Thanks for the reviews, everyone ^___^ More 'Toshiki vs the world' angst again, and setbacks abound...
What we're born to do
Age 8/7
[Juubei]
Winter again.
This is the best place to be in the whole world, Juubei thinks, on a night like tonight. Let the wind blow! Let it batter itself against the sturdy walls and try to rattle the windows in their frames! Let the snow pile up, billows upon billows; paint the cool, slick surfaces with spidery whorls and etchings of frost… the whole world can turn to ice and stay that way for a thousand years, for all he cares. To lie curled up under the crisp warm blankets of the kotatsu table, absorbed in the sounds of the elements outside and the slight scratchiness of the tatami mat under the bare arm upon which he rests his head: was there ever anything more wonderful than this? There's a mug of hot chocolate by his elbow and a thick and well-loved book by his nose… if he lifts his head from its relaxed loll he can turn the tatty page and be immersed once more in the old tales, where forty-seven loyal samurai have just lost their master and sworn on their honour to avenge him.
But there's no need for that just yet. To know that the story is there if he wants it, just as the warm drink is there for him if he reaches out, that assurance is almost better than the things themselves. Fine just to lie here stretched out on his belly for a while, the racket of the blizzard outside and the heat inside wrapping round him like a snug blanket, everything is vibrant shades of sunburnt yellow and terracotta inside his head and he can barely muster up the effort to keep his eyes drifting closed.
However long later (it seems that keeping his eyes open was too great a bother after all) there's the sound of the heavy door opening and the resulting slight drop in temperature as the wind strolls in and makes itself at home before his mother, joining Sakura's voice in calling out the traditional homecoming, pushes against the door and shuts it outside again. Juubei doesn't respond, still feeling far too relaxed to sit up and re-enter the world just yet, though one deep blue eye cracks open as his mother enters and begins rummaging around in the cupboards across the other side of the room. Her hair, blown loose and wild, smells of snow and the dark night outside.
"Be careful outside, Juubei," she says without turning from her inspection of the cupboard's contents. She takes out a tangle of grey wool almost unravelled from its ball and a pair of knitting needles. The needles are dull and blunt, and hold no interest for the boy. "The paths are already iced over, so don't forget and rush out tomorrow morning. Sakura already slipped once just now."
"…'Neechan?"
That's enough to rouse him from his three-quarters-doze and he slips out from under the blankets, stepping lightly over book and mug and out into the cool corridor. He yawns and pads to Sakura's door, tapping his fingers against the wood as he calls softly, "'Neechan? Are you okay?"
"Hmm? What is it?" Sakura's voice is slightly muffled, but she sounds cheerful enough from what Juubei can tell. He pushes the door open slightly but keeps his toes carefully on the dividing line between his sister's bedroom and the hallway.
"Did you fall down? Does it hurt?"
Sakura looks up from her reflection in the mirror, where she's trying to straighten out the tangles put in her hair by the whirls and eddies of the darkness outside, and can't help but smile. "I slipped on some ice out there. It's just this… it doesn't hurt, just stings a bit." She holds out a hand to show the scraped palm: slightly red and raw-looking, but hardly life-threatening. "And you can come in, if you want."
Now he's been invited, he steps over the threshold and takes her hand in both of his own, turning it this way and that to inspect the graze more closely. Already at this age his hands are skilled, wise: he turns Sakura's wrist with smooth and fluid movements, gentle fingers ghosting over the skin but only skirting the edge of the redness, careful above all else not to cause his sister any pain. "I can help this," he suddenly announces, snapping his head up with an excited glitter in his eyes. "Just wait here!"
"Really Juubei, there's no need--" But the boy has already disappeared out of the door, and Sakura shakes her head with a wry grin. So she's going to play guinea pig again, is she? Last time he swore he knew what he was doing and somehow managed to lock up the muscles in both her legs so tight that she hadn't been able to move from her seated position until their father came home and undid whatever-it-was Juubei had done wrong. Still, that was six months ago – surely he's improved since then?
In a minute he's back with the wrist guard he got for his birthday. Slipping out a slender needle from its sheath he reaches out and takes her wrist in a firm grasp, straightening her arm so the muscles and ligaments are fully extended, then bends over to study it closely, needle poised and cinnamon hair falling before his eyes. Sakura can't help but turning her face away slightly and tensely pursing her lips as she waits for it to go in: her father has treated her various injuries and illnesses, head- and stomach-aches in this way ever since she was born, but Juubei… well, she's still not altogether confident that he knows what he's doing.
A dart of silver, and the needle is in and out before she can react to the slight prick. Almost at once the dull throb of the scraped skin disappears, and she has to feel a little guilty at doubting her brother's abilities. Now the pain has completely vanished, and aside from a slight tingly numbness in her palm, she feels as good as new. She flexes her fingers a few times as an experiment, and grins as she meets his eyes.
"Did I help it?"
"…Yes, yes you did." Sakura bunches her fingers another few times to try and dispel the lingering numbness, and reaches out with her other hand to ruffle his hair affectionately. "Thank you."
"Hey!" Juubei laughs as he pushes her away and pats down his long bangs again. "And you're welcome… it's what I was born to do, after all. Right?"
"Right." She rubs her hands together to try and bring some life back into the injured one and looks out of her window where, if it wasn't snowing so enthusiastically, could be seen the lights of the main compound against the backdrop of the encircling mountains. "I'm sure the Fuuchouin clan will be lucky to have you as their doctor, Juubei."
Her brother's eyes light up – that is about the best compliment he could ever have received. "Really? Do you really think so?" He jumps up, clutching the long needles to his chest. "Well, if you're sure you're okay… I'm going to practice some more with these."
Sakura's eyes follow him as he spins about and darts out of her room, and she follows his pounding footfalls down the corridor to their father's study. Alone once again, she allows herself a small chuckle at his enthusiasm, rubbing slightly more roughly at her lower arm, which has begun to tingle in its turn. But… wait… okay, what's going on?
She turns her attention fully onto the afflicted limb, completely anaesthetized below the wrist and rapidly advancing tendrils of numbness in the direction of her elbow and beyond, curling around her upper arm and digging into her shoulder. The hallway outside is suspiciously quiet, and there is no sound of a well-meaning but inexperienced little brother to be heard.
"Um, Juubei? …Juubei?"
[Toshiki]
Toshiki never knew that snow could burn you. But he has been kneeling in the courtyard for nearly an hour now, and the close-packed snow around his bare knees feels far fiercer than any flame. It's as if he's kneeling in the middle of a campfire.
He doesn't look left. He doesn't look right. He keeps his eyes fixed steadily on the pagoda cresting up into the clear winter sky, its lines as sharp as a paper cutout against a blue background. His gaze is cool, calm, unobstructed by tears. The boy by his side succumbed after twenty minutes, but apart from the occasional sniffle now is quiet again.
The two are here for breaking the peace.
Again.
The monks who were drawn to the commotion in the dormitory had known nothing of what happened – the other boy had been in no condition to say and Toshiki himself had responded with sullen silence to their questions when he had eventually been pulled off the broken and weeping body huddled under him. Both acolytes are covered head to toe in a liberal spatter of blood, which has dried to an eggshell finish in the sharp breeze and now flakes away from their skin at each slight movement.
None of it is Toshiki's.
Most of the time he can brush off his fellow 'brothers'' sidelong looks and snide comments – he treats them with a kind of haughty contempt that keeps him separate, and also invites a certain amount of… not respect, exactly, but… caution is the word; a certain amount of caution in the other boys' dealings with him. They know what it means to provoke him, after all, and had they forgotten, they've just been provided with a sharp and lasting reminder.
Apparently they hadn't all learned their lesson after all, since he had made short work of their leader before the adults had separated them, but he had heard distinctly the hiss "gaijin dog" from one corner as Shun gripped his shoulder painfully and shaken him in a demand that he explain himself. Toshiki had lunged at the speaker, but the bigger monk had yanked him harshly back and he had tripped and fallen to the floor. No one else, it seems, heard the comment, but Toshiki isn't about to forget it. He shan't act on it now, but when the time comes – as it surely will – for him to teach that particular boy to leave him in peace there will be an extra grim enthusiasm in his blows for that particular remark. That's for sure.
But for now, he takes his punishment in stoic silence. There's a silent defiance in his eyes as he stares unrelentingly at the main temple complex: a challenge for them to do their worst. Whatever they may try, he won't be broken. He won't be controlled.
Toshiki hasn't yet learned to box off pain, push it into a corner of his mind where he can be separate and unaffected by it, and the cold burns and bites into the sparse flesh around his bony knees. But he has learned the futility of tears. Crying won't ease the hurt, and should the dam of pride he has built up around himself ever be burst, what good will it do him? For Toshiki, tears would be a sign of disgrace, a sign that he has stopped fighting and crumbles before a master… and he has promised himself he will never, ever do that. He will never fall to his knees in defeat; he will never stop struggling against what life throws at him. He will keep moving forwards battling against the tide every step of the way. Nothing in this world is ever going to beat him.
[Kadsuki]
The small dojo is located slightly away from the main complex of the Fuuchouin estate. The path that leads to it intersects several thick bamboo groves and passes through one of the many well-tended gardens that surround the manor, where carefully raked gravel ripples and flows like wave-sculpted sand on a seashore down to the ornamental pond from which issues the subdued rush of the miniature waterfall and the occasional lazy splash of a koi flicking its fins against the blossom-speckled surface of the water. Past the little teahouse and down another groove cut into the vibrant bamboo lanes, and the low building comes into view; a perfectly maintained example of Muromachi architecture that preserves a safe, clean space in which to train the heirs of the clan in the traditional styles of the Fuuchouin-ryuu.
Today, two pairs of geta sandals and two carefully folded kimono, large and small, on the low step up to the main floor area show that it is currently in use, if the light but deliberate footfalls and the occasional sound of something hitting the ground and rolling aren't clues enough. The screens have been slid open enough to allow the air and light to circulate freely, and the two figures darting about the interior come into brief view now and again in the sun-splashed entrance before a roll, a dash or an elegant few steps backwards take them, dancer-like, into the shadowed inside once more.
Kadsuki is fighting for breath, sweating hard even in the cool breeze that whispers through the open screens and brushes against the delicate wind chime hung in the opening. His usual attire is far too constricting for the agility he needs here, so it has been discarded for now and he wears a small training gi of soft, light cloth. It serves as no protection against the quickfire lash of the threads, however, and it is marked at key defensive points with tears through which droplets of blood have blossomed like small red flowers against a field of fresh snow. His father is going easy on him, but to learn a proper defensive style, one must run the risk of being hurt if the attacks are not parried effectively enough.
Kadsuki hits the floor awkwardly and manages to roll out of the way of the strings that come lashing towards him: left, above, left, right. They leave small scuffs on the tatami mat and the last one comes close enough for the air displacement to puff the hair back from his face, but this time he remains untouched. He snaps back up into a crouch, the brand new bells all but sparkling between his fingers as he sends three slender threads snaking through the air towards his father's far too relaxed form. Kadsuki's lungs are burning as he pants, and Tsukihiko hasn't even broken a sweat yet.
"Ah!"
Thread meets thread, the silken strands coiling out of nowhere and slicing Kadsuki's attack to pieces. His string falls to the floor, lifeless as a fishing line the fish are too smart to bite.
"Naïve, naïve," Tsukihiko reprimands with a grim smile. "You'll attack me from the front like that? Think about your weapons, Kadsuki. How do they work? How can you use them best?" He regards the still-crouched figure of the small boy watching him intently. "Well, what now? What are you going to do?"
Kadsuki doesn't answer for the moment. He glances away slightly, a small line creasing his brows as he considers. Then his eyes snap back to their target and there is steel in them that's completely at odds with the demure kimono-clad figure who carries his name for most of the time. Out here, freed from the confines of the house, another Threadspinner is beginning to emerge. A chain of five strings twisting around one another arcs to the left, hooking around towards his father's back, only to be broken by the same parry as before.
"Better!" Tsukihiko calls, before Kadsuki's real attack, the single thread that had looped itself discreetly through the slats in the screen to the right, connects with his arm, slipping a noose around his wrist as Tsukihiko's attention is directed towards the feint.
"Good, very good!" Tsukihiko lets his arm relax against the strong threads that can cut flesh as easily as cheesewire when struggled against, his own string severing the noose. "What are you stopping for?"
That is all the encouragement Kadsuki needs. It's time to try something, something he's only sneaked a look at in one of the library's battle scrolls but is sure he can pull off. Ten, twenty, thirty separate strings uncoil from their bell-spools and are launched into the air, shining and glittering in the pale sunlight. Sweat beads on the boy's forehead as he begins to weave. He's never controlled this many at once before.
Like a cat's cradle being controlled by invisible fingers, the flying threads begin to dance, pulled into the shape of a great spider web rushing through the air. Struts, connectors… it's taking too long. He didn't know -- there's so much to think about, too much to control, to move, to hold taut, to weave into position --
Somewhere, at the centre, a string snaps.
Kadsuki cries out, equal parts pain and surprise, as the web seemingly explodes from the inside, one of the threads whipping back and furrowing a deep groove up his cheek, narrowly missing his eye. He stumbles back and sits down hard, his hand snapping up to cover the injury. Teeth gritted, both eyes scrunched up against the pain, he hears quick footsteps and then his father's hands are on him, tipping his head up towards the light and gently moving his hand away from his face. There is something asked of him, he doesn't catch what, but he nods anyway, responding to the calm assurance in that voice. It hurts, but he knows he'll be all right. They'll look after him. Then he's lifted up – luckily with his size and weight he's no burden to carry – and feels the cool air wash around him as Tsukihiko carries him with smooth quick steps along the path back to the house. They'll look after him.
Ten minutes later, Kakei Mamoru arrives with his needles. They glitter in the morning light, ready and eager to serve their master as he tends to his young charge in the way that the Kakei line has for generations. Not to worry.
They'll look after him.
* * * * *
(Oh dear, I'm illustrating my own fics now… There's no hope left for me, is there? Not so much a 'Small Beginnings' doodle, but certainly inspired by spending far too much time thinking about Kadsuki and Toshiki: www.angelfire .com/moon/starvega/fanart/Kadsuki.Toshiki.html -- spaced so ff.net doesn't eat the address)