Maybe she would pack her few belongings and put an address on them—he might condescend to send them home. Yes, he would do that. It was proper.
First, she would set the house in order, and the garden, and then pack, and then wait for his return. It might be days. It might be never. Regardless, she would remain in a state of readiness until that day arrived. She felt her insides begin to accept what awaited her: The trembling of her spine was unmistakable.
But under her growing fear was a stronger emotion, one that made no sense. She was heartbroken. Not for herself. She was not even sure that her heart could feel that any more. No, this ache was for her enemy, the one she had set out to crush, and probably had, and that, thoroughly. She grieved for him.