The Last Wish  - Chapter 26

~*~

"Goodnight my sun
Goodnight my friend
Rest your soul at this
Long day's end...

Dream of summer skies
Sunset is bound to each sunrise
Rest is your first right
My friend, goodnight."

--Vertical Horizon

~*~

Finally, it was Mitsukake who disconnected himself from his friends, drew himself up, and swept the tears from his cheeks.  He stood there for a long time, silent and unmoving above his weeping companions, his eyes locked on the stilled, bloodied form of Nuriko on the floor.

He had always...been so beautiful.  Pale, flawless skin, eyes as vibrant with color and life as Nuriko himself was--but, now...  A slender line arced through the healer's brow, dredging the grief back into his throat. 

But, now, Nuriko's skin was marred with blood and sweat and dirt, freckled with blotches of darkening crimson; his hair was tangled and matted, clinging to his pale skin, and whole tufts of it were stained brown with blood.  His clothing, always kept so perfectly-ironed and clean, was tattered and torn, and gods, the blood...  The blood was everywhere. 

Before he knew what he was doing, Mitsukake found himself walking away from his friends and moving the few feet to where Nuriko lay; he didn't know what he planned to do when he got there, nor why he had the strange impression that he could do something...but, then, suddenly, he was kneeling beside Nuriko and his hand was stretching out, palm downward, and he was closing his eyes and focusing his energy and...

Red.  Red glow.  Coming from...from me?

It was a warm sensation in the middle of his chest, as if he were drawing energy from the very center of his being; it funneled outwards from there, tingling through his limbs and circling in his brain and pooling, finally, in the palm of his hand.  There, he felt the energy leave him, felt it wash out through his skin and flood downwards.  His eyes slid open, then, and he watched in astonishment as the painful protrusion of bone in Nuriko's chest folded inward, mending back into place.  The tiny cut in his lip cinched together, squeezing lost blood back to where it had come, even as the gashes and scrapes that streaked down over his arms and legs melted away and were replaced with smooth, pale, flawless skin.  Nuriko's hair fluttered back from his face as if blown by an unseen wind, flecks of dirt and blood vanishing from the silken strands of violet; even the white cotton dress shirt he'd been wearing was being stitched back together, the buttons rolling over the hardwood floor and leaping back into place.

When it was done, Mitsukake sat back, breathless and amazed, and stared for a long moment at his hand--at the symbol that blazed from it like fire, sweeping the energy back into him, back to his center.

There was movement behind him; he became aware, after a moment, of the presence of his friends just past his shoulder, but neither he nor they spoke for a very long time. 

Because...Nuriko was beautiful, again.

The blood was gone, smoothed away to reveal nothing but soft, flawless skin, pale but still warm enough with life that it...it almost looked...

"It looks like...he's just sleeping," Chiriko whispered.

Mitsukake turned, stared the boy directly in the eyes.  The others stood with him, their skin flushed and moist with grief, their arms still intertwined as if afraid of letting go, but the healer barely noticed them, seeing only the boy that he loved as a son.  He was so young...  Mature for his age, yes, but so damnably young.  For him to have to be exposed to something ike this, for him to have to be forever ingrained with this image of death at such an early age... 

No one should be subjected to this—no child.  But, he came by himself, didn't he?  Just a child... Something tensed angrily within him.  What's the difference, anyway?  One child witnesses it...and another child suffers through it.  Eighteen.  He was just a child himself...

Even with the start of righteous anger within himself, however, the first thought was not so easily pushed away.  Chiriko, who had never met any of these people before, and who certainly held no emotional connection to Nuriko at all, had come here, and had cried with them, and no one had questioned it.  And yet, even knowing this, it didn't seem strange to him, no matter how desperately he tried to convince himself that it should.  It simply didn't.  Chiriko had known, just as he'd known.  Just as...just as they'd all known.

How?  How did we know?  What is it that binds us to Nuriko--to each other?  How did we all...feel this?  And, how--when some of us barely know each other--can we cling together like this, like we're part of...of a family...and not feel awkward or strange?  How can it feel as if I've known these people for all of my life when I haven't--when I barely know some of them at all? 

His eyes fell again to the palm of his hand, still warm with the touch of the glowing symbol but empty, now--smooth and unmarked. 

This.  Something...something with this.

We're a part of each other somehow, aren't we?  All of us.  And...

"Miaka," he rumbled.  He raised his hand, palm outward so the flesh where the symbol had been would be visible, and turned to look at the girl.  She was still clinging to Hotohori but was standing on her own, now, and was staring at him with something like hope in her eyes.  "You...know something about this.  Don't you?"

She didn't asnwer, though, and it wasn't until the soft sob rose from her throat that he realized that now was no time for questioning, that he and these people were about as near to mental and emotional exhaustion as it was possible to be without collapsing.  Chichiri realized it, too, he knew--their gazes met for perhaps a second, the blue-haired man standing just behind Tasuki with a hand on the younger man's shoulder, and the understanding was clear in his eyes. 

Chichiri gave a slight nod.  "Come on," he said gently.  "Miaka, Tasuki, Chiriko--I'll drive you home.  Let...let Mitsukake deal with things here."  The man's dark eyes flickered to Hotohori and Tamahome, who were keeping Miaka upright with their combined support.  "Tamahome, how did you get here?"

The seventeen-year-old brought a hand up to his reddened eyes, rubbing at each of them in turn for a moment before answering.  "I...I drove.  I can--"  He cleared his throat, then drew a deep breath that seemed to strengthen him.  "I can take Miaka home."

"No," the girl whispered.  "Not...not home. Please..."

"My house, then," Hotohori said.  "There are enough beds for everyone, and--"  His voice went soft, his gaze drifting painfully to Nuriko.  "I think we all have some things to talk about."

Chichiri nodded.  "Hai.  Maybe you should take Tamahome and Miaka back with you, then, and I--"

"No," Hotohori interjected suddenly.  He blinked, looking startled at the vehemence in his own voice...but, then, the expression softened, and he turned towards Chichiri with pleading eyes.  "I-I'd like to stay here.  Nuriko...shouldn't be left like this--on the floor, I mean.  I...I'd like to stay here.  If no one minds."

Mitsukake rose to his feet, brushing his hands against the front of his jeans despite the fact that the cleansing wind had drawn even the most minute pieces of dirt from them.  "All right," he conceded, his voice a low rumble against the silence.  "All right.  Hotohori and I will stay here and...take care of things.  Tamahome, Chichiri..."  The healer closed his eyes, a slender line of anguish streaking through his brow.  "Take them out of here.  We'll follow whenever we can."

~*~

After the others had left, Mitsukake mumbled something about calling the police and left for the kitchen, leaving Hotohori standing alone in the entryway, arms folded over his chest and shoulders shaking.  He wasn't crying—not anymore—but there was a chill in the air around him, shivering up his spine and trembling through his limbs.  He felt weary and exhausted, as if he'd just run a marathon and his pulse was only now starting to slow, and his cheeks were still wet with tears, the moisture crawling over his skin until he longed to scratch his nails against his cheeks and—

Hotohori.  Saihitei.  Get control of yourself.  Falling apart isn't going to help anyone.   

Sighing, the eighteen-year-old dropped to his knees on the floor, hands rising to press against his eyes as he moved.  He was so tired...  His jaw clenched.  But, he couldn't leave Nuriko here, lying there like a forgotten rag doll...no.  No, he couldn't leave him.  Not now. 

Not this time.

Swallowing hard, Hotohori forced his eyes to open, his muscles to battle their fatigue and work again.  For a moment, the old ache started up in his heart at the sight of his friend lying lifelessly on the floor, hands folded lightly over his chest and eyes so lightly closed that it truly seemed as if he were just sleeping...

Control.  Please.  Please, control!

Trembling, he slid forward, carefully got one arm beneath Nuriko's shoulders and the other beneath his knees, and lifted.  The fabric of the older man's shirt was cool and soft against his skin, the warmth of the body beneath it already faded to almost nothing--it really was like lifting a doll, and the thought of Nuriko reduced to nothing but a body, nothing but an object to be hefted around, was nearly enough to send him over the edge again, into the flood of tears that was creeping up his throat, choking him--

Control.  Control control control!  Don't you dare cry again.  Don't you dare!

He bit down hard on his lip and tasted blood, and it seemed to help.  Sucking in a few deep breaths through his mouth, he tensed his arms and—letting his right arm slide down to better support Nuriko's knees—brought the lifeless body to his chest and stood up.  One slim hand loosened from its place on Nuriko's chest and fell to the side as he moved, dangling down towards the floor; Hotohori nearly lost his grip trying to put it back into place, but finally managed, and was forced to spend a moment breathing heavily, a panic he didn't entirely understand coursing through him, before he could start towards the staircase. 

Finally, though, he was moving, and even though the burden in his arms was very light, each step was labored and shaky, jolting up his legs and into the pit of his stomach until he thought he might be sick.

It seemed like an eternity passed with him plodding from one step to the other, the breath rasping painfully in and out of his lungs, silken tendrils of Nuriko's hair whispering against his arms until he wanted to scream.  At last, though, he found himself standing at the top of the stairs, facing a long, sparsely-decorated hallway of closed doors, and the normality of the sight calmed his breathing somewhat.

It's all right. It's all right.  Calm down.  Please.  Calm down and start walking.  The sooner you walk, the sooner this...will be over.

The carpet, a plush beige that matched with the low-hanging ceiling, seemed to sink away beneath his feet, leaving shoe-shaped imprints beneath every step he took.  He'd only taken a few, however, before the sight of the first door—set on the left, and painted a smooth, flawless white by Nuriko himself--brought him to a jarring halt, sending a new, terrible chill trembling up his spine.

His...his parents.  My God, they don't know.  They don't know!  Someone has to call them... 

He squeezed his eyes shut, the image of the smiling family portrait on the living room coffee table lancing through his mind like a dagger.  Tears formed in his eyes, trickling down over his eyelashes before he could push them back, and for a moment, it was all he could do not to collapse to the floor and break down—it was certainly what he wanted to do.  Because, gods...gods...how horrible, to go out of town to see one son, and return home to find the other...

They've already lost one child.  How can they possibly handle losing another? 

Trembling, he opened his eyes and hurried down the hallway towards Nuriko's bedroom, his features contorted in anguish; tears, shaken free by his movements, trickled down his cheeks and burst on his lips, giving each step the taste of salt and misery. 

Finally, though, he reached the door and maneuvered his way into getting it open; a cool, lavender-scented breeze, stirred mostly from the open window, washed over him immediately, and suddenly he was shaking so violently that it was all he could do not to collapse or drop Nuriko or both.  Somehow, he staggered to the bed—the sheets were a mess, two pillows propped against the headboard with the imprint of Nuriko's shoulders still pressed into them—and released his burden onto it, but the moment his arms were free, he lost all balance and tumbled to the floor.  His arms caught on the edge of the mattress, keeping him from collapsing totally, but his knees struck hard against the thin carpeting, sending a flare of pain flooding through his legs, and he was crying before he even realized that he'd needed to.

Shaking, Hotohori pressed his forehead to the side of the mattress and squeezed his eyes shut against the tears.  It didn't stop them, and neither did it still the violent sobs from shuddering through him, but it stopped him from seeing Nuriko lying there on his bed, one arm at his side and one against his heart, looking for all the world as if he might wake up at any moment, blink a few times and smile and—

His nose burned, and his cheeks felt hot with the tears; every breath—shaky, and drawn only in between sobs--tasted of salt.  He was irrationally glad that the crying clogged his nose, because the sheets against which his face was pressed had the same soft scent of lavender that Nuriko himself did, and catching even a whiff of that scent only further deepened the sense of loss within him.   Because, Nuriko was gone.  Forever.  No matter how long he thought about it, it just didn't make any sense—it spun in his mind like a math equation that he just couldn't puzzle his way through, leaving him frustrated and confused and weary.  How could someone be there one moment, and then gone the next?  How could one afternoon change everything?

How could I not have been there when you needed me?  Nuriko?  If I'd been here, I might've made the difference—with the two of us, it might've been enough!!  Why did you take him on alone?  Why?  I just don't understand...

"It's not fair," he whispered through the tears, clutching the fallen blankets with two white-knuckled hands.  "It's not...fair..."

 I'll go to school.  I'll go to school, and you won't be there, will you?  I'll...I'll go to the Prom, and you won't be there.  Graduation.  You won't be there, will you, Nuriko?  You won't be there.  

Anger balled in his muscles, sending his fingernails clenching into his palms through the blankets; the flash of pain was welcome, though—because, gods, it wasn't fair.  Nuriko had suffered.  Nuriko had died.  And, why?  For what?  For nothing!  All because some goddamned lunatic had...what had he done, anyway?  Why?  It was all so senseless... 

That's why it makes me so angry.  Because it didn't have to happen.  It didn't have to happen!  So, why did it?!

Trembling with rage, now, instead of grief, Hotohori opened his eyes and climbed to his feet, scrubbing at his wet cheeks with his fists.  Staring out the open window with hands clenched at his sides, mouth working silently in anger, it was a long time before he became aware of the burning on his neck, stirred into being by the depth of the grief and anger within him--or of the crimson glow that was sliding along the bottom of his vision like blood.

Like...blood.

The rage melted from his body, leaving him feeling drained and spent.  Slowly, each step more labored than the last, he made his way to the vanity that sat against the wall opposite the bed and—with only a slight, fearful hesitation—peered into the mirror. 

And it was there, right where he'd known it would be.  Eyes wide, he leaned forward slightly, bringing two fingers to the left side of his neck as if checking his pulse, and watched his reflection touch a clearly-written, glowing red symbol rising from the flesh of his neck. 

When...when you saved Suboshi...

His gaze drifted, in the mirror, to the reflection of the bed, and to the still form that lay there.  "When you saved Suboshi," he whispered, "you had...on your...on your chest..."

It seemed, abruptly, as if the mirror shimmered, like a pebble skipped across the surface of a still pool of water.  The glass itself didn't move, but it seemed as if the reflection itself wavered, rippling outwards until everything within it resembled a twisted carnival mirror...and then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the movement stopped, and everything went still again. 

He was still frowning at the glass, bringing a hand up to touch against it, when all of a sudden the image of Nuriko behind him shifted, stirred, and sat up.

Frozen in shock, he could do nothing but stare. The thought of turning around never occurred to him; his hands fell limply to his sides, the breath seeming to freeze in his chest, even as he watched the Nuriko in the mirror yawn and stretch his arms over his head, blinking rapidly as if trying to dispel the touch of sleep from his vision.  Then, as if just noticing that he was not alone, Nuriko turned, noticed the younger man standing at the vanity, and smiled. 

It was too much.  Tears built again in his eyes, slipped down onto his already-wet cheeks. 

The smile faded immediately from the other man's face; Nuriko's slim eyebrows raised, vanishing beneath the violet whispers of his bangs, and as Hotohori watched through a wavering wall of tears, the slender man drew himself up from the blankets, planted his feet on the floor, and circled the bed.  There was something strange about the way he was moving—aside, of course, from the fact that he was moving at all.  His arms seemed to lift too easily, his legs to slide forward too gracefully.  It seemed, rather, as if he were in danger of floating upwards with each step, like footage of an astronaut adapting to the gravity of the moon, and it seemed only as if the determined expression on his face kept his feet continually returning to the carpet.

"Hotohori-sama?"  Despite the fact that the older man stood just behind him, so close that he could've reached back and touched him, he didn't feel even a hint of displaced air or movement.  He heard the slow intake and exhale of breath, the rustle of skin against fabric, but it all seemed to be coming to him from the image in the mirror, not the world behind him. 

It's not real.  It's not real, is it?  It's not real.

Nuriko's features smoothed into a soft smile, and—as he watched, through the mirror—the small man took one more step forward, stretched out his arms, and wrapped them tightly around Hotohori's chest.  And real or not, a dream or not...he felt it.

"Kourin once told me," he murmured, cheek pressed to the younger man's back, "that just because something is a dream, that doesn't mean that it isn't real.  I never knew...what she meant, until now."

There were so many things he needed to say—so many things he wanted to ask, to know...  But when he opened his mouth, the warmth of Nuriko's body surrounding him in a comforting embrace, all that came out was, "Nuriko...I'm so...I'm so sorry."

The other man stirred slightly against him, chest rising and falling in a slow, regular rhythm.  "Don't be sorry," he replied after a moment, sounding as if he were smiling again.  "I saw her, Hotohori-sama.  And I...I died protecting Miaka, just like I did then.  Just like...just like we all did."

It didn't come back to him then—not all of it.  But there was a feeling, starting deep in the back of his mind and rising, and it felt so familiar and right, and even as he thought that he might know why he recognized that feeling, there was something like a memory flashing before his eyes, and all thought faded off into it. 

There was a room, rising up around him with high walls and a smell that could only be described as ancient, and there was something resting on the top of his head, so light but so heavy...  "...to Kutou by herself?" he was shouting, and he knew that only the high collared robes were keeping the blazing symbol from showing itself to everyone. 

He lifted his eyes from the clenched hands in front of him, drawing his gaze up from the scarlet carpet and the oddly shaped shoes adorning his feet, and although there were many others in the room with him, all of his attention went to the slender, kneeling form in front of him.  A long carpeting separated them, but there was no mistaking the soft violet hair, plaited into a long braid that whispered against the floor, or the voice that came next, soft with apology but still warm, somehow...

"Sumimasen, Heika.  We were with her..."

It faded out, then, sliding back into the depths of his mind like a curtain falling, but it left him with the knowledge that somehow, somewhere, he was something more than this—something more than this body and this life.  He was something...more.  And so, he realized with a soft breath, was Nuriko.  

The thought had barely occurred to him before Nuriko laughed, very softly, and squeezed him tightly.  "It's a start," he said approvingly.  "You don't have to remember it all, Hotohori-sama.  I don't think it'd help you very much even if you did.  But, Hotohori-sama.  Saihitei."  His voice went suddenly serious, and when the younger man brought his eyes back up to the mirror, he found his gaze met by two large, intense violet eyes.  Nuriko's arms still wrapped around his chest, strong and comforting, but the eighteen-year-old had lifted his head so his chin rested against the back of Hotohori's shoulder.

"Saihitei," he repeated in a near-whisper, and this time Hotohori was sure he could feel the warmth of the breath against his ear.  "It isn't over yet.  Miaka is still in danger, now more than ever, and even though I saved her...then..."  He shook his head.  "She needs you, Hotohori-sama.  She needs you as much as she ever did--maybe more.  Even if you don't understand why, you have to stay with her and protect her, or they might succeed, and then..."  He shook his head.  "We can't let that happen."

"Nuriko..."  His voice sounded choked; he forced some more strength into it, but it still sounded weak and small, like a child's voice.  "I promise.  Of course, I promise  But--"  He closed his eyes, breathing raggedly to try to push back the tears.  "I miss you," he whispered.  "It's...it's not fair, what happened."

"I know," Nuriko said softly.  "Ne, Hotohori-sama...keep your eyes closed, for a minute."

He nodded, shoulders shaking, and soon felt slender hands on his shoulders, turning him away from the mirror.  Arms slid gently beneath his armpits, hands slipping forward to turn soothing circles against his back, and a warm body was suddenly in his arms, whispers of silken hair tickling against the bottom of his chin.  The touch, so tender and loving, drove all inhibitions from his body, all thoughts of self-control from his mind, and for the third time in one day, he broke down and cried.   Nuriko only held him more tightly as he sobbed, rocking slightly back and forth and murmuring comforting words, hands rubbing slow circles against the younger man's back.

"Shh," Nuriko whispered.  "Shh, Hotohori-sama.  It's all right.  It's all right.  I'm here."

There came the sound of a fist rapping against the open door, followed by the rustle of fabric and the muffled thud of boots on carpet.  "Hotohori?"  A deep, concerned voice--Mitsukake.

No.  No, I can't...I can't open my eyes...because if I do, you'll be gone.  If I do, you'll be gone! I can't--!

"Hotohori-sama," Nuriko murmured, and his voice suddenly seeming to be coming from much farther away than it should've been, "I'm already gone.  You can't..."  A smile touched his words.  "You can't lose me twice.  But, ne, I'll still be around, even if you can't see me.  And I'll see you again.  Hopefully not...as soon as last time.  Remember what I said, Hotohori-sama.  Remember..."

"Hotohori, are you all right?"

Desperation, chill as ice, nearly made him cry out.  No, please...please, Nuriko, don't go...!  I'm sorry!  I'm sorry I wasn't here and I'm sorry I never told you but I always loved you even if it was just as a friend so please don't go!  Please...

He felt hands on his shoulders, with thick fingers and a grip that could've jarred him from the deepest sleep.  Real hands, and a real voice, rising from a throat that had, like his, been pinched all too recently with grief.

"Hotohori, please answer me.  Can you hear me?  It's Mitsukake.  Hotohori, open your eyes!"

Goodbye, Nuriko...

Heart aching with loss, Hotohori inhaled, exhaled, and then let his eyes slide open.  Mitsukake was standing there in front of him, strong hands on his shoulders and brows pressing together on his forehead; his eyes were wide with concern and a trace of fear.  As their gazes met, the older man gave a sigh and relaxed, his arms dropping back to his sides.

"I'm sorry," the healer said.  "I...I saw you standing there, and for a moment I thought--"  He shook his head.  "It seemed as if...you were somewhere else."

He could still feel the warmth of Nuriko's arms around him, the soothing touch of his hands...

Letting his gaze drift to the bed, where Nuriko's body lay lifelessly among the blankets and pillows, he brought a hand to his heart and held it there.  "It's all right," he said, still feeling weary but somehow stronger, now, as if he'd come a very long way...but had somehow found himself somehow right where he was supposed to be.  It felt good.  It felt like home.  "Have you called the police?"

The healer blinked, looking surprised at the sudden collection in the younger man. After a moment, however, the surprise passed, and he nodded.  "Yes.  They should be here shortly."

"Good."  He hesitated.  "Mitsukake..."

"Hai?"

"I...I'm going to try to call his parents.  Could you--"  He flushed, glancing down at the carpet before finding the words to continue.  "Could you...stay with him, while I'm gone?" 

There was a slight pause, then Mitsukake's hand rose from his side and gripped onto Hotohori's shoulder, squeezing it comfortingly.  "I will," he promised.  "Take as long as you need."

As the younger man left the room, he heard the rustle of Mitsukake moving to the chair by the bed, followed by the creak of the tall doctor lowering himself into it.  He couldn't help but wonder, as he stepped out into  the hallway, if Nuriko might be walking with him now, steadying his steps and helping the strength to seep back into his muscles.  Passing a circular mirror hanging on the opposite wall, he thought he caught a glimpse of violet hair, and smiled.

You're here, aren't you?  The hand touching his heart clenched, as if holding something close.  Always...

His steps were easy and light, his shoulders untensed for the first time in an hour, as he made his way down the staircase.  He wasn't sure just what it was he was going to say to Nuriko's parents when he talked to them, nor how he would possibly find the words to relay such a horrible message, but he was committed now, and he knew, somehow, that if he faltered, Nuriko would be there to help him and strengthen him.  He was just considering how he was going to begin when the front door swung suddenly open, and Hotohori found himself coming to a shocked halt at the foot of the stairs.

Three people stood there in the archway, all looking pale and drawn and weary.  The one in front, a handsome blond man in his late twenties, stood head and shoulders above the other two, and it was clear from the way he stood—arms folded over his chest, ice-blue eyes surveying the scene with a cool composure—that he was the leader.  He wore a loose-fitting white dress shirt and black pants, high-legged boots wrapping everything below his knees in leather.  Just behind him, flanking him like some sort of honor guard, stood a young woman with long, braided auburn hair and a form-fitting sundress, and a blue-eyed boy of about fifteen.

He knew their names.  Perhaps he shouldn't have—at least, not the other two—but he did.  Nakago.  Soi.  Suboshi.  Something deep inside of him warned him that they were the enemy, not to be trusted--but, they looked so lost, somehow... 

No.  No, not lost.  They looked...stricken. 

Nakago's voice was deep but soft; his words sounded more weary than anything.  "If it gives you any peace of mind to know," he said quietly, "this was not what we intended to happen.  This—"  One hand lifted from his side and gestured to the still form of Ashitare on the floor.  "--is what we were trying to avoid."

Knowledge, chill and certain, flooded into him.  "You sent him," Hotohori whispered.  "You sent him, to kill..." 

Nakago's eyes narrowed dangerously. "No," he said in a low, deadly voice, "I did not send him.  His death was the first then, and it is the first now.  Do you have any idea what that means?  No," he continued.  "I would never have sent him, knowing that the one who killed him then was here.  I take it--"  His voice actually took on a tone of sympathy, and despite the fact that Hotohori knew he had never met this man before today, it sounded decidedly strange coming from him.  "I take it he was killed, as well?"

Pain in his eyes, Hotohori inclined his head slightly.

...and much to his surprise, Suboshi brought a hand to his face and suddenly looked as if he were trying to blink back tears.  "No," he moaned.  "No, it's my fault—I started it with...with the car...  We're all gonna die, aren't we, Nakago-sama?"

Face contorting in empathy, Soi moved to the boy's side and put an arm around his shoulders.  "Shh," she soothed.  "No one's going to die."

"We may yet," Nakago said in a tight voice.  "We'd thought--"  His eyes lifted, again, to study Hotohori's face, and when he spoke, it was in a low, dark murmur.  "We'd thought it was over then, when the sister was killed rather than your friend.  But, it wasn't.  I suspect she died the first time, also.  The means were different, no doubt, but the event...  It was set, just as the death of Ashitare's wolf form was.  Perhaps--"  A hiss of breath slipped through his lips, his hardened features seemingly oblivious to the boy crying quietly behind him.  "Perhaps it truly is impossible, to alter fate."  His eyes suddenly blazed.  "But, we will keep trying.  It is nothing against you, or against any of your friends.  It is something we must do, or we will die.  Surely even you can understand that, Saihitei."

Hotohori felt his eyes widening.  "How...how did you—"

Nakago sighed, all strength seeming to bleed from his muscles.  "No matter," he said quietly.  "Another explanation wasted on the ignorant.  Soi, Suboshi—come."

After only a moment of hesitation, during which Suboshi scrubbed frantically at the tears bathing his cheeks, the three started towards the limp, bloodied form lying outstretched in the kitchen archway.  Muscles unfrozen by their sudden movement, Hotohori stepped forward and raised a hand. 

"Wait," he commanded, surprised at the depth of strength in his voice.  "Where do you think you're going?"

Nakago regarded him coolly.  "We have both lost someone today, Saihitei.  Foolish as he was for thinking he could end this himself, I won't leave him lying on the floor like a dog.  Let us pass."

"She needs you, Hotohori-sama.  She needs you as much as she ever did--maybe more.  Even if you don't understand why, you have to stay with her and protect her, or they might succeed, and then..."

He hadn't understood, then, what Nuriko had meant, but now...  Well, he still didn't have the slightest idea, but something inside of him—feeling, not thought—told him that the 'they' he'd mentioned were standing right in front of his eyes.

"It's you, isn't it?" he asked quietly.  "He told me...that someone was trying to hurt her.  It's you."

Nakago's face hardened, suddenly, in anger.  "It is the only way," he growled.  "Whatever our sins in the last life, we've done nothing in this one.  We do not want to die, Saihitei, and we'll do whatever we must to make sure that we don't.  Now, step.  Aside."

He did so, but not because of Nakago's firm words.  He did so, instead, because of the depth of grief on Suboshi's face, and on Soi's face, and because of the tremor that had worked through this hard-faced man's features as he spoke. 

Enemies, perhaps.  But not so different.  No.  Not so different at all.

"Thank you," Nakago said.  After a quick glance back at his companions, he started forward, his boots making dull echoes on the bloodstained floor boards.  At the sight of the knife handle buried in the big man's back, he shook his head almost sadly, and murmured something that Hotohori, standing only a few feet away, couldn't hear. 

While Nakago and Suboshi worked at establishing their grips on their fallen companion's body, Soi turned and gave Hotohori a soft smile, dark eye make-up smudging as she rubbed at her eyes.  "Your friend must've been very strong," she said in a wavering voice.  "We...we saw the blood outside.  Ashitare must've--"  She trailed off, going a little paler.  "Your friend was already injured, when he came back into the house.  He was very brave."

"Soi," Nakago said sharply.

Brushing again at her eyes, the young woman turned back and hurried to her companions' side; with her help, the three were able to lift Ashitare's body from the floor and start towards the open door.  For a moment, Hotohori wondered how they would ever get the man to their car without attracting the attention of everyone in the neighborhood, but realized with some bitterness that the very line of pine trees that had kept anyone from witnessing the attack would probably keep anyone from witnessing the escape, either. 

What good would it do, anyway, for the police to find him here?  He's dead.  They both are. 

Silent and coolly-respectful, he watched the three carry their burden through the front door and out onto the porch.  He waited until they'd reached their car, a sturdy-looking minivan with a sliding door, before he walked to the front door, gripped the knob, and pushed it closed.

~*~