Sound And Fury
The air down below smelt of -- no, the odd thing for Homura was that there were smells at all. He had grown used to the odours of Heaven, so prevalent that they became normal and unnoticed. Dry air and incense and cherry blossoms, spices shaken out from a fold of silk, old dust on parchment. Newer smells could still surprise him; old sweat on the Marshal, newer exertion and wine on the General, those acrid herbs that they both indulged in, mud and fresh flowers on the itan child in Konzen Douji's keeping.
Damp and mould and slow decay in the darkness, a smell older than any of them, an undernote through all of Heaven that could not be left behind.
Here the sun shone on an imperfect world, where leaves hung from the trees in blotched patterns of green and brown, and fell to blow across the drying grass, and where the earth was trodden down and barren and spatchcocked with bones.
"Nataku-sama met them here," Shien said, arms folded calmly across his chest. The kami's eyes were closed, but Homura was not foolish enough to think that this meant blindness. He was all pallor and calm, pale hair bound back to show the lines of cheekbone and chin and brow, pale lashes-near invisible against his cheek, white bandages criss-crossing round his forearms and across his stomach, light robes that hung loosely on him.
Homura would have discounted him as a porcelain ornament, but that pallor went with an edge. The casual, practical pattern of the other man's bandages, his economical movement in the sure knowledge that nobody would get in his way -- both spoke of a private certainty of ability and power.
"And?" Homura asked, waiting to be entertained with some tale of the mighty Nataku-sama's great strength. Yes, yes, I'm certain that there's never been such a toushin taishi. Do tell me again.
Shien shrugged, a tiny movement of his shoulders. "And then he went into the fortress and defeated Gyumaoh."
Homura smiled at him. "That's all?"
"There should be more?"
"No. Perhaps not." He looked across the battered field at the dark fortress. It rose from the earth harshly, without the elegance of Heaven's buildings, as though the wind had torn it out of rock and left it to stand there. "And all the youkai armies are in there?"
"To the best of our knowledge." Shien's stillness tasted like disapproval now.
Perhaps he was supposed to be behaving like Nataku? All purpose and focus and cold eyes and face frozen with determination? I'm toushin. We do things my way now. "Including their commanders?"
"Indeed, Homura-sama." Perfect courtesy. Nothing to object to. Nothing to react to. Nothing at all.
In an arc behind them, the forces of Heaven spread their vanguards across the Earthly hills, parade rest spoiled by the occasional whisper of conversation. Homura could feel their eyes on his back.
It came to him slowly, like an unfolding lotus, as terribly beautiful, as utterly certain. They were watching the Toushin Taishi preparing to go out and do his duty for Heaven. Certainly there would be soldiers who wondered whether or not he would succeed, whether he would do it properly, who distrusted or doubted or hated or feared, but none of them -- none of them -- saw Homura any more.
There was a time when I sat in a cell and was afraid of soldiers, when I dreaded all the might and majesty of Heaven, where it all crushed me down and left me to live a living death in the darkness. I was the outcast, the family shame, the thing that should never have been born. Not again. Never again.
Homura means toushin taishi, now. Homura means flame. Homura means death. Homura means Heaven's sword unleashed.
He felt his lips curling into a smile. "Then I'll go and do my job."
For a moment, a line of shadow -- or light -- showed at the edge of Shien's lids, something that blazed through the other's rigid control. "Homura-sama, the men are assigned to support you --"
He cut Shien off with a casual gesture. His cape swung in the wind. Earth airs. The smell of mud and dirt and bones and decay. "I'm sure I can rely on your discretion. Bring in support if it's necessary."
Each step towards the arching mouth of the castle's entrance was an exercise in control. No guards tried to bar his way; no youkai champions came forward to challenge him as he walked forward. The dusty earth clung to his shoes.
The smile was growing in him like fire, spreading through him like wine. How simple things were now -- drawn to a point and stretched into infinity, clear and bright and perfect.
They were waiting inside. A disciplined group of them, drawn up as neatly as the forces outside. It was the first time that Homura had seen youkai.
"Leave this place," their leader said, and drew his sword.
Flame blossomed between Homura's hands and became his own sword.
How . . .
. . . very simple.
His feet left prints in the dust that lay on the floor.
It was easy to find his way through the castle. Youkai came running to try to kill him. He cut them down and followed the trail that they left.
The great hall was a surprise. Stonework arched high above, light glinting from the inlay in the ceiling and on the columns, falling in thin beams through hidden windows, laying a mesh of brightness and shadow across the youkai who were waiting there, drawn up to face him. Five stood in the center, barbaric tokens of rank marking them as the leaders of this group.
Homura lowered the point of his sword, letting it rest on the mosaic tiles beneath his feet, and watched them. "You should have been content with your place Under Heaven," he finally said.
---
The wind moved across the dry field, trailing dust behind it, as Homura walked towards the dark mouth of the castle entrance. It tugged at the toushin's hair and cape, so that his shadow twisted and danced against the parched earth.
Shien observed. He was aware of the glances which his subordinates were giving each other behind him, and the unease in the ranks of the army; it was all of a piece with the weather above, with the sun shining bright and harsh, but the sky spattered darkly with the clouds of a coming storm.
He had been here before.
but it had been dark then, with the torch flames blowing in the wind, and the ground had been soft and fresh, and wet underfoot
Homura entered the fortress. The Emperor's nephew. The Emperor's bastard nephew. Facts had positively thrown themselves at him, whether or not he had any interest in hearing them. It was impossible not to be aware of these matters; they wound themselves around the feet, as tireless and common as ivy.
Shien had not expected to be given this mission, though on consideration he supposed that it was logical enough. Certainly his presence would prevent any inaccurate reports on events from being submitted to the proper authorities. He did not delude himself that Litouten had any sort of appreciation for him -- no, he did not delude himself into thinking that Litouten had appreciation for anything to do with Heaven's army, save as and when it was of use to him.
Light flared briefly at the fortress entrance, the echo of some stronger blast from deeper within. Hot wind followed it, brushing at Shien's robe, warm against his closed eyelids.
Homura.
Really, he knew almost nothing about this new toushin. The man was older than Nataku, old enough to have taken a man's place before now. Idly, Shien considered past moments in Heaven, moments when the Emperor's family might have been present, but he had no memory of Homura -- that burning presence, that bright unchancy smile -- until the last few months or so.
Light pulsed again.
It wasn't even a question of duty, as it had been with Nataku-sama. One could feel it in the new toushin's presence, like a fever, like a poison. He wanted this.
Shien fastidiously considered the thought. It displeased him.
---
There were probably formalities to this. "In the name of the Emperor," Homura began, and almost laughed in bitterly dry amusement. The old man sits on high and cares nothing for me, and locked me away from birth, and yet here I am killing in his name. "For creating disturbances upon the surface of the Earth, and for disturbing the order set down by Heaven, I have been sent to execute judgement upon you."
Silence. The youkai glanced at each other, fear in their eyes, animal ears cocked to catch the breeze.
There was no point in drawing it out longer. Homura tensed to step forward, then paused as one of the older youkai chuckled, a small precise noise that hung in the air.
"Yes?" he asked politely.
"Toushin Taishi," the youkai said, with exaggerated courtesy, "we present our compliments to you on this auspicious day. We regret that we are not worthy of the attention of the Toushin Taishi Nataku. We greatly admire your prowess in slaughtering common guards, and have no doubt that you are equally as competent when it comes to attempting the lives of kings. You are welcome to leave this place, and tell whatever tale you like in Heaven of what passed between us. But -- " He paused. He was older than the average, white hair and beard frothing around his face, skin markings scrawled down his right cheek and neck.
Homura raised an eyebrow.
" -- what happens on Earth is our business. Heaven would be advised to stay out of it. We and Heaven's ministers are done with each other."
Insects. They were all insects. Crawling insects, earthbound creatures, chattering and bleating in these futile attempts at negotiation and politics.
"Are you quite finished?" he asked absently. That smile was tugging at his face again. He let it rise in him.
The youkai spread his hands. Lightning leaped between them. "You do not seem in the mood to listen."
The air exploded in flame and movement and lightning. Power moved in him, divine power, as he answered the attack with fire and sword. An edge drew a thin line of blood from his cheek, and there was a time when this would have meant proximity, and weakness, and fear, but not any more, not again, never again. He was Toushin Taishi now, and this was what power meant, and this was what the Marshal had dangled in front of him, and every movement, every touch of his blade against their flesh, every sudden burst of light, every glorious action, was what he should always have been.
If I should hate you for anything, Emperor, it should be for keeping this from me for so long.
His body and spirit burned with it.
---
"Sir." A junior officer saluted and waited for Shien's attention.
Shien turned his head to acknowledge the kami. "Yes?"
"Sir. Reports said that there were several of Gyumaoh's councillors and generals in there. Do you think it's likely that we'll be needed to assist the Toushin Taishi?"
Shien considered the junior officer. His back was rigid with enthusiasm. Something that might have been hero-worship flashed in his eyes. "Sir, if we do," the kami continued, "request permission to . . ."
There was no premeditation to it. Nothing at all. There was everything of premeditation to it. Ever since he had seen Nataku-sama staggering out of the fortress that night, white robes stained and body bowed with pain, ever since he had looked down at Nataku-sama in his sickbed and known his responsibility to his superior officer -- ever since he had made the choice to perceive or not to perceive, to know or not to know.
"Denied," he said flatly. "We will be following the same orders as with Nataku-sama."
The junior officer's eyes widened. Disbelief flared from him. "Sir. Request permission to speak."
"Granted."
Light flared from inside the fortress again, glittering in the windows, too harsh for cheer, too fierce for comfort.
"What if . . ." His voice grew quieter. "What if Prince Homura can't handle it, sir? He hasn't been on this sort of mission before. He wasn't there when Nataku-sama subdued and bound Gyumaoh."
No. He wasn't there for any of it. How fortunate for him that everything was taken care of by the time he stepped into the position.
Shien let the moment draw itself out, until the junior officer dropped his eyes. "Return to your post," he said.
"Sir." The other saluted again and withdrew.
The toushin taishi is the toushin taishi to me, and nothing more than that. I serve. I obey orders. To do less would be a failure. To do more would be a partiality. With either I betray myself.
The universe would decide for itself whether or not Homura was a worthy Toushin Taishi. All that he had to do was nothing. Nothing at all.
There was no betrayal in that. He was as empty and as clear as scoured bone. The universe turned on its way, and the hot wind brushed against his face, and silence hummed in his soul loud enough to drown out any thoughts or memories.
---
There were more of them than he had expected. His sword moved and cleared the air in front of him, like a careless brush wielded by a master calligrapher, and his wrists ached. The muscles in his arms stung as he parried a blow, all the way from wrist to shoulder.
He wasn't sure that he liked the feeling.
The youkai facing him was fast. The earlier ones hadn't been this fast. He dropped to one knee, and brought his sword round in a sweeping cut that drew a line in the air from hip to shoulder, and caught his breath for a moment in the brief respite before another blow, before another wave of youkai came at him.
He could always fall back into the passageway where they couldn't come at him so many at a time. No. That's failure. That's defeat. That's weakness. Pick them off a few at a time, then move in to take out the generals. That hurt.
The edge of a spear touched his forearm and stroked down it. Blood ran.
That hurt.
He needed a distraction. The army would do. Sound and light and fury; Shien would bring troops in, give him a moment's distraction, a moment's breathing space.
Blood ran down his arm and slicked his left hand, trickling around and over the hilt of his sword. A burst of thunder rang in his ears.
This really hurts.
This wasn't supposed to be happening. He was toushin taishi now, and this meant not being weak, not being hurt. The world degenerated into a mosaic of movement and fire and blood and harsh breath, and now he was reacting rather than acting, responding to their blows, forced into defence.
And suddenly it came to him, knotting coldly in the pit of his stomach with absolute certainty; the army wasn't going to arrive. There wasn't going to be a diversion. The Emperor was finally going to be rid of his itan nephew. Nothing in his life would be as appropriate, as honourable, as this noble death in service to Heaven. The Emperor would be pleased. He would sit there like stone, surrounded by his sycophants, with the single grain of sand who had been called Homura finally removed from his silken slipper.
Lightning struck him like a whip and flung him to his knees.
The toushin taishi has power, but I have none. The Emperor's blood has power, but I have none. The Marshal's playing piece was supposed to have power -- I'm sorry, Marshal, looks like you and your friends are out of luck -- but I don't have enough.
He had to fight to get back to his feet, throwing off a group who thought he was easy meat now and rushed at him like animals. His left knee ached and throbbed.
And all I wanted was power to . . . The thought halted. Power to avenge myself. Power to show them. Power to grind their faces in the dirt the way they did mine. Power to take away from them as they had taken away from me. His body moved mechanically, parry and response. Not just power. Power for a reason.
I will not let them take my revenge from me.
Blood in his mouth.
They are my enemies and I will kill them.
No holding back, no restraint, no mercy, no pity, no reserves, nothing except the eternal moment. He was a pillar of fire who rose from earth to heaven, and walked through the youkai in a wave of power and blood. It wasn't the sheer delight of physical exhilaration any longer, but the ache of power spent and muscles forced to go beyond themselves, and the sting of wounds, and death around him like a word painted on the universe and stamped into the flesh of those who had driven him to this flame of rage. Question and answer and enlightenment, all in the arc of a burning sword.
It fell away from him just as his cape had slipped earlier from his shoulders, sliding away to leave him suddenly cold. Blood - his own blood -- traced warm lines across his skin, down one side of his face, across arms and hands, soaking into his clothing, dulling black cloth into a muddy brown. They were all gone. All gone. He could hear screams and running footsteps elsewhere, from a very long distance away, carried to him here where he stood at the centre of the fortress, the pivot around which this world turned.
They had meant to have him killed. No. Be more precise. His uncle the Emperor had intended him to die here.
He could not find any particular resentment towards the army which waited pointlessly outside; some would have had orders, some would have obeyed orders, and some might even have disliked those orders. The memory of Shien's face returned to him, so utterly blank and fastidious, those closed eyes tight shut against both Heaven and Earth. The other man had tried to warn him; he could hear it in Shien's words now, what was so carefully not said in that conversation. Though even then -- they'd been willing to let him die. They'd expected him to die.
His body rang and ached with emptiness, now that the need for violence and death was gone. But he'd won. He'd beaten them. For a moment he thought about sleep, about curling up on the floor amid the blood and dust and marks of fire, and falling over some private edge into darkness, carried away by a thunder of light and fury and pride.
Homura felt his mouth curling into that smile again, edged and barbed with malice. He wouldn't say anything to anybody; he wouldn't have to. Those who knew would know, and those who did not know were below his contempt and not worth his interest. Later, later he would find his own ways of taking revenge, but for the moment, it would be enough to walk out through the doors of the fortress and look at the army, and smile at them.
He was Toushin Taishi. He was the only one in Heaven who could spill blood.
Homura's smile widened.
Thank you, uncle. I believe that I will enjoy my work.
---
The air down below smelt of -- no, the odd thing for Homura was that there were smells at all. He had grown used to the odours of Heaven, so prevalent that they became normal and unnoticed. Dry air and incense and cherry blossoms, spices shaken out from a fold of silk, old dust on parchment. Newer smells could still surprise him; old sweat on the Marshal, newer exertion and wine on the General, those acrid herbs that they both indulged in, mud and fresh flowers on the itan child in Konzen Douji's keeping.
Damp and mould and slow decay in the darkness, a smell older than any of them, an undernote through all of Heaven that could not be left behind.
Here the sun shone on an imperfect world, where leaves hung from the trees in blotched patterns of green and brown, and fell to blow across the drying grass, and where the earth was trodden down and barren and spatchcocked with bones.
"Nataku-sama met them here," Shien said, arms folded calmly across his chest. The kami's eyes were closed, but Homura was not foolish enough to think that this meant blindness. He was all pallor and calm, pale hair bound back to show the lines of cheekbone and chin and brow, pale lashes-near invisible against his cheek, white bandages criss-crossing round his forearms and across his stomach, light robes that hung loosely on him.
Homura would have discounted him as a porcelain ornament, but that pallor went with an edge. The casual, practical pattern of the other man's bandages, his economical movement in the sure knowledge that nobody would get in his way -- both spoke of a private certainty of ability and power.
"And?" Homura asked, waiting to be entertained with some tale of the mighty Nataku-sama's great strength. Yes, yes, I'm certain that there's never been such a toushin taishi. Do tell me again.
Shien shrugged, a tiny movement of his shoulders. "And then he went into the fortress and defeated Gyumaoh."
Homura smiled at him. "That's all?"
"There should be more?"
"No. Perhaps not." He looked across the battered field at the dark fortress. It rose from the earth harshly, without the elegance of Heaven's buildings, as though the wind had torn it out of rock and left it to stand there. "And all the youkai armies are in there?"
"To the best of our knowledge." Shien's stillness tasted like disapproval now.
Perhaps he was supposed to be behaving like Nataku? All purpose and focus and cold eyes and face frozen with determination? I'm toushin. We do things my way now. "Including their commanders?"
"Indeed, Homura-sama." Perfect courtesy. Nothing to object to. Nothing to react to. Nothing at all.
In an arc behind them, the forces of Heaven spread their vanguards across the Earthly hills, parade rest spoiled by the occasional whisper of conversation. Homura could feel their eyes on his back.
It came to him slowly, like an unfolding lotus, as terribly beautiful, as utterly certain. They were watching the Toushin Taishi preparing to go out and do his duty for Heaven. Certainly there would be soldiers who wondered whether or not he would succeed, whether he would do it properly, who distrusted or doubted or hated or feared, but none of them -- none of them -- saw Homura any more.
There was a time when I sat in a cell and was afraid of soldiers, when I dreaded all the might and majesty of Heaven, where it all crushed me down and left me to live a living death in the darkness. I was the outcast, the family shame, the thing that should never have been born. Not again. Never again.
Homura means toushin taishi, now. Homura means flame. Homura means death. Homura means Heaven's sword unleashed.
He felt his lips curling into a smile. "Then I'll go and do my job."
For a moment, a line of shadow -- or light -- showed at the edge of Shien's lids, something that blazed through the other's rigid control. "Homura-sama, the men are assigned to support you --"
He cut Shien off with a casual gesture. His cape swung in the wind. Earth airs. The smell of mud and dirt and bones and decay. "I'm sure I can rely on your discretion. Bring in support if it's necessary."
Each step towards the arching mouth of the castle's entrance was an exercise in control. No guards tried to bar his way; no youkai champions came forward to challenge him as he walked forward. The dusty earth clung to his shoes.
The smile was growing in him like fire, spreading through him like wine. How simple things were now -- drawn to a point and stretched into infinity, clear and bright and perfect.
They were waiting inside. A disciplined group of them, drawn up as neatly as the forces outside. It was the first time that Homura had seen youkai.
"Leave this place," their leader said, and drew his sword.
Flame blossomed between Homura's hands and became his own sword.
How . . .
. . . very simple.
His feet left prints in the dust that lay on the floor.
It was easy to find his way through the castle. Youkai came running to try to kill him. He cut them down and followed the trail that they left.
The great hall was a surprise. Stonework arched high above, light glinting from the inlay in the ceiling and on the columns, falling in thin beams through hidden windows, laying a mesh of brightness and shadow across the youkai who were waiting there, drawn up to face him. Five stood in the center, barbaric tokens of rank marking them as the leaders of this group.
Homura lowered the point of his sword, letting it rest on the mosaic tiles beneath his feet, and watched them. "You should have been content with your place Under Heaven," he finally said.
---
The wind moved across the dry field, trailing dust behind it, as Homura walked towards the dark mouth of the castle entrance. It tugged at the toushin's hair and cape, so that his shadow twisted and danced against the parched earth.
Shien observed. He was aware of the glances which his subordinates were giving each other behind him, and the unease in the ranks of the army; it was all of a piece with the weather above, with the sun shining bright and harsh, but the sky spattered darkly with the clouds of a coming storm.
He had been here before.
but it had been dark then, with the torch flames blowing in the wind, and the ground had been soft and fresh, and wet underfoot
Homura entered the fortress. The Emperor's nephew. The Emperor's bastard nephew. Facts had positively thrown themselves at him, whether or not he had any interest in hearing them. It was impossible not to be aware of these matters; they wound themselves around the feet, as tireless and common as ivy.
Shien had not expected to be given this mission, though on consideration he supposed that it was logical enough. Certainly his presence would prevent any inaccurate reports on events from being submitted to the proper authorities. He did not delude himself that Litouten had any sort of appreciation for him -- no, he did not delude himself into thinking that Litouten had appreciation for anything to do with Heaven's army, save as and when it was of use to him.
Light flared briefly at the fortress entrance, the echo of some stronger blast from deeper within. Hot wind followed it, brushing at Shien's robe, warm against his closed eyelids.
Homura.
Really, he knew almost nothing about this new toushin. The man was older than Nataku, old enough to have taken a man's place before now. Idly, Shien considered past moments in Heaven, moments when the Emperor's family might have been present, but he had no memory of Homura -- that burning presence, that bright unchancy smile -- until the last few months or so.
Light pulsed again.
It wasn't even a question of duty, as it had been with Nataku-sama. One could feel it in the new toushin's presence, like a fever, like a poison. He wanted this.
Shien fastidiously considered the thought. It displeased him.
---
There were probably formalities to this. "In the name of the Emperor," Homura began, and almost laughed in bitterly dry amusement. The old man sits on high and cares nothing for me, and locked me away from birth, and yet here I am killing in his name. "For creating disturbances upon the surface of the Earth, and for disturbing the order set down by Heaven, I have been sent to execute judgement upon you."
Silence. The youkai glanced at each other, fear in their eyes, animal ears cocked to catch the breeze.
There was no point in drawing it out longer. Homura tensed to step forward, then paused as one of the older youkai chuckled, a small precise noise that hung in the air.
"Yes?" he asked politely.
"Toushin Taishi," the youkai said, with exaggerated courtesy, "we present our compliments to you on this auspicious day. We regret that we are not worthy of the attention of the Toushin Taishi Nataku. We greatly admire your prowess in slaughtering common guards, and have no doubt that you are equally as competent when it comes to attempting the lives of kings. You are welcome to leave this place, and tell whatever tale you like in Heaven of what passed between us. But -- " He paused. He was older than the average, white hair and beard frothing around his face, skin markings scrawled down his right cheek and neck.
Homura raised an eyebrow.
" -- what happens on Earth is our business. Heaven would be advised to stay out of it. We and Heaven's ministers are done with each other."
Insects. They were all insects. Crawling insects, earthbound creatures, chattering and bleating in these futile attempts at negotiation and politics.
"Are you quite finished?" he asked absently. That smile was tugging at his face again. He let it rise in him.
The youkai spread his hands. Lightning leaped between them. "You do not seem in the mood to listen."
The air exploded in flame and movement and lightning. Power moved in him, divine power, as he answered the attack with fire and sword. An edge drew a thin line of blood from his cheek, and there was a time when this would have meant proximity, and weakness, and fear, but not any more, not again, never again. He was Toushin Taishi now, and this was what power meant, and this was what the Marshal had dangled in front of him, and every movement, every touch of his blade against their flesh, every sudden burst of light, every glorious action, was what he should always have been.
If I should hate you for anything, Emperor, it should be for keeping this from me for so long.
His body and spirit burned with it.
---
"Sir." A junior officer saluted and waited for Shien's attention.
Shien turned his head to acknowledge the kami. "Yes?"
"Sir. Reports said that there were several of Gyumaoh's councillors and generals in there. Do you think it's likely that we'll be needed to assist the Toushin Taishi?"
Shien considered the junior officer. His back was rigid with enthusiasm. Something that might have been hero-worship flashed in his eyes. "Sir, if we do," the kami continued, "request permission to . . ."
There was no premeditation to it. Nothing at all. There was everything of premeditation to it. Ever since he had seen Nataku-sama staggering out of the fortress that night, white robes stained and body bowed with pain, ever since he had looked down at Nataku-sama in his sickbed and known his responsibility to his superior officer -- ever since he had made the choice to perceive or not to perceive, to know or not to know.
"Denied," he said flatly. "We will be following the same orders as with Nataku-sama."
The junior officer's eyes widened. Disbelief flared from him. "Sir. Request permission to speak."
"Granted."
Light flared from inside the fortress again, glittering in the windows, too harsh for cheer, too fierce for comfort.
"What if . . ." His voice grew quieter. "What if Prince Homura can't handle it, sir? He hasn't been on this sort of mission before. He wasn't there when Nataku-sama subdued and bound Gyumaoh."
No. He wasn't there for any of it. How fortunate for him that everything was taken care of by the time he stepped into the position.
Shien let the moment draw itself out, until the junior officer dropped his eyes. "Return to your post," he said.
"Sir." The other saluted again and withdrew.
The toushin taishi is the toushin taishi to me, and nothing more than that. I serve. I obey orders. To do less would be a failure. To do more would be a partiality. With either I betray myself.
The universe would decide for itself whether or not Homura was a worthy Toushin Taishi. All that he had to do was nothing. Nothing at all.
There was no betrayal in that. He was as empty and as clear as scoured bone. The universe turned on its way, and the hot wind brushed against his face, and silence hummed in his soul loud enough to drown out any thoughts or memories.
---
There were more of them than he had expected. His sword moved and cleared the air in front of him, like a careless brush wielded by a master calligrapher, and his wrists ached. The muscles in his arms stung as he parried a blow, all the way from wrist to shoulder.
He wasn't sure that he liked the feeling.
The youkai facing him was fast. The earlier ones hadn't been this fast. He dropped to one knee, and brought his sword round in a sweeping cut that drew a line in the air from hip to shoulder, and caught his breath for a moment in the brief respite before another blow, before another wave of youkai came at him.
He could always fall back into the passageway where they couldn't come at him so many at a time. No. That's failure. That's defeat. That's weakness. Pick them off a few at a time, then move in to take out the generals. That hurt.
The edge of a spear touched his forearm and stroked down it. Blood ran.
That hurt.
He needed a distraction. The army would do. Sound and light and fury; Shien would bring troops in, give him a moment's distraction, a moment's breathing space.
Blood ran down his arm and slicked his left hand, trickling around and over the hilt of his sword. A burst of thunder rang in his ears.
This really hurts.
This wasn't supposed to be happening. He was toushin taishi now, and this meant not being weak, not being hurt. The world degenerated into a mosaic of movement and fire and blood and harsh breath, and now he was reacting rather than acting, responding to their blows, forced into defence.
And suddenly it came to him, knotting coldly in the pit of his stomach with absolute certainty; the army wasn't going to arrive. There wasn't going to be a diversion. The Emperor was finally going to be rid of his itan nephew. Nothing in his life would be as appropriate, as honourable, as this noble death in service to Heaven. The Emperor would be pleased. He would sit there like stone, surrounded by his sycophants, with the single grain of sand who had been called Homura finally removed from his silken slipper.
Lightning struck him like a whip and flung him to his knees.
The toushin taishi has power, but I have none. The Emperor's blood has power, but I have none. The Marshal's playing piece was supposed to have power -- I'm sorry, Marshal, looks like you and your friends are out of luck -- but I don't have enough.
He had to fight to get back to his feet, throwing off a group who thought he was easy meat now and rushed at him like animals. His left knee ached and throbbed.
And all I wanted was power to . . . The thought halted. Power to avenge myself. Power to show them. Power to grind their faces in the dirt the way they did mine. Power to take away from them as they had taken away from me. His body moved mechanically, parry and response. Not just power. Power for a reason.
I will not let them take my revenge from me.
Blood in his mouth.
They are my enemies and I will kill them.
No holding back, no restraint, no mercy, no pity, no reserves, nothing except the eternal moment. He was a pillar of fire who rose from earth to heaven, and walked through the youkai in a wave of power and blood. It wasn't the sheer delight of physical exhilaration any longer, but the ache of power spent and muscles forced to go beyond themselves, and the sting of wounds, and death around him like a word painted on the universe and stamped into the flesh of those who had driven him to this flame of rage. Question and answer and enlightenment, all in the arc of a burning sword.
It fell away from him just as his cape had slipped earlier from his shoulders, sliding away to leave him suddenly cold. Blood - his own blood -- traced warm lines across his skin, down one side of his face, across arms and hands, soaking into his clothing, dulling black cloth into a muddy brown. They were all gone. All gone. He could hear screams and running footsteps elsewhere, from a very long distance away, carried to him here where he stood at the centre of the fortress, the pivot around which this world turned.
They had meant to have him killed. No. Be more precise. His uncle the Emperor had intended him to die here.
He could not find any particular resentment towards the army which waited pointlessly outside; some would have had orders, some would have obeyed orders, and some might even have disliked those orders. The memory of Shien's face returned to him, so utterly blank and fastidious, those closed eyes tight shut against both Heaven and Earth. The other man had tried to warn him; he could hear it in Shien's words now, what was so carefully not said in that conversation. Though even then -- they'd been willing to let him die. They'd expected him to die.
His body rang and ached with emptiness, now that the need for violence and death was gone. But he'd won. He'd beaten them. For a moment he thought about sleep, about curling up on the floor amid the blood and dust and marks of fire, and falling over some private edge into darkness, carried away by a thunder of light and fury and pride.
Homura felt his mouth curling into that smile again, edged and barbed with malice. He wouldn't say anything to anybody; he wouldn't have to. Those who knew would know, and those who did not know were below his contempt and not worth his interest. Later, later he would find his own ways of taking revenge, but for the moment, it would be enough to walk out through the doors of the fortress and look at the army, and smile at them.
He was Toushin Taishi. He was the only one in Heaven who could spill blood.
Homura's smile widened.
Thank you, uncle. I believe that I will enjoy my work.
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