Chapter Fourteen: Connections

Orange lamplight flickered, casting stark shadows against the walls of the small private chamber deep within Shiori's home. Humming softly, she worked her fingers over the soft silk of a blue-grey gi that spilled over her lap and studied the history of damage it had sustained.

The patter of rain against the roof drew her gaze upward. "When will this rain ever end?" she asked as she listened to the sound become louder, more steady. In the many years she had lived there, she had never known it to rain so much and wondered why it seemed the heavens wept so. "I pray it stops soon. Seijun and Umeko should not have to travel in the rain." She feared the cold would make Seijun take ill as he rarely prepared for the ill-tempered weather and would be more concerned with Umeko's care than his own.

Beyond the warm glow of the large lamp in the center of the room, her guest still slept. Though she knew it would be several days at best before he woke.

At least, that was what she hoped; Seijun would be home by then.

Turning her attention back to the freshly cleaned silk, she carefully studied the long gashes in the cloth. Her nimble fingers found other cuts that had been carefully repaired, not easily seen with the casual eye.

"You are very hard on clothing," she said. "Though, it is not like I have sewn shredded cloth before. I often tended my father's robes after skirmishes." Still, she thought as she held up the gi and studied the long cuts in it. "I don't know if this is worth saving. It's not really your color. I will check tomorrow and see if Machi has any indigo in stock. That is a far more appropriate color, I would say." She turned the tortured gi about again and frowned. "No crest? Why, Karasu?"

• • •

Butterflies.

They were everywhere, dancing in the sky, fluttering about the myriad of brightly colored flowers that filled the garden within the protective walls that surrounded the dojo.

With Youhei's urging, Jin had raced into the garden, happy to find something that reminded him of home. The journey across the countryside had been long and old Youhei had been so nervous. On more than one occasion, the priest his shoved him into thorny bushes on the side of the road and told him to be quiet when horsemen rode by. The old man seemed to quiver with fear all along their journey and Jin did not understand way. All he knew was that finally they had arrived at their destination.

Surrounded by so many different butterflies, large and small, he forgot the long journey and how walking so much had made his feet hurt. He forgot about the tears in the dingy haori that Youhei had cut to fit his small frame. All that mattered were the pretty bugs that collected on his head and shoulders.

Laughter escaped him as he reached out, allowing butterflies to land on his small hands. A large blue and black butterfly lighted on a chubby finger. It moved, shifting with his hand as he drew it close to study the intricate patter painted on delicate wings.

The moment was broken with the roar of a voice, "I will hear no more, old man!"

The moment of startle made the butterflies flutter away but it did not take very long before they gathered again, but Jin didn't see them, his gaze was focused on the veranda as a tall man—a samurai—stormed away from the priest.

The image was forever imprinted on his mind, as this was the first time he saw Mariya Enshiro, the man who would become his master.

Youhei hobbled after the man, the distance growing with every step. "I see that stubbornness is a family trait!" he snapped.

Enshiro stopped and turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder at the old man. There was something fierce and dangerous about him. It was frightening and yet, Jin stood there, transfixed on the moment as the samurai's hand rose, floating close to the hilt of his katana. "I grow weary of you."

"Ill-tempered," Youhei muttered. "Idle threats do not frighten me, there are more frightening things in this world. That must be your father's blood speaking." He shifted, trembling slightly but his gaze did not waver from the man only a few paces away. "You think I wanted to travel so far? I am too old for this," he spat. "I am here at the behest of your brother."

"I am not interested," Enshiro sternly said.

"Whatever strife that was between you two, you can now put it to rest. There is no reason to cling to old grudges."

"There will never be enough time—"

"I might as well be addressing a rock," Youhei grumbled as he reached up and brushed the short, gray hairs that had sprouted over his normally shaven head during their journey.

Jin watched curiously as Youhei then dug into the folds of his robes and pulled out the folded piece of paper he had shown him in the temple the night they had left. It was crumpled and the ink looked smeared but he was certain it was the same piece of paper.

Thrusting his hand out, holding the paper between he and the samurai, Youhei just stood there, waiting to be relieved of the burden. "Your brother is dead and I have been charged to deliver this letter and," with a frown, he motioned toward Jin in the garden, "that butterfly covered boy to you."

Enshiro turned to face Jin for the first time. He looked so tall standing there. He reminded the boy of his father, standing there so forebodingly.

The crinkle of paper sounded as Youhei stepped forward, his arthritic hand held out toward the master.

Time seemed to slow as the samurai took the paper, tearing open the seal and studied the writing. His sharp gaze met Jin's.

Through the fog, the flickering beacon of the lamp drew Jin's pained dulled mind. For a time, all he did was focus on the changing brightness of the warm glow. His body felt so heavy, even his eyelids seemed weighted down, refusing to open. The burn of slash wounds reminded him of his predicament. It was rather disconcerting, the helplessness of it, even if it was dry and warm.

Swords. Where are my swords?

Not that they would have done him much good, but not knowing where they were. His very soul.

Helplessness.

He did not like this feeling.

That sense of alarm crept into him, though he sensed, that there was no real reason to feel that way. That he was not in danger. It gave him the strength to hold onto that last bit of consciousness, even when his weariness threatened to pull him back down into the darkened fog.

"It is late," came that soft, female voice that had been slipping in and out of his dreams. To his side, he heard the rustle of cloth and the crack of bones as someone, probably that woman moved about. Footsteps.

The glow of the lamp brightened, almost hurting his eyes as he squeezed them closed briefly before once more attempting to open them. The room was dim and the sound of rain thrummed in the distance.

With his vision slowly coming into focus, he spied movement out of the corner of his eye. Near the lamp stood the woman from the clearing.

"Karasu?" she whispered in surprise.

Why did she keep calling him that?

He would set her right.

Only in his weighted down state, he found he had no voice. It took almost more strength than he had to form words with his lips.

Struggling to keep his eyes open as she approached, he tried once more to say something, anything. Still his voice eluded him. The attempts made his chest and side ache. Forcing his eyes wide once more, he found the woman was so much closer now, kneeling next to him.

"How can you be awake after everything that has happened?"

I will not lie here helpless.

The woman's fingers tickled as they brushed along his cheek, pushing back loose strands of hair. Her touch was warm, yet strange. He was not accustomed to strangers, let alone those whom he was familiar with, invading his personal space so.

Though as the exhaustion pulled on him, he thought her touch, a warm hand against his forehead, was not all that unpleasant. There was something kind about it.

He should thank her for the kindness she had shown and perhaps the peril that she had put herself into. "Thank you—"

"No," she said, cutting him off. "Do not speak, save your strength."

Around him, he felt the warm covers shift as she pulled them up slightly. He tried to force the words again.

"You're welcome," came the gentle reply. "If you killed Kyoudai and Yamainu, then I should be thanking you."

The men he had fought on the bridge, he thought. Briefly remembering the fight and the icy river that tried to drown him.

"You must rest," she urged, "Karasu."

That name again!

"Why do you…" he tried to ask, the words straining then fading.

"Forgive me," she whispered, uncertainty flooding her voice. "You just reminded me of—"

"…call me by my father's name?"

roterritter - You'll get a lot more of Seijun's POV in coming posts. Elementary Magpie - "the strands are beginning to weave together" A very interesting observation... Silver Purity - Hagetaka is an interesting member, isn't he? And thank you very much! Ladyshalott - Thank you! Glad you're reading.
Next Chapter - Breakfast plans. Mugen takes a job.