Chapter Four – Red Leaves Falling
Sir Edwin Rutherford had spent the night inflicting pain on a woman. Immense amounts of pain. The whole night long.
There was nothing about his appearance to suggest his evening had consisted of anything more than conventional debauchery. His clothes were impeccable as usual; his countenance was clear. If there were faint lines of dissipation on his face, well, he was no different from any other nobleman of his day. A gentleman gambled and caroused and seduced opera dancers; it wasn't a lucrative career, but it had certain perks.
Rutherford had not been engaged in anything so acceptable as conventional debauchery. Ken could smell it.
Imperceptible to the others in the room was a faint miasma of darkness that clung to him. He smelled of sex and blood and a pervading scent of pleasure mixed with pain. Ken recognized the bloodscent as Takaoka's: a mix of plum blossoms, powder, and a curious hint of ink. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his katana, and then consciously relaxed it.
'Tension increases tension,' he reminded himself. 'Stay calm.' Whatever Rutherford had done to the woman, it was done and could not be changed; the future had yet to be decided. If he couldn't master his emotion for long enough to get through the duel, he had no hope of taking Rutherford down.
Rutherford started off with a customary sneer. "So, you did show up, Hidaka. I was convinced you'd turn tail and run when confronted with a real fight." His group of hangers-on chuckled.
"It would take more than a cut-rate hiresword to make me turn, Rutherford," Ken returned sharply. "And what reason could I have for running? I doubt this ronin has any real skill – it doesn't take much to impress an Englishman." He wished idly for a crowd of followers to marvel at his wit, but had to make do with Pierre's stoic support.
"Or an Englishwoman." Rutherford let the provocative statement dangle before Ken, almost daring him to attack. Ken couldn't be sure if he was referring to Rachel or to Lucy. He decided it didn't matter who it was aimed at; the man was impugning the honour of a friend.
"Looked at en masse, you English are easily impressed by the exotic," he drawled, copying Rutherford's affected tones. "There are, however, a select few who strive to understand things that are foreign, rather than simply grabbing whatever seems… attractive." He drew out the last word, shading it with nuances and inflections he knew would be irresistible.
"And Lucy Fairchild is one of those select few?" Rutherford asked, taking the bait.
Ken allowed himself a brief internal smirk. How the man had managed to control a secret society for so long was incomprehensible. To those who knew how to read him, he was an unsealed scroll.
"Lady Fairchild has an Eastern heart in a Western body. She seeks knowledge and communication for the joy of them, not because she stands to gain from them." Perhaps that was overstating Lucy's situation slightly, but he didn't think she'd take offence.
The smile that made its way across Rutherford's face made Ken rethink his earlier position. "Oh, I take joy in my latest acquisitions, Hidaka," he purred. "Great joy. And once Fujimiya here beats that self-righteous smirk off your face, my pleasure will know no bounds." He was practically rubbing his hands together with glee.
Ken shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "That remains to be seen, Rutherford." And he stepped into the centre of the ring.
At a gesture from Rutherford, Fujimiya stepped forward. His gaze on Ken was intense, forceful. He appeared to have eyes for nothing else.
The similarities between the two of them were disconcerting. As if they were statuettes cast from the same mould, they faced each other in a mirror image stance; two warrior figures, identical in essentials but dressed in the clothes of differing cultures.
Fujimiya wore the clothing of the samurai, unchanged over the course of Ken's lifetime. His hakama were a dark grey, as were his tabi. His yukata was crisply white in contrast to the black gi, which did so much to emphasize the strangeness of his colouring. Next to the black cotton, his skin seemed much paler, his hair more obscenely red; it was like a waterfall of blood trailing down his back. The two small braids at his temples swayed slightly; otherwise, he was motionless.
Ken, by contrast, was dressed in the most modern of haute couture. His trousers were form fitting, as was his waistcoat. The sleeves of his linen shirt billowed about his arms, ending in tight cuffs that were trimmed with lace. He wore shoes rather than sandals, and his hair was trimmed in the latest English fashion. In point of fact, the sight of such a paragon of Western fashion carrying two Japanese swords might have been laughable.
Might have been…until one looked into his eyes, and saw a killer staring back.
For a full minute, they stared at each other. Falling into position, measuring one's ki against the enemy. Ken felt a hint of amusement at the way they were mirroring each other. They both had their eyes narrowed in the same manner; the same slight flare to the nostrils. Heads erect, shoulders lowered, legs strong. He would wager that Fujimiya was perhaps as conversant with the works of Miyamoto Musashi as he himself was.
But, he reminded himself, Fujimiya hadn't had two centuries to ponder over Musashi's texts. The samurai couldn't be much over twenty; even if he had been studying kenjutsu since the moment of his birth, there was no way he could have mastered enough of it to cause Ken any serious worry.
They simultaneously dropped into defensive postures: tension flared and hands hovered over hilts. As Ken sensed the subtle shift in the other man's ki that signalled an attack, he thrust forward, feinting towards Fujimiya's face with the point of his katana. Fujimiya dashed the blade to Ken's right, following through as if to stab through Ken's eye.
Except that Ken was no longer there.
Like a ripple in a pool of water, Ken moved sideways, bringing his katana up from under Fujimiya's. He forced the blade up, leaving Fujimiya's chest exposed. The samurai turned the move to his advantage: he used the momentum from the forced swing to propel his counterattack, which was to bring his katana down on Ken's left shoulder. Ken parried the attack, noting the force behind the blow. Fujimiya had no expression at all on his face, but there was tightly controlled anger behind his every move.
They separated and began circling each other. The only sounds were the rustling of cloth and occasional scuff of a shoe on the wooden floor. Fujimiya was the first to break the silence.
"Dog of the shogun," he muttered, almost under his breath. Once again, Ken had his preternatural senses to thank for overhearing what was not intended for his ears. Even if it made little sense.
What?" he said, confused. Of all the insults he expected to receive at the hands of a warrior, that was one he had never imagined.
"You may have perfect technique, but no shogun's lapdog will subdue me." Fujimiya's voice was as cold as his eyes.
"I think perhaps you have me mistaken for someone else," Ken said, no more enlightened than he had been at the beginning. He was acutely aware of their audience; Rutherford's entourage was unimpressed by the seeming inaction of the duellists and were getting restless.
"My employer says you've been here for four years, and you were in another European country before." There was an accusation in Fujimiya's eyes that seemed to burn its way under Ken's skin. "No one left the country before the War except on the express orders of the shogun." His blade dropped to a lower attitude; his arm crossed over his chest. "What can that make you but the dog of a tyrant?"
The last was hissed as he launched into a swift attack. Instead of cutting at him as Ken half expected, he lunged in with his body and kept his katana close. As his shoulder slammed into Ken's chest, he brought the blade up and cut towards Ken's neck. It was a decisive cut; his intention was pure. If successful, Ken's head and shoulders would have parted company.
The clatter of metal on metal was nearly deafening. Ken's katana had come up between them, and he thrust Fujimiya's blade back. Rather than simply parrying the blow with the strength of his arms, Ken used his legs; he thrust forward from the floor, making good use of the solid purchase he had gained in the moment before Fujimiya attacked.
For a moment, as their blades entangled, their faces were startlingly close. "If all you can speak are idiocies, maybe it's better that you keep your mouth shut," Ken hissed back, and was rewarded with a slight narrowing of the samurai's eyes. This was better than dancing, better than running. This was as elemental as breathing or feeding or fucking. If they had been born with swords sprouting from their hands, they could not have used them more naturally; they could not have been a greater extension of their arms.
Fujimiya laughed shortly as he pulled back. "Does hearing the truth pain you?" he asked, a hint of mockery apparent under the seemingly emotionless exterior. They began circling each other again, but there was something more primitive about it the second time. It was as if they were half-tamed animals; there was a fluidity to their movements that spoke of wild places and savage natures.
"Does making assumptions about a countryman in a foreign land please you?" Ken responded, allowing a hint of condescension to creep into his voice. "I refuse to take seriously the criticism of a muzzled wolf. What wild animal would willingly put its neck in a leash?"
Without waiting for a response, he renewed his attack against the samurai. He sliced towards him with the intent of tangling their blades, fixing them together so that they would not easily separate. As they did, Ken realized he had been mistaken about Fujimiya.
The man was actually holding back against him. He was not fighting at full strength.
Moving with a speed no human had a right to possess, Fujimiya broke away from Ken's blade. "Which one of us makes assumptions now, dog?" On the sidelines, Rutherford laughed suddenly. Ken had been so intent on Fujimiya that he couldn't tell if it had been Fujimiya's comment or one of the hangers-on who had incited the laughter. The entire conversation had been in Japanese, but Ken couldn't be sure that Rutherford didn't understand enough of the language to follow along.
Then he didn't have time to think at all.
Fujimiya launched a series of silent, lightning-quick attacks in rapid succession, leaving Ken no choice but to defend himself. Although he wasn't actually exerting himself to full capability, Ken was conscious of strain in muscles that hadn't been used seriously in over a century.
"I have a name, you know," Ken remarked conversationally, parrying Ran's blade aside as if it were an errant branch on a wooded path. "I've always thought it good to know the name of a person you hate. It makes it so much more personal."
"I am not concerned with your name," Ran snarled, frustration beginning to show through his impassive mask. None of his attacks were getting anywhere.
"Well, I am concerned with yours, Fujimiya-san." Ken dodged a particularly vicious strike, following through to ram his blade against the other man's side. Almost. "Aside from my travelling in Europe, I can't conceive of anything I've done to offend you. Your family name is unfamiliar to me." That was the crux of it; Ken had no idea who the samurai was or why he bore such a tangible hatred for him.
Fujimiya sneered. "Your family's name has always been dark. Hidakas are all liars and cheats; they have been since the Tokugawas took power."
"Again you speak and again you say nothing. I know what reason your owner has to hate me, but you spew only wind." Ken was pleased to see the narrowing of Fujimiya's eyes at the insult. "If I have caused you offence, I apologize."
The samurai redoubled his attack. "You offend me with every breath you take in freedom. When there are people who suffered through the Bakumatsu, who continue to suffer into the Meiji, I can't forgive someone who escaped. You live here like a corrupt politician, in your English house with your English friends, while the honour of our country disappears." A moving speech: three sentences that ran together to spell out a young man's mistaken hatred. Everything became clear to Ken.
Fujimiya's hands were slender, with long fingers and blunt nails. They were a painter's hands: a musician's. No one looking at those hands would imagine them capable of wielding the tools of death. No one would picture them spattered with blood and gore. But the scent of old blood still clung to him; it was a faint hint of copper under the smell of sandalwood. No human would consciously smell it, but the unconscious recognized it and shied away.
Fujimiya had fought on the side of the revolutionaries. He had been covered in the blood of those loyal to the shogun, often enough that the scent was a permanent part of him. And while Ken could not understand why an Ishin would willingly follow an Englishman, he could understand the dark place the young man's bitterness and anger stemmed from.
But…
"There are many things you do not know, Fujimiya-san," he said, ducking beneath the other man's blade. "I think you understand the kind of force you serve. How is it you can't forgive me for my supposed crime, but can stand by while a mongrel desecrates a delicate flower?" For Rutherford's abuse of Takaoka was nothing less than desecration. If the samurai were capable of turning his back on a countrywoman in distress, Ken would have every right to question the man's honour.
"Perhaps the flower of which you speak is stronger than it appears," Fujimiya offered, thrusting forward. "Perhaps it is the sapling of a maple, rather than a sprig of sakura." He closed in on Ken, his empty left hand dropping towards his wakizashi. Ken's eyes narrowed.
"Perhaps the mighty samurai is not as honourable as he pretends to be," he said, his own hand dropping the hilt of his short sword. "I weary of this."
That was the only warning he gave.
Years of practice enabled him to completely mask his ki, hiding his true intention from Fujimiya. He appeared to be undecided about his attack, vulnerable. It looked like he was exposing a weakness in his personal guard. Fujimiya lunged in to attack him through that gap.
But what had appeared to be a weakness was actually the bait in a trap.
Ken suddenly retaliated, beating the point of Fujimiya's katana down suddenly. Because he had not given any indication of his approach, the samurai had no way to combat the move. The point of his sword was jarred downward. Ken followed the Red Leaves manoeuvre with a broad sweep of his blade. He managed to strike Fujimiya's hands, arms, and head several times with the single blow. However, he had reversed his blade so that Fujimiya was hit with the flat, rather than the cutting edge. And he had checked his strength enough to allow the other man to maintain his grip on the weapon. None of the onlookers would even have been able to follow the path of the cut; none of them realized the samurai had been touched. But Ken could see the recognition of his skill in Fujimiya's eyes, the grudging admiration of his talent with a blade.
They drew apart and sheathed their weapons. Once again the salon was silent.
"Well, that was almost entertaining," Ken said, reluctantly drawing his eyes away from Fujimiya. His gaze fell on Rutherford, who looked somewhat upset. "As I said, Rutherford, I don't really have much to fear from a ronin."
Rutherford's expression was peculiar…a mix of anger and…desire? Want was twinned with hate, admiration with disgust. Before Ken could thoroughly sort out the jumble of emotions on the nobleman's face, Rutherford turned and left the room, trailing lackeys behind him like a cloak.
"Ran." Chaos. The whisper of sound was meant only for Ken's ears, too quiet for anyone else to hear. The samurai did not turn to look at Ken; his gaze was fixed on his master's back. "My name is Ran." Before Ken could say anything, he was gone.
Pierre's presence at his side was all that kept Ken from chasing after him. The swordmaster stood beside him, his expression one of awe and wonder. "May I say, sir, that I have never in all my life seen swordsmanship like that. It's humbling. How long have you studied to achieve such skill?"
"A lifetime, Pierre. A lifetime or two."
He laid his daisho on the table, caught up in thought. My skills were honed by time; his were honed by war. If I were mortal, I don't think I would have beaten him. And if he were Changed…I don't think anything would be able to stop him. The thought was distressing.
"I think I'll go for a stroll, Pierre," he said, suddenly wanting to be alone with his thoughts and free of the restraints of society. The wooded areas that surrounded the salon were ideal for the purpose. Without waiting to hear the man's response, he headed towards the exit.
The sound of the forest's stillness enveloped him as soon as he passed through the first thicket. With every step, he let his humanity slip away, shedding rules and obligations and practiced behaviour like snakeskin. His stride lengthened into a lope, into a canter, moving through all the paces until he was running flat out, with a speed no human could match.
He didn't care where he ended up, as long as he could keep running. In the back of his mind, though, he was aware of the need to remain fairly close to the salon, and so he mapped his route out, broad looping patterns through the forest. He didn't worry overly much about being seen; the human eye was incapable of registering him as anything other than a blur: a shadow where no shadow should be.
Hurry up, Kase. We'll never get there if you're so slow! A childish voice cut through his thoughts.
I'm not slow! You're too fast! Anger…frustration. Why do you have to run all the time?
Running's better than walking, dummy. Why do you think horses run? Or foxes? Pure joy in movement…love of all things physical.
Are you saying you're a horse? Neigh, neigh, neigh. Mockery…good-natured, but with darkness lurking behind…
Shut up, that's not what I meant! The childish voice turned angry, upset at the companion's wilful misunderstanding…
Ken is a horse…Ken is a horse… Both voices faded into the recesses of his mind.
He collapsed in the centre of a sun-dappled glen. He lay on his back, panting, arm thrown over his eyes to block out the sun.
Was it only the morning's dream that brought Kase's remembered voice to his mind? Or had the duel with Ran unlocked the vault he had sealed so long ago?
Sparring with Kase had never been like that; like dancing…fucking. Every movement had been perfection, Ran's body joining his in rhythm, creating an auditory poem of metal and breath. With Kase, there had always been awkwardness; Kase's skill had never compared to Ken's, and the difference had always been apparent.
He didn't want to think of his childhood best friend. Dredging up the past could only bring pain, and he was tired. Ken would never have claimed that he didn't deserve to suffer for the actions of his earlier life, but there was only so much a man could endure. He had accepted the deaths of friends, the death of a lover, with as much stoicism as he could muster, and his emotions were tangled and sore.
He didn't want to believe he tainted everything he held dear.
He turned his thoughts back to the duel. Most of Rutherford's cronies had paid scant attention to the fight, gossiping amongst themselves and toadying up to Rutherford. None of them were known for possessing any fencing ability, so naturally their interest was minimal. If they bothered to watch the duellists at all, their attention had been evenly divided between Ken and Ran.
One of them, though, had been focused completely on Ken.
There was nothing that stood out about his appearance, nothing that was memorable. He was young, barely into adulthood, with the lanky body and sense of awkwardness that Ken associated with an English adolescence. His hair was a mousy shade of brown and scraped back from his face in an attempt at the current fashion. His face was narrow with a trace of baby-pudginess, but the bones were good. He would likely mature into a fairly handsome man, given time.
The hunger clawing behind his eyes as he had watched Ken had been disturbing. From the moment Rutherford's party had entered the room, he had his gaze locked on Ken. Ken had felt the hazel eyes following his every movement, gauging his abilities. Ken couldn't recall any Westerner watching him like that before, and he was disturbed by it.
I don't know what he wants from me, this man-child of another race. Is it something within my power to give? What is his connection to Rutherford?
He made a mental note to have Cherry keep track of the people going in and out of Rutherford's house. If he passed along his description, as minimal as it was, Cherry would be able to ferret out who the young man was.
He caught himself eyeing the wildlife and licking his lips. The hunger he had thought appeased the evening before was back with a vengeance. As Ver would say, the fight had left him wanting to feed or fuck, and, as he had no current bedwarmer, feed he would. He returned to the salon long enough to scrawl out a quick note to Lucy, and then summoned his carriage. He wasn't dressed for a typical evening's entertainment, but it would be fine for what he had in mind. Ver could be very accommodating sometimes.
Notes:
Thank you everyone who stuck around and waited for me to finish this chapter. The past month has really sucked, and I felt really horrible about not getting it done according to my schedule. The way it was supposed to work was: 1 chapter every 2 weeks, not 1 chapter a month. I'm really sorry about that.
I'm still beta-reader-less, so…apologies for grammatical booboos. If anyone wants the job, just let me know, and I will begin composing sonnets in your honour. If there are any complaints, please email me at skandrae@hotmail.com - coincidentally, the same address you can address praise to if you so desire. ^_^
On the upside, I did get a fabulous haircut two weeks ago…I look rather funky if I do say so myself. One up, two down…ah well. I'm diving right in to Chapter 5…