When Masazumi woke, he lay on the floor of a foreign room. At first, he thought he was back home in Osaka, but a few blinks and the unfamiliar scents confirmed it wasn't a dream. And he felt slightly damp, as if he had been plunged into a lake while unconscious. His armour was all gone, replaced by a simple dark blue kimono and hakama.

"Ah, you're awake," said a familiar voice. "Feel free to find a towel and dry yourself off if you wish. There was no way we'd let you enter the castle stinking of straw, horses, and day-old sweat, so the servants bathed you."

Hauling himself upright, he met the emerald gaze of Okimoto. "How kind of you to just dump me on the floor. Where the hell am I?"

The other man's expression shifted, causing Masazumi's blood to run cold. Gone was the smiling, flirtatious attitude. There was nothing left but icy, unfeeling cruelty. Perhaps this was Okimoto's true self.

"Let me make one thing clear," Okimoto said. "I said I'd make you my servant, and this is exactly what you are now. Since you're my property, no harm will come to you. But I can only take so many insults and misbehaviour before I decide to punish you, and you know I'm in charge of interrogations for a reason."

Diplomacy was the best option. "Very well then."

"There's another thing I need you to be aware of." The strategist held up a mirror.

Masazumi's eyes widened. What appeared to be a strip of vine or ivy twined around his neck. Woven into it was a small red and white lacquer charm, with the Mouri crest painted on it. Touching it gingerly, he hadn't even realized it was there.

"This is an old plant, cultivated by my ancestors," Okimoto said. "We know it as the Prisoner's Noose. Aptly named. Whenever it is cut away from the main plant, it seeks its other end and fuses itself into a circle. It can survive on sunlight alone."

"So what is it going to do to me?"

"If it gets too far away from the main plant, it will die, shriveling as a result. That means if you try to leave the castle, you won't make it very far past the gates before it strangles you to death. I know what you're thinking. Only we can nullify the cuttings and remove them safely. Try to rip it off, and its acidic sap will melt through your flesh. You'll die horribly. And I wouldn't suggest trying to burn it off, either. You wouldn't survive the resulting inferno."

"In other words, if I value my life I'll leave it be."

"Correct."

He lifted his head. "Let me make one thing clear. I won't call you 'master.' I do not bow my head to just anyone. I'll obey your whims, but only because I value my life, and I prefer keeping my skin intact."

Okimoto smiled. "Fine. You're my most personal attendant, and personal attendants only do very special things. Don't worry—I won't have a fine creature like you scrubbing the floors or washing dishes. Those are tasks reserved for regular servants." Getting to his feet, he walked towards the doorway. "I will be treating you very well, Ishida. Perhaps you should reflect on how fortunate you are. I have other matters to attend to, so do whatever you wish. This is my suite and this is where you will be staying. You can explore the castle and roam as much as you like. Everyone will know you're mine from the charm on your neck. Just make sure nothing goes missing while I'm gone."

With that, the strategist slid open the door and left. Masazumi waited a few minutes before getting up and taking stock of his surroundings. This small room appeared to be Okimoto's study, judging from the desk crowded with papers and the shelves packed with books and scrolls. Though he was curious about the contents, he thought better of rifling around—he didn't want to risk bringing the strategist's wrath down on his head.

Exiting the study, the main room contained a sitting area, furnished with a large circular table and several plump cushions. Okimoto must receive guests or relax here. In one corner of the room was a small shrine dedicated to Amaterasu, the sun goddess, and patron deity of the Mouri family, it seemed. Masazumi wrinkled his nose. Complete opposition to Tsukuyomi.

The room next to the study was Okimoto's bedroom. Masazumi glanced over his shoulder before stepping inside. It was quite plain, the bed and blankets folded in a neat stack, with a small table, shelves, and an armour and weapons rack. The books here consisted of literature, containing many popular titles as well as a great many romantic stories, and he raised an eyebrow.

As he left the suite and entered the hall of the residential quarters, he was envious. Back in Osaka he only had the one large room. It was enough, but to have all this space to himself would be wonderful. So this was the sort of luxury that an exceptionally prestigious and wealthy noble family could afford.

Masazumi wandered through the castle, familiarizing himself with his surroundings and memorizing which halls led where. In case he was able to get the death trap off his neck, he had to know where to run. Fingering the plant, he wondered if it would be all right if he stepped outside. Okimoto had said "past the gates" would trigger the plant's death, so as long as he didn't go that far, he would be fine.

So Masazumi made a complete circuit of the castle grounds, and walked around a second time to examine everything in more detail. The barracks were large, but not as large as the Toyotomi's. Near the barracks, what appeared to be an enormous open trapdoor led deeper underground. It was heavily guarded with spearmen and a team of archers, but a group of people clustered around the area. Curious, he took a few steps closer, but froze as an icy prickling crawled up his back.

Those weren't people. Their partially-transparent shapes wavered, a horrible pasty white contrasted by the empty black pits of their eye sockets. Dark blood spattered their bodies, and most were mutilated and disfigured in the worst ways possible. The ghosts stood around, wandered a bit, or mumbled.

Masazumi had grown up seeing ghosts, victims or otherwise, everywhere and all the time. They phased through the walls of buildings and rooms without warning, passed by him on the street and were gone when he looked over his shoulder. Very few were pretty. It wasn't something that could be shut off, and he'd long since learned how to ignore the apparitions so that his special vision didn't interfere with his daily life. They didn't always know he could see them unless he stared at them too long, so if he ignored them they did the same.

Spinning about, he fled in the opposite direction, not wanting to be anywhere near that place a moment longer. The ghosts of the unfortunate torture victims didn't frighten him as much as the oppressive, hate-filled aura of intense suffering emanating from the entrance to the dungeon. It was times like these that he wished he could be like one of those guards, oblivious to everything.

Returning to the castle, he searched for a place to relax until he stopped trembling. He sat for a while in the large, beautifully-arranged garden, but thoughts of his family back in Osaka plagued him. It was too painful to stay here, so he returned to Okimoto's suite.

He wasn't alone. The strategist had returned, and sat in his study. When he heard Masazumi in the main room, he called for him.

"So? Were you out and about?" Okimoto asked.

"I took my time sightseeing."

"What do you think of our castle, then?"

Masazumi glanced at him. He didn't understand this man at all. "It still can't compare to the beauty of Osaka Castle. But I must admit the garden is one of the prettiest I've seen."

"It's a good place to go when you want to be alone. Sit down."

The Ishida warrior obeyed.

"I have a poem here," Okimoto said, holding up a sheet, "and I want to know what you think of it."

"Is this some kind of trap? Are you going to kill me if I answer wrongly?"

"You haven't changed at all since our first meeting."

"Tell me why I should be relaxed when I'm a prisoner."

"Because you aren't one. You're my servant."

"To me, there is little difference. What is that poem?"

Okimoto read it aloud. After it finished, Masazumi remained silent, collecting his thoughts.

"It is beautifully written," he said, "though a bit sad. There is so much longing in it, I can't help but feel heartache."

"Good." Putting the sheet away, Okimoto sighed. "That's the effect I wanted."

"You wrote it?"

"Yes. I've written poetry since I was young. I find it's a good way to express my feelings." A pause. "I am tired of writing about love when I have never known it. This will be my last poem, at least for a while."

The corner of Masazumi's mouth lifted. "Despite all the things I suspect you've done, even someone like you yearns for love?"

Those green eyes met his. "You should know better than to try that sort of guilt with me. Just because I do what is necessary in war doesn't make me any less worthy of love. I'm sure you feel the same way. Might I ask you the same question? Or perhaps a man like you doesn't feel the need for such a thing?"

"I have only a passing curiosity. But it doesn't interest me at the moment."

"And why would that be?"

The questions were getting too personal, but Masazumi decided to play along. "Because I always have so much to accomplish. I don't have the time or effort to spare."

A derisive snort. "That's another way of saying that you only put yourself first."

Setting his jaw, Masazumi narrowed his eyes. "There's no right way to go about matters of love. Some pursue it, some just don't want it. Is the successful lone man somehow lesser than the married couple? Do his achievements count for nothing just because he is unwed? As long as he is happy, what should you care whether he has a lover or not?"

Okimoto was silent.

"Why are we discussing such things anyway?" the Ishida continued. "Such talk is for friends, not a captor and prisoner."

"You're right. Such talk is not for a master and servant." Okimoto flicked a hand. "Leave."

Tossing his head, Masazumi rose and stalked out of the room.

Except now, there was absolutely nothing to do to entertain himself, and he was through walking around the castle, having attracted enough attention already from the servants and any soldiers, and he did not want to know if there were any more ghosts still lingering.

So he stretched out in a corner of the main room and lay there, staring at the ceiling, but gave up after only a few minutes. He hated lying around doing nothing. With a frustrated groan he jumped to his feet and went out the door.

Returning with a handful of towels and a small bucket of water, he set to work—polishing whatever could be polished, and wiping any furniture, all the while swearing to himself that he would skin Okimoto alive if he ever had the opportunity. Nobody made him perform servant's work and live. Nobody. Having to stoop to this level maimed his pride, but if he didn't do something, he would go insane.

This activity didn't go unnoticed. Okimoto emerged from his study, and the other man looked over his shoulder.

"What are you doing?" the strategist cried, rushing over and tearing the cloth from Masazumi's hand. "I told you that I won't have you doing this sort of menial labour!"

Masazumi straightened, looked at Okimoto down his nose and delivered his most condescending glare. "You were angry after our conversation so I didn't dare talk to you again, and if I don't have anything to do I'm going to die of boredom before you vipers can figure out how to use me."

Those green eyes locked with his, and they stared each other down before Okimoto broke away. "Fine. You may read whatever I have in my library if you wish."

"Just reading isn't enough."

"You do get bored easily, don't you?"

"My skull isn't filled with muscle."

"Fine. What do you normally spend your time doing?"

"Training. Go out for the occasional walk in the city. Spend time with my brother. See how my friends are doing. Keep track of family occasions." His tone grew increasingly venomous.

"I suppose I could let you hit dummies with a bokken, or run laps around the barracks and lift weights, if that's what you want. But I'm afraid leaving the castle won't be possible for you."

"Good enough for me. Can I go now?"

Okimoto waved a hand so Masazumi left the room straight away.

Having already toured the barracks, the captive warrior returned to the building, locating the training courtyard. Several groups of men were practicing, and when he took a bokken from the pile, they pointed and whispered to each other. Masazumi picked a practice dummy furthest away and batted it, somewhat mindlessly. It would be more fun to spar with someone.

Thinking of his brother made him pause, the bokken resting on the shoulder of the dummy. He stared at it for a while, wondering about his brother and father, wondering if the Toyotomi would come and rescue him.

"What's the matter?" a man asked, backed up by his posse of comrades.

Masazumi resumed hitting the dummy.

"He doesn't speak," said another.

"Leave him. Those Ishida warriors are good-for-nothings who only know how to kill people."

Turning, Masazumi fixed them with a withering gaze and they shifted, drawing closer together. "Is that so? Then please, tell me what other fabulous talents you possess. I'm interested to know how much better you think you are."

Silence. Just as he expected. Tossing his head, the corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. "What's the matter? You don't have any, or you're unfamiliar with the art of rhetoric? Do you even have any taste in literature or theater? Or is it because you only know how to plough fields? Lowly, uneducated men like yourself who are good for nothing but picking up swords and learning how to kill for a living?"

Shocked eyes stared back at him, and he laughed in derision. Rightfully putting people in their place gave him such pleasure.

"Bastard!" One of the men brandished his own bokken and the others followed suit, closing in around their leering target. "You'll regret badmouthing us! We fight for the Mouri!"

Masazumi raised an eyebrow. "You badmouthed me first. And here you are getting all angry when I respond in kind."

Growling. "Apologize! You're just a prisoner here, and if you don't show some respect we'll gladly beat it into you!"

"Stupid to the end, I see. You know how fearsome Ishida warriors are, and yet you're trying to attack one? With a wooden sword? I don't need a sharp weapon to kill someone." He lifted the bokken, wagging it back and forth. "This will do just fine for ripping off limbs. I could even kill you all with a fishing pole."

The men hesitated.

"Have you even seen an Ishida warrior in action? Do you know why our name strikes fear into the heart of every soldier?" he taunted. "You obviously don't or you wouldn't have bothered me in the first place. Maybe I should show you and we'll see who regrets it."

By now, a ring of spectators clustered around them. The men glanced about furtively for an escape that would preserve their honour amongst their peers, but found none.

Knowing they would give in to the pressure, Masazumi tapped a finger against the charm on his neck. "I am the property of your Okimoto-sama. Is it really wise for you to try to harm me knowing that you might bring his wrath down on your heads?"

"Coward!" yelled one of the men. "You just don't want to fight!"

"Trying to escape, are you? Ishida warriors can only talk big?"

Masazumi considered his options and decided that since these weren't his soldiers, he could keep his pride intact and teach these idiots a lesson. "Come and get me, then!"

Two charged at him. Without any effort, he whizzed out of sight and they stumbled to a halt. He gave them no time to be surprised. When the other men saw him again, he'd already struck their comrades four times each. Bones crunched and they sprawled on the ground.

Everyone else fell silent. The display of impossible power and speed held them in awe. Turning, he glared at the remaining three men. "You ox-brains want some, too?"

"No," cut in another voice, "that's quite enough!"

"O-Okimoto-sama!" the soldiers cried, parting for him and retreating to a respectful distance.

The strategist strode up to them, stopping beside his so-called servant. The height difference between them was almost comical as they looked at each other.

"I was just getting warmed up," Masazumi remarked.

Okimoto glared. "I let you have a little freedom, and the first thing you do is cause trouble?"

"Hardly." He jerked his head in the direction of the moaning, injured men. "You think I want to make you angry? They were the ones who couldn't keep their tongues still!"

"So it was their fault?"

"Of course! They insulted me, I returned the favour, they couldn't be good sports and attempted to mob me. I gave them plenty of opportunities to back out, but in the end..." He shrugged. "I could have sliced them to pieces but I didn't."

Okimoto yanked the bokken out of his hand, eyes wide. "You mean you can still kill with a bokken?"

"Yes. And it'll be messy because it's not sharp."

"You—" The strategist stopped, then turned towards the soldiers, who all shrunk away. "All of you are fools! How dare you disobey my orders? This man is my prisoner, my property, and the only one who can harm him or insult him is me! You are to treat him with the same respect as you would me! Is there anything about that you don't understand?"

The assembled soldiers shook their heads in a wild wave of motion. Okimoto yelled at them not to go anywhere, and barked for some commanding officers.

"Take down the names of all these fools," he snapped, "segregate them, and ensure that they do not eat for the rest of the day until morning. As for those two spread out on the ground, get them treated, and when they're well they will do nothing but clean and dig latrines for three months. That will teach them some discipline!"

The officers scrambled to work, and the men glumly awaited their punishment. Masazumi was quite satisfied, though for appearance's sake he kept his expression neutral.

"Come," Okimoto said.

So once more, Masazumi found himself back in Okimoto's suite.

"Sit down," the strategist said.

He obeyed. "I'm surprised that you chose to believe me over your own men."

"As you said, you wouldn't be stupid enough to stir up trouble. My men, on the other hand, are stupid enough to do that. So I believed you."

"It didn't occur to you that I could be an elaborate liar?"

"Even if you were, what would be your purpose? You don't have one."

"Hmph."

"You were really just practicing?" Okimoto glanced at him sideways. "With the bokken?"

"Yes." Masazumi knew why he was asking. "Like I said before, I'm not like you. I keep my word. Besides, what would be the point of going on a rampage with a bokken? It wouldn't take your father much effort to kill me, and more importantly, I wouldn't be able to get this thing off my neck."

Smiling wryly, the strategist leaned back. "You're right."

"I would also have no chance of going home," Masazumi added quietly.

"Don't play that game with me."

Not having a good response to that remark, he looked away instead.

"I suggest you save yourself the heartache and get used to your new life here," Okimoto said. "You won't be going home."

Setting his jaw, he didn't respond.

The other man heaved a sigh. "It will be time for supper soon. I wonder if I should bring you along."

"What, so you can feed me table scraps? The last thing I expect is to dine with you and your family as an equal."

A glare. "Your tongue is sharp, I'll give you that. But perhaps you're right. You'll eat here, in my main room, and I'll see to it that the servants bring you adequate food."

"I don't understand you."

To that, Okimoto merely smiled, then left the room.

True to his word, some servants came by with a generous, multiple-course meal. Masazumi ate everything, and enjoyed some regional delicacies. With the exception of a few types of herbs, he was not a picky eater.

But now that his belly was full and night fell, melancholy set in. Pushing open the doors in the back of the room leading to Okimoto's private garden, he lay down right in the doorway, watching as the stars lit up, the cool breeze brushing through his hair. He missed the comfort of home and his family most of all. Usually at this hour he'd go bother Mitsunari for a bit. Not today.

Masazumi lay there without moving, losing track of time and growing more and more depressed as thoughts of Mitsunari's pain plagued him. He knew how much his brother suffered that time so long ago when he had fallen off the cliff. And now, it had happened again. He wasn't protecting his brother anymore, he was hurting him. If only he had dodged the darts...

No, he couldn't wallow around in self-pity like this. He had to continue being strong, and remain vigilant for an opportunity to escape. Despite himself, tears welled up in his eyes and he wiped at them with a sleeve, sniffing loudly. He was so lonely that it hurt. All by himself, in hostile territory and with many cruel fates looming before him. And thinking of Mitsunari, friendless and without companionship, without protection, without a shoulder to lean on, made it hurt all the more. He was supposed to be there when his little brother needed him most, and right now he wasn't.

A man like him just didn't cry. But he couldn't help it. Quiet sobs shook his shoulders.

Something covered his body. Jerking upright, he found Okimoto kneeling next to him, having spread a blanket over him. They did not speak, until Masazumi put his head back down again, swallowing hard in an effort to stop any wayward sobs.

"You'll catch cold out here," Okimoto remarked.

"What does it matter to you?"

"You really miss your loved ones, don't you?"

"Go away. You just told me to forget about them earlier. If your idea of fun is to continue tormenting a man when he is already sad—"

"I meant what I asked. But the answer is obvious. I should have known better."

"Hmph. Do you feel sorry about what you've done, then?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not."

Masazumi sneezed.

"Get up." Okimoto's toe nudged him in the back. "I told you that you'd catch cold. It won't do you any good."

Hauling himself to his feet, he gathered up the blanket and trudged back indoors. Okimoto slid the doors shut behind him.

"I had a bed brought in for you." The strategist gestured towards the floor of the main room. "There's plenty of space here, and you should be comfortable."

Masazumi spun around to face him, and those eyes met his own, unshakeable, unflinching.

"Why do you care so much?" the Ishida asked. "If this is just an act, I wish you would drop it and stop wasting your time and mine. If you want to throw me into the dungeon then you should do that. I'm tired of playing games. I don't want to play games."

Folding his arms, Okimoto paused before answering. "If this was just an act, why do you think I needed to beg my father to allow you to become my servant? Why don't you think about that instead?"

"I still don't trust you."

"I don't expect you to. But maybe you should learn to appreciate the finer things."

Unable to think of a retort, Masazumi just scowled.

"I'm going to sleep, then." With that, Okimoto turned on his heel and went to his bedroom, shutting the door.

Wasn't he afraid that his captive could just break down the door and kill him during the night?

"I wouldn't," Masazumi mumbled to himself. "That would be stupid and would serve no purpose."

And annoyingly, Okimoto knew that too.

Heaving a sigh, Masazumi settled down for the night, but tossed and turned. Thoughts of all kinds buzzed through his head. His father and brother. The Toyotomi. What the Mouri were going to do next.

Why do you think I needed to beg my father to allow you to become my servant?

Why indeed? Well, Okimoto was obviously a man taken by whimsies. Whatever was going through that odd head of his, Masazumi couldn't understand. But what would be the point of making a top Toyotomi warrior into a servant, without bothering to torture him for information?

He thought, and thought, turned the question over and over, until he arrived at a perspective he hadn't considered, and his eyes grew huge.

For protection.

Okimoto had always stressed the fact that Masazumi was "his" property, even punishing the soldiers for mistreating him. Okimoto was the one who suggested the servant idea, who delicately told his father that nothing good could come out of causing harm to the captive warrior. And despite Masazumi's acidic attitude, Okimoto was the only person here so far who had treated him with kindness, even considering taking him to dine at the family table.

And there was the matter of their first meeting, so far away in the past.

Sitting up, Masazumi's gaze focused on the closed bedroom door as if he could burn a hole through it. That time, when the man fished him out of the river, the green gaze had wandered down his bare chest while he stretched, and the Ishida warrior had never forgotten that observation. His heart pounded. Could it really be that simple?

No, it couldn't possibly be. Okimoto was a Mouri strategist, and capable of great cruelty. Everything could just be an act. When Masazumi grew too comfortable, that was when the scheming snake would strike.

I mustn't fall for his charms.

Stretching back out on the bed, Masazumi thought of a way to counter Okimoto. To test his assumption.

If he needed to drive the other man crazy, then so be it!