An Honest Fist.
The path was familiar, the fresh tang of salt in the sea breeze welcome after the warm day. Evening was closing in now, long shadows painting the smooth old stones that marked the way. How many people had marked the shadows on those weathered old sentinels? How many of them of his own blood? And how much of that blood had been spilled in battles over this land?
A cry from the house shook him from his absent thoughts, sharpening his attention suddenly on the low house before him. As old as the stones probably, and once as worn, but now, with his wife's loving attention, this house and the ancient holdings around it were coming to life around him.
New life.
He hurried his step, arriving at the door as another cry joined the first.
Two cries. Two new lives.
"Master!" A servant flung the screen door open so hard it bounced right back at her. With a swift move Saitou's hand caught the wooden panel before it could knock her flying. She didn't seem to notice. "Master! It's all over! Two boys. Master, hear them crying? As lusty and bold as ever babes drew breath!"
"Twins," Saitou repeated the word, tasting it on his tongue. "Twins." He pinned the old servant with a glance. "My wife?"
The servant nodded her graying head, wrinkled face creasing in contentment. "My lady is just fine, Master. Tired as you'd expect after forcing two new lives into the world, close together as that!" She clapped twice sharply, then chuckled. "You men think you're brave and strong swinging your swords and cutting each other's heads off, try birthing a babe or two, then we'll see who's brave and strong!"
Saitou ignored her easy familiarity with the ease of long practice. She'd served his mother before serving his wife, and her steady loyalty was valuable despite her cheerful insolence. Maybe even because of it. Honesty was a trait that couldn't be bought after all.
"I'll see her," he said, making to step by her, but she jumped back with an agility that belied her age, fixing him a stern glance.
"No you will not," she ordered, as if she wasn't a good three feet smaller than him and twice his age. "My lady is being cleaned up and wouldn't welcome a visitor right now, as you'd know if you had a lick of sense in your head." Her amiable face creased into its natural smiling state again. "But you can see your sons now, if you've a mind."
She turned and led the way, expecting obedience. Ignoring a distant memory of how sharp her bony hands had felt on his backside when he'd played up as a boy, Saitou bowed to feminine mystery and followed. The house was filled with women, bustling around with armfuls of snowy linens and buckets of steaming water. A half a dozen or so were stationed around a single quilt, soft cloths gently wiping over the tiny squirming bundles before them, like ancient priestesses lovingly tending a sacred altar.
One of the bundles squawked and kicked, flinging aside its light cover and exposing a long lean limb to the air. The priestesses cackled disapprovingly and tucked it back away.
Saitou stalked forward, attention focused on the objects of such devotion. His sons. The admirers fell back as he approached, leaving another path for him to follow. A wide gaping mouth was all he could see of one face, pink gums, lips stretched impossibly wide over a huge yawn. Then a dimpled fist came up, rubbing into narrow eyes, still puffy from the ordeal of birth.
The other bundle squawked again and Saitou realized it was his sons idea of a cry. He'd already been through this with his first child, he knew that pitiful squall would soon enough develop into ear drum splitting yells that could drive a man from his own house.
"They're the image of you," the old servant said authoritatively, and around him heads nodded agreement.
Saitou wondered if this was another subtle insult, as neither of these two bundles could be called anything like attractive. He didn't have much experience with babies other than his own, but shouldn't they be altogether more pink, more round? Plump and rosy? Like that?
This pair were long and lean, thin delicate fingers flexing against reddish skin. A tuft of thick black hair stuck out at all angles, and one of then had its eyes open, long narrow slits. He looked pissed off.
Remembering where he'd been just minutes before, Saitou didn't think he could blame him.
Ignoring the clucking women around him Saitou gathered up the naked bundle, picking up and holding him out for inspection. The bundle liked this even less and he decided to let out another squeak, waving his fists and kicking his legs. His face turned even redder and his eyes looked even more pissed off than before.
Saitou gathered him close, picking up his small blanket and wrapping it around him securely, well satisfied. He wanted spirit in his sons, the world being what it was they'd need it. With Tokio for a mother he hadn't really doubted their strength. If he'd been capable of it Saitou knew she might be the only woman he'd ever love.
He laid the boy down and picked up the other.
"Which was born first?"
"That one," the old servant said, picking up the first boy and fussing over him.
Saitou examined him, placing his finger in his sons grasp and nodding when the tiny fist tightened around it. "Now I'll see my wife."
Tokio was propped up on her thick quilt, her best friend Anako kneeling behind her, supporting her with loving hands.
"Husband," Tokio greeted him, weary smile on her lips. "Have you seen them? Are they all right?"
Behind him the servants followed, carrying a boy each. Tokio's face lit up and Saitou stepped back, already feeling the distance between them. All his wife had asked of him was the protection of his name and the children he could give her. All he'd asked of her was the family connections and wealth she'd bought with her. They were both well satisfied with the arrangement so far.
But sometimes...
*****
Much later the bustle was over and the babies lay tucked up by Tokio's bedside. Anako had slipped away and Saitou was left alone with his wife. It was the first time in a long time.
"Thank you," Tokio said softly. He eyes were half closed, her voice softly slurred.
"You should rest."
His wife smiled, eyes flicking to the bundles by her bed. "I'll need it."
"You have enough help here?" Saitou asked politely.
"Of course." Tokio stirred a little, attempting to sit up a little straighter, and Saitou sprang forward with an economical movement, bracing the small of her back and pushing more pillows behind her. When he would have withdrawn she held his arm for a moment and he paused, somewhat surprised. Tokio was not a demonstrative person. "Saitou?"
"Tokio?" Her name almost sounded strange on his tongue, he used it so seldom.
"I meant it. Thank you for our sons."
"You did the hard work."
She smiled suddenly, that elusive dimple of hers slipping in and out of sight. Hers was not a common beauty, rather a stillness of feature that surprised one with sudden moments of animation. As always Saitou was caught a little off guard by an odd feeling of disorientation. It was not a sensation he enjoyed. Again he allowed himself a moment to wonder how his life would have been if he had been capable of loving this woman. If she had been capable of loving him in return.
Tokio released him and he sat back, the folds of his robe settling around him. "No more hard work for either of us then," she said briskly. "I have the three children you promised me."
"You will always be my wife," he reminded her, unsure why he felt the need.
"And your sons will always be here. They'll need you."
Saitou unfolded himself and stood, pacing to the outer door and sliding the screen open. It was full night now and the cicadas filled the air with their rasping song. "I don't know when I'll be back," he said tonelessly. "I may be doing more traveling from now on."
"Come when you can then," Tokio said softly. "Your family will always be here."
Saitou nodded, not taking his eyes from the garden. Somewhere water flowed, and the hollow sound of bamboo against rock echoed.
"I have all that you promised me. And I have Anako. Do you have someone now?"
Saitou tracked the path of a bat across the night sky, it's leathern wings a hush beat in his ears.
"I sensed you did, last time you were here. But I was so sick with the pregnancy and you didn't stay long enough for us to talk..."
"You should rest," Saitou reminded her, closing the door and blowing out one of the lamps.
"Saitou," she said softly as he paced to another lamp and leaned over it. "I know I've never asked before, but somehow this seems different. Please? Am I right? Is there someone?"
Saitou paused over the lamp for long seconds, that dancing flame catching his eye and blinding him for a moment with its marvelous light. Then he drew a breath and blew it out.
"Yes," he said simply.
"Is he..." Tokio trailed off. "Do you... love him?"
Saitou kneeled by his sons, touching soft dark tufts of hair gently. How much would they have grown when he saw them next?
"Can you love him?"
"I can love," he mused.
"You sound surprised," Tokio huffed. Exhaustion was catching up with her and she was almost asleep. "I'm glad. You need someone who can surprise you."
"You always surprised me," Saitou revealed, already knowing she was asleep and beyond hearing him. He reached out and touched a soft dark wing of her hair, knowing he would never touch her again. That had been their deal, and it had weighed heavily on him for a while. His inclination did not lean towards long soft hair and fragrant skin after all. But giving her the children she longed for hadn't been as great a burden as he'd thought. And curiously he found he would miss their closeness now it was over.
But fond of her as he was, hers was not the face he saw when he closed his eyes. In his nightmares it was not her face that accused him, in his dreams it was not her face that forgave him.
Her love, Anako, was by the door, eyes lowered as he walked past.
"Take care of them," he said quietly, and waited for her silent nod before making his way back down the path he still knew like the back of his hand.
Well, it had been a night for surprises after all. Two sons and the possibility of love with the most unlikely young hoyden who'd ever crossed his path. Mouth that never stopped, all spiky hair and attitude.
"Sanosuke," he murmured, tasting the name on his tongue.
End