The music:
Apocalyptica - Bittersweet, Faraway
Vas - Feast of Silence
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Against the Wind
Chapter Nine
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The transfer orders concerning Watari Yutaka were a single sheet of white paper, stark and offensively pristine atop his desk. The Summons Division, Tatsumi mused, had not been so quiet in decades.
Just a few hours earlier, the chilly morning had found the Shadow Master still awake, sore from having spent most of the night in one, not entirely comfortable, position. He had not minded, much; after the turmoil of their first hours together, Watari had finally slipped into slumber under the tender caress of Tatsumi's hands. He had held the exhausted scientist in his arms, slowly falling into a light sleep, time and again, yet he had woken completely every time some demons in Watari's dreams bid the other's cold hands to grasp his own, in what seemed like a desperate attempt not to fall. So Tatsumi had held him tight, soothing him with soft strokes to his hair, until the slender body in his arms relaxed again.
Chasing confounding thoughts had not helped him rest, either. When silence had at last left him face to face with all the information, all the changes – too sudden for any measure of comfort – and with the overflowing emotions, Watari's and his own, sleep seemed like a waste of precious time. Tatsumi had half-lain, half-sat on his sofa and, as Watari's hand slipped subconsciously into his again, he had found himself hard-pressed to think of what he would say when the other woke as well.
Goodbye seemed too final; despite unpromising facts, Tatsumi himself had refused to let go. He had done that before, over half a century before. That escape from the traps of the heart had left him regretful, caught between logic and every 'what if' that had forced itself to the front of his mind. He had promised himself not to do that again. Even so, the words of comfort had never come easily to him; elusive as they were, they sounded too trite, most of them. Those that did not, could hardly make it past his lips. Had he thought of any, he would have offered solutions; a maneuver he habitually fell back on in situations like that. For anybody else, under any other circumstances, it would have probably worked. Given enough time, he would have come up with a remedy that, by all rules of logic, pushed the matters in the right direction.
Yet, as he lay in the dispersing darkness and watched the shadows grow thin at the crack of dawn, the weight of Watari's words had sunk in and Tatsumi himself had begun to feel trapped in a place with no way out of it. Try as he might, he had found no solution to offer, no easy way to help his partner. Neither of the hard paths seemed suitable, too.
So he had summoned all strength he had and prepared to go as soon as his thoughts approached the threshold of panic. He had fought with himself, suppressing regret, ignoring the pang in his heart as he left Watari with a pillow and a blanket to keep him warm. A puny substitute for himself, he thought, but Watari would understand. Yet he could not help but turn his head when Watari murmured his name softly in his sleep, his fingers curling around the blanket in the absence of Tatsumi's hand. It had taken all willpower he had left to walk out, his own shadow tainted with the knowledge that he might never see Watari again.
Now, as he sat at his desk, absently smoothing his tie, the deaf silence he had always associated with pleasant peace felt empty, hostile in its bitter coldness. A herald of change that, he feared, could not be undone.
-
The amount of work awaiting him guaranteed that he would not have much time for idle thoughts. Soon the other Shinigami would arrive at the office, and the usual routine would absorb him again. Work, Tatsumi had learned long ago, was the best remedy he could think of; it helped him ground himself when unfortunate events uprooted his sense of self.
Sighing, he adjusted his glasses and reached for the first pile of reports he had to look through before they would be submitted to Konoe later that day. Monotony had never bothered him; it proved itself to be a good frame in which he knew himself. Everything would soon stabilize, and he would stop thinking unbidden, fearful thoughts that haunted him now. His hands would stop trembling and the disorder in his mind would settle down. He would go back to normal again.
I don't need this, he thought, against the dull pain in his heart that insisted on disobedience when he tried to will it away. It's best to leave these matters be. They are completely out of my control, anyway. Reasoning helped – it always had, had it not? And so Tatsumi reasoned with himself relentlessly as he sorted the case and expense reports. He tried to hold on to the voice of logic even as his eyes caught a glimpse of familiar, scribbled handwriting, and he told himself that he wouldn't pause there, wouldn't ponder it, wouldn't care. But the sudden wave of sickly heat that welled up in his chest overtook him; it made him wince and soon, the voice turned into a faint echo at the back of his mind.
Coffee stains. Dark brown, long since dried out; transparent enough to reveal the culprit's name – Watari Yutaka – on top of the page. Smudged ink, half-dissolved in probably too sweet liquid, spilled by a careless hand. An oddly angled line, added in haste in far from calligraphic letters – Sorry for the mess! – and an apologetic, completely inappropriate smiling face to go with it.
Tatsumi's shoulders shook. He swept his glasses out of the way, pushed them up into his hairline with a shaky hand. He stared at that report, already almost crumpled in his hand, and he felt himself go rigid the longer he kept his eyes on it. The kanji began to blur, lines melting into the paper, the words merging into one unintelligible mess. He heard his own shuddering sigh escape him and he leaned forward, his elbows hitting the desktop hard as he buried his face in his hands.
Who am I, Tatsumi?
The voice of restraint lost to Watari's whisper emerging from the depths of Tatsumi's memory; the far-off cry, chiding him for the weakness of thought, had gone unheeded.
You are Watari Yutaka. My partner.
That word had a strange sound when Tatsumi spoke it softly against his hands. His partner. The partner he had cursed out countless times for all of his ridiculous, annoying habits. The partner who had got them in trouble as often as he had got them out of it. The man who had brought sunshine with him to the gloomy office of EnmaCho; who made friends as easily as nobody else Tatsumi knew, whom he had always envied the light heart and the untroubled life.
The same man he had held in his arms the night before, trying to chase away the demons that had left Watari lying broken at their feet. At that, he had failed miserably. He could not save that man, when it was his own mind that pushed him down that road. That realization left Tatsumi breathless and the scientist's last report crushed in his hands.
I made a deal with him, Tatsumi. How could you, he thought. How come you didn't see? Nothing to lose. It made you blind. Ambition, Watari had said, and his voice had sounded so empty, that night. It leads straight to madness.
"Tatsumi?"
The Shadow Master looked up. He did not spare himself the silent scoffing for having let himself get caught in such an undignified state. He reached quickly for his glasses and put them back in place, schooling his face to a stern look.
"Good morning, Tsuzuki-san," he greeted the man in doorway with his signature cool voice. "You're late. Again."
Tsuzuki flinched a little. Tatsumi's heart leaped as he caught, out of the corner of his eye, a glimpse of his former partner drawing back half a step. He was only so much in that man's eyes; the one who showed displeasure thrice for every sign of care.
"I, well," Tsuzuki started as he gathered the courage to take a tentative step inside the office, visibly wary of th Secretary's foul mood. "Have you seen Watari?"
Tsuzuki might have as well thrown a book at his head, for the effect his question had on Tatsumi's already brittle composure.
"He didn't show up yesterday, which sort of figured after whatever happened to him the day before. But his lab's closed today as well, and I was looking for him last night but I couldn't find him anywhere."
Tsuzuki kept glancing sideways as he spoke, uneasiness far more than evident in the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His words came quickly; Tatsumi almost recoiled under the worried tone.
"Watari-san doesn't work here anymore."
Meeting Tsuzuki's eyes, Tatsumi suddenly realized what he had said. What those very words meant. The other seemed to shrink in front of him and Tatsumi shared his sentiments. He was almost certain it showed in his own face.
"What?" Tsuzuki asked when he regained control of his voice. "Tatsumi, you didn't..."
The Shadow Master pushed his glasses up his nose, all but giving in to the urge to turn away. If only not to look into those frightened eyes anymore. Didn't do what, he mused. Fire him? Is that what you think of me, Tsuzuki-san?
"The request for Watari-san's transfer came in today," he said in a slow, automatic voice, careful to show none of the apprehension that accompanied every word. The papers under his hand almost burned his skin.
"What? Why?" Tsuzuki crossed the office towards the desk, his arms wrapped around him as though he needed that gesture to keep himself together.
Tatsumi suppressed a shiver. "I don't have that kind of information, Tsuzuki-san." He hated lies. He hated them all the more when he was the one guilty of telling them, good cause or otherwise.
"I don't understand." Tsuzuki shook his head. The confusion and hurt that contorted his face drove a sharp bolt of fresh pain through Tatsumi's heart, even as he forced himself not to look away.
"Please, go back to work," he said evenly. "There is no need to--"
"Oh, no," Tsuzuki cut in. His eyes narrowed. "You're not getting rid of me that easily."
Caught off-guard, Tatsumi broke off and the words escaped him. There had been few instances when Tsuzuki dared confront him in such an open way. His determined tone gave that lie-riddled conversation a new, bitter taste.
Tsuzuki leaned against the desk. "Tatsumi, you know where Watari has gone to. Don't you?"
Holding up that purple gaze, all but swimming with still restrained tears, had grown harder by the second. I do, Tatsumi thought. And if I tell you, how many new kinds of pain will I inflict on you again?
"You know." Tsuzuki nodded, Tatsumi's silence more than a clear sign for his cue to go on. "Tell me. Please, Tatsumi. Watari is my friend. I want at least to..." he paused, his gaze dropping. "Wish him luck."
Tatsumi straightened himself in his chair. "I'm afraid I have not been authorized to reveal that." Fool, he rebuked himself. Pathetic little lies.
"Tatsumi... please."
He watched Tsuzuki's form begin to tremble, his lower lip quivering as he spoke. He could not stand it.
"Tsuzuki-san--" he started, but those eyes fixed upon him, that look of hope mingled with hurt in them, had never failed to crush his resolution before. It yielded under that pleading stare; Tatsumi almost heard it break. "The Science Department," he said. "But I don't suppose you stand any reasonable chance to meet Watari-san right now. He might not be allowed to make contact."
Tsuzuki was not listening any longer than necessary. He lightened up even as he spun and started back towards the door. "Thank you, Tatsumi!" he called over his shoulder on his way out.
Tatsumi slammed his fist into the desktop. The door shutting behind Tsuzuki echoed the hollow sound.
-
By noon, everyone had heard the news.
Tatsumi walked into the break room, keeping his reluctance to do so on a short leash. He nodded half-hearted greetings to the other Shinigami, who seemed even more unnerved than usual in a situation as uncomfortable as this. The place was all but quiet, or at least it had grown so the moment Tatsumi appeared at the door. Had it not been for his need of coffee and lack thereof in his own office, he would not have gone among his co-workers at all. Deep down, he had no wish to replay the earlier conversation he'd had with Tsuzuki with anybody else.
The man in question was present as well; hunched over the table, Tsuzuki nursed a cup of his own coffee with a solemn countenance and little interest in anything at all. He looked up when Tatsumi crossed the room to the coffee machine, but the glance he spared the Shadow Master was too brief for him to catch. A thought to ask whether Tsuzuki had managed to speak with Watari crossed Tatsumi's mind, but he was loath to draw any more attention to himself right now. And the dark, disappointed look in Tsuzuki's eyes told him that, most likely, he had not succeeded at that, anyway.
Kurosaki was nowhere to be seen, he noted before he turned around to fix his drink. Not very surprising, he mused; even he felt the heavy atmosphere in the bullpen and it weighed down on him. The boy's empathy would have made his stay in there most unpleasant. Which probably had been the case; Tatsumi had spotted a book, left on the table next to Tsuzuki, which definitely did not belong to the older of the pair.
He put on a front of normalcy as he reached for his coffee cup, drawing deep, slow yet soundless breaths to uphold the image. He pretended not to hear Watari's name on everybody's lips behind his back. Their whispers could have been shouted straight into his ear, for the effect it had on him, despite his best efforts to separate himself from them. Someone or other was staring at him, too; he could feel the inquiring stare. Was it just him, or had the room grown nearly airless, with too many people in it at once?
Fragmented bits of conversations reached him, strange words that kept slurring together before he had a chance to digest them and clarify the meaning for himself. His palms went damp, hands trembling even as he kept himself steady while he poured the black coffee into his cup.
"...not coming back?"
Be quiet, Tatsumi's inner voice groaned. He closed his eyes.
"New Shinigami?"
The lump that had been constricting his throat since morning threatened to suffocate him.
"...too bad. It won't be there same without Watari here."
Somewhere in front of him, porcelain shattered; a loud aftermath of Tatsumi's slick hand inadvertently letting go of the cup. The burning in his skin and the dead silence sobered him up in a matter of a split second. He cursed under his breath.
"Tatsumi-san?"
Tatsumi looked down. His coffee cup had broken in half; it lay in a dark brown mess of the spilt coffee that trickled and dripped slowly onto the floor at his feet. His hand still burned – not an unwelcome sensation, strangely enough – a reality check, Tatsumi thought bitterly, even as the red marks of the burn had already begun to disappear.
Someone had called his name, he registered belatedly and swept a somewhat panicked glance around the quiet room. He met a worried look in wide open, mismatched eyes.
"Yes, Kannuki-san?" he asked. The girl's raised eyebrow left him painfully aware of how futile his pretense must have seemed to her, and to everybody else. He knew well enough what she wanted, and she knew he would lie the second he opened his mouth. So he kept his silence and looked at the mess he had made instead.
"Here, let me help you."
Kannuki produced a handkerchief from one of her pockets and, ignoring Tatsumi's protests as he tried to take it from her hand, she set herself to the task of wiping the counter top clean.
How ridiculously humiliating. Tatsumi pushed his glasses up his nose, his shoulders slumping a little as he let his eyes slide shut for a short while. The sound of the lenses rattling in their frames seemed far too loud in the surrounding silence.
He cleared his throat and turned away to cover his embarrassment, all but ready to scoff the others for staring. He tensed instinctively at the sight behind him; contrary to his expectations, nobody stared. Everyone had left, save Kannuki who had squatted to wipe the stains from the floor as well. The bullpen door moaned on its hinges, swinging lightly back and forth in the wake of whoever had been the last to leave.
Tatsumi sighed.
"It's all right, Tatsumi-san."
Kannuki was looking up at him when the Shadow Master turned. He frowned, displeased, hoping his glare was cold enough to silence her.
"We're all upset," she said, smiling at him; a rather sad smile. "Don't worry about it."
Tatsumi gritted his teeth. The last thing he needed was someone pitying him. Or anyone even noticing how many reasons for that he seemed to have just given them, for that matter. That small smile she had offered must have been there to make him feel better, but Tatsumi felt nothing sans annoyance, rising quickly from the depths of his heavy chest.
He muttered a half-hearted 'thank you' for her help and turned on his heel to walk out of the room, almost on autopilot. It would not have eased his mind; he chose to avoid lashing out on the girl and thus destroying the rest of his dignity. It had already taken quite a painful blow.
Outside, the air seemed none the lighter, he mused. Someone's steps resonated down the hall; a faint sound that reminded him the others would rather scurry for shelter than stay around when he gave any indication of being out of control. Tatsumi knew well what they thought of him; in the end, that was exactly what he had striven for throughout the years. He had made sure fear overruled their concern, so as to spare him the humiliation of pity. It had worked, more often than it had not.
The only one reckless and stubborn enough to ignore his perpetual distant attitude had been Watari.
Tatsumi pressed two fingers against the middle of his brow, treating himself to a light massage. This entire situation, almost blown out of proportion, was getting ridiculous, he thought. The employees had left his division before.
But none of them had you by the heart, his inner voice supplied wryly. Tatsumi squashed it ruthlessly and clenched his hands into tight fists.
He felt almost like the ghosts of his own failures and unfulfilled desires had gathered to hover around him, with no one else to keep him company. It was suddenly too dark in there, too gloomy and cold. Tatsumi gave his head a shake, nervously pinching the bridge of his nose again. He started to walk away just as the break room door screeched open and Kannuki's small silhouette slipped around the edge of the frame.
He wondered how long it would take her, and the rest of them, to forget about that unfortunate incident of his.
He should never have allowed that to happen. Personal sentiments aside, this was business, and he should not have let it become anything but that. He should have left his worries and that strange, empty feeling that continued to gnaw at his heart, at the door. He should have focused on more appropriate matters. Such as the case reports that had piled up on his desk. Or budget plans. Anything, really, to keep his mind away from other things--
Other things. Tatsumi stopped in his tracks with a quick glance down the corridor to make sure he was still alone. Other things. Last night, those were not things that had kept him awake – it was an armful of a man who had once been the last person, dead or alive, Tatsumi would think capable of crumbling down like that. A man still so young, compared to himself; who, for reasons Tatsumi failed to understand, had turned to him. Of all people, Watari had chosen him. Despite derogatory remarks, pay cuts and endless arguments over the expenses.
It did not seem to matter, in the end, for either of them. The memory of Watari's soft, silky hair tickling him, weaving around his fingers, flushed Tatsumi's face. This should have felt wrong, he thought, but it didn't. It doesn't. And only the silent sadness he did not have the heart to explain, even to himself, tainted the memory and left Tatsumi in somber wonderment. I couldn't help you, he mused. I could never help anyone. Not even myself.
He strolled slowly down the narrow, gloomy hall and wondered how many times in the past twenty five years Watari had done so. Not in haste, to come in time for a briefing, but with nothing chasing him, with nothing to weigh down on his mind. Was it ever that way? Tatsumi found himself asking, time and again, now that he looked back at those years, at everything Watari had seemed to be. Set against what he knew today, it only left him confused. So many years, and he had never so much as suspected anything of such sort. Some misjudgment, that.
"...come on. Take it. Take it, silly thing."
Frowning, he looked up. The door to Watari's lab, slightly ajar, let out a small ribbon of artificial light. Someone had to be inside, no doubt, though his hopes died quickly. The voice had sounded nothing like the scientist's.
Perplexed, Tatsumi crossed the remaining distance and stood quietly, glancing inside through the crack in the door.
"If you don't eat, you'll die. I think."
His back turned, the broad figure of Konoe was kneeling, hunched over something on the floor in front of him. Tatsumi's mouth twitched.
"I can't believe I'm talking to an owl."
Tatsumi arched an eyebrow. For some reason, he had assumed the little bird had left along with its master, then he had forgotten about it altogether. His lips quirked in a small, wistful smile.
"Konoe-kachou?" he said as he entered the lab.
Konoe turned with a displeased look on his wrinkled face. "Tatsumi," he said, pointing down in a meaningful gesture. "It looks like Watari left us with a problem here."
Tatsumi walked up to him and glanced over Konoe's shoulder. Indeed, the little owl sat on the floor, its tiny head cocked to the side, positively oblivious to the three worms moving lazily in front of it.
The Shadow Master shrugged off the disturbing connotations that sprang in his mind. Rather grotesque sight, that.
"I think she just misses him," Konoe shrugged his shoulders, picking himself up from his somewhat undignified position on the floor. "She doesn't want to eat."
Tatsumi folded his arms over his chest. "It's a bird." He? She? Watari had always referred to it as she, he recalled. "I'm quite sure she can hunt for her own food." He glanced down at the owl. 003 looked miserable there, unlike every time he had seen her, perched on Watari's shoulder, flapping her wings; goofy exuberance in appreciation of whatever the scientist did. Tatsumi hushed the awkward thought that he could understand her current sentiments in many ways. That was, if owls had any sentiments, to begin with.
This one, Tatsumi decided, seemed to have a plethora of them. "Though, perhaps someone will have to take care of her," he added after a moment.
Konoe gave him a pointed look, dusting off his suit jacket and fixing his tie with his other hand. "Someone."
Tatsumi recoiled a little. "Don't look at me," he said in a voice that would stand no quarrel. "It would cost you more than you can pay."
Scowling, the chief crossed his arms and drummed the fingers of one hand against the opposite forearm. "Well, I don't suppose she will leave the lab anyway. She probably thinks Watari will come back. Maybe all it takes is to let her out, every once in a while."
She thinks... 003 took flight and, before Tatsumi had a chance to protest or wave her off, she perched herself down on his shoulder. Owls don't think. Or do they?
Konoe let out a soft chuckle. "I think she likes you."
"That's ridiculous." Tatsumi frowned. 003 stretched her wings, brown feathers brushing lightly against his cheek. He realized how awkward that must have made him look and lifted his hand to shoo her away. The owl dodged his hand and landed on his shoulder again, closer to his neck, this time. She prodded him lightly with her beak.
The Shadow Master's arms dropped loosely to his sides. He sighed.
"I, ah, must return to work. The break is almost over," Konoe excused himself from the possibility of having to deal with any more bird-related trouble.
"Chief?" Tatsumi stopped him before the man removed himself from the lab completely. "Since the procedure hasn't started yet, I'd like to request that Watari's block be assigned to me."
Konoe gave him a dubious look. "Tatsumi?"
He had made the decision on a whim, last night; against his own policy regarding impetuous actions. But, even now, it did not seem like such a bad idea. The office work had long since stopped satisfying him, anyway, and the few cases he had assisted Watari with had given his otherwise mundane existence a new breath of life. Ironic, that the job of a Shinigami could do that, he thought.
Konoe measured him with careful eyes, expectation evident in his face.
Tatsumi adjusted his glasses, ignoring the minute tickling sensations in his neck, where 003 was busily making herself comfortable.
He cleared his throat and met Konoe's gaze with a steady one of his own. "It will be to our benefit, chief. The cost reduction will give us more leeway in other areas, and the average number of cases in the Sixth block is far from enough to hinder my regular work. I will handle both, for the time being."
Konoe gave a small wince. His shoulders slumped as he looked away. "Tatsumi... He's not coming back."
Tatsumi smashed down on the urge to argue that. "I will be grateful for your quick consideration of my request, so as to avoid any possible backlog."
"Fine, fine." Konoe threw up his hands and shook his head. "I'll see what I can do."
The Shadow Master regarded him with a cool, polite look. "Thank you," he said.
003 chirped behind his ear.
-
When Konoe closed the door, Tatsumi felt himself deflate as he relaxed his tense muscles and drew a deep breath. He looked around. The spacious laboratory had always made him feel strangely out of place; he could not decide whether it had something to do with its size, and his mind subconsciously calculating the number of offices that could be created in its stead, or with something else entirely. Perhaps it was about the scent that he remembered lingering in the air; eerily familiar, present every time he had visited that place, yet absent now that Watari was gone. As though ages had passed and he failed to notice, and the place had already forgotten the hand that had given it shape.
Tatsumi shivered. Watari was not gone, he reminded himself, displeased at how that thought, planted by Konoe's words, was making itself comfortable in his mind. He's just away, and he will be back, he thought. He will be. Perhaps not anytime soon, but eventually...
"Right?" he asked nobody in particular, absently rubbing the fingers of one hand together.
A soft hoot reminded him 003 was still there, attempting to form a makeshift nest on his shoulder. Tatsumi reached out his hand and waited, faintly curious whether the owl would move on her own if he did not try to force her.
She hopped onto his hand, shrugging a bit as she landed on his open palm. Tatsumi watched her for a while, with a ridiculous little voice in the dark recess of his mind that argued whether the bird was indeed thinking something in her little head. Strange, how those huge eyes seemed to pierce through him, how the owl rubbed herself against his fingers when he half-closed his hand around her. As though she could sense something familiar in Tatsumi's scent.
He glanced around, having decided that the best he could do was to leave an open window so that the bird would not stay locked in the lab after he left. But as he spotted one of the long, wall-length windows upstairs already open, he resolved to just leave the owl be to do whatever she saw fit.
He walked out, feeling uncharacteristically numb. 003 had shown no interest in following him, much to his relief. A quick look at his wristwatch told him the lunch break had ended a few minutes before and he should not have lingered, needlessly, for so long. He made his way back down the corridor in sure, measured strides, trying to think of nothing except the tasks he had assigned himself to accomplish during the remaining office hours that day.
-
The fax was halfway through producing a message when he entered his office. Tatsumi rounded his desk and sat in the chair, waiting for the machine to complete the printing. He suspected a new case; it had been rather quiet in that regard in the past few weeks. He retrieved the paper and adjusted his glasses.
The message printed there made him hold his breath.
By request of Enma DaiOh-sama, Tatsumi Seiichirou-san is to be present in the main courtroom immediately.
Tatsumi swallowed thickly. It had been long since Enma DaiOh had last expressed any interest in seeing him personally. The current circumstances and the timing left him with miniscule traces of sweat on his forehead and a painful knot in his stomach. The paper in his hand shook slightly when he looked at it again.
The main courtroom. Tatsumi shrugged. Employed by the Lord of Meifu, intimidation served as a powerful tool that hardly ever failed to have the desired effect on most people subjected to it. Tatsumi himself was no exception to that, much as he was loath to admit it. He'd had more than one chance to witness the sheer power Enma wielded and he knew; beneath the cold, distant shell of the human form the god habitually assumed, there boiled fiery nature unrivaled by that of another.
His body felt heavy when he rose from his chair, straightening to his full height and smoothing out his brown suit on the way out of the office. Intimidation might have worked in Enma's hands, but Tatsumi had learned to keep his response to it contained beneath his own professional front. Yet, every step closer to the meeting place left him more tense and a little more out of breath. He remembered Watari's warning and prayed silently, to himself, that the reason he had been summoned had nothing to do with the conversation he'd had with his partner, nor with the things that had been said.
The guards were present at their posts by the door; all four of them, the first indication that at least one of the Ten Judges was inside. Tatsumi announced himself and handed the fax to one of them, patiently waiting as the man confirmed the orders in his computer terminal. When the large, ornate door opened at last and the men stepped aside to let him in, Tatsumi had managed to regain a considerable measure of calm.
He traced the length of the room with calm eyes, somewhat relieved by the fact that there seemed to be nobody there. At least, if worst came to worst, his eventual failure would have no unnecessary witnesses. He had waved off the idea of soothing his nerves with futile attempts at convincing himself that the matters had not grown nearly as serious as he made them out to be. If he were to walk into the fire, he would rather walk into it well-prepared to burn.
"It pleases me to see you retain punctuality as one of your best traits."
Tatsumi turned and looked up. The black-clad figure of Enma stood proudly at the highest judicial bench, watching him, no doubt since he had stepped through the door.
"Enma DaiOh-sama," he greeted the god in a calm, polite voice, inclining his head in a respectful bow as he did so.
"It is the decrease in your other values that ceases to be amusing."
The scornful tone of those words washed over him like a wave of sudden heat from the fire he sensed even at a distance; it radiated alongside Enma's powerful presence across the room. Tatsumi lifted his head, yet he kept his eyes low, knowing all too well that any response to what he had just heard would not benefit him at all.
"Come closer," Enma said, stepping down from the bench. "Let me look at you. I must make sure I can still recognize the one in whom I once invested so much. Tatsumi Seiichirou."
Tatsumi obeyed; he glanced briefly at the god, whose outstretched hand pointed at the podium in front of the judges' site. His legs felt leaden as he walked over to it and stepped up to take his place. It had been decades since he had last stood there; yet even then, he could not recall feeling such amount of dread.
Enma descended slowly halfway down the wide, carpeted stairs, stopping only to spare Tatsumi another critical look.
"Do you know why you are here?" he asked.
For one of at least ten reasons I can think of, Tatsumi thought to himself. He looked up again, careful to keep his face inscrutable, so as not to leave any trace of the impression of arrogance in the way he regarded the god.
"I have expressed interest in succeeding my recently transferred partner, Watari Yutaka, as the guardian for Area Six," he said, although with little faith Enma wanted to discuss that particular matter. But, it seemed like a fairly neutral ground to start from, since he could not stay silent forever.
The god sneered. "Indeed, you have. Does the office work fail to satisfy your ambition?"
Tatsumi held Enma's semi-amused stare. "On the contrary. However, I firmly believe that, at present, it is needless to employ another guardian, since I am willing and ready to act as Watari-san's replacement, for as long as necessary."
Enma took a few more leisurely steps towards the podium, keeping Tatsumi's eyes locked in a long battle of wills all the while. "For years to come, you mean," he stated matter-of-factly. "Watari might not have returned to his former position as the Head Researcher of The Five Generals, but I assure you that his transfer was permanent."
An involuntary shudder passed through him; momentary darkness rose up and swept through his vision. The Head Researcher? Ice-cold chill of half-understanding, half-dread flickered across his flesh.
"Ah, correct. He conveniently withheld that part of the story from you," Enma said, one step closer to Tatsumi with every slowly uttered word. "He has a truly extraordinary talent for juggling the facts to make them suit his purpose, doesn't he?"
Tatsumi's thoughts whirled. He cast his might back to the previous night, racing frantically through everything Watari had said. He was hoping he had missed something before, perhaps forgotten something and Enma's words were just a ploy to catch him unawares.
"He left you with such a burden." The final step brought Enma face to face with the fretful Shadow Master. "What will you do?"
The revelations and the proximity combined sent ripples of nauseating fear through his stomach. Tatsumi fixed his gaze ahead, on some distant spot far past the god. The question sank into his consciousness, yet, even as the seconds rolled past, it remained unanswered in his mind.
Enma leaned against the podium, his tall silhouette looming over Tatsumi's shorter frame. "Say a word, and I'll know it," he said in a deliberate, vicious-sounding whisper. "Let it slip to any one of them and you will watch them go, one by one, knowing it was your own fault."
Forcing himself to keep breathing, Tatsumi turned a reluctant gaze back to Enma's face. Meeting the god's black eyes felt, to him, like staring into a bottomless well of death. It promised suffering, as had the threat. He kept his composure, but barely.
Expectation hung in the air; the god's silence demanded an answer and Tatsumi felt hard-pressed to give it. His dry mouth could hardly form the words. "I will not speak of it," he said, and he hated himself with a passion the second his own voice echoed through the courtroom. He tried to make it loud enough to ensure Enma would not order him to speak them again.
"Should your word suffice?" The god reached out and lifted Tatsumi's chin with his finger. "You are made of weakness. You once assured me you were ready to pay the price for the power you wield. You swore never to disappoint me. Consider your pledge to me grossly out of shape."
Tatsumi swallowed hard and shivered; he couldn't help it. His legs felt weak in the knees. Enma's hand hovered unbearably long around his neck; a gesture that reminded him that his power would prove far from sufficient, should the god's patience run out and he chose to dispose of him, to the warning of others.
"I apologize, DaiOh-sama," he said, glad to regain his breath as Enma removed his hand.
"Nonsense. I can smell that bitter anger boiling the blood in your veins. You let that pathetic little infatuation with Watari cloud your better judgment. Such an error is unthinkable for a Kagetsukai you make yourself out to be. That is not what I taught you."
Enma's words drew a sharp bolt of pain through Tatsumi's heart. "I assure you that--"
"Hold your tongue, Shinigami. I don't need to hear another vain excuse." Enma waved a dismissive hand and stepped back. "You can have your partner's job, if you insist. But heed my words: err again, and you will pay."
He turned away from Tatsumi who stood, shock-stricken, holding himself up only by the sheer force of will. The door swung open behind him, startling him, threatening to shatter the remnants of his control.
"This meeting is over."
-
Tatsumi left the courtroom on shaking legs. He ignored the guards who called after him to sign for the audience, set on walking while he still had the strength and the drive to keep moving his feet. Cold and collected on the outside, inside he was shaking; the pounding of his heart too rapid, the rush of blood too loud in his ears. He cared little for where he was headed, until the numbness of shock and apprehension began to disperse.
It gave way to rage.
He stormed into his office; the door shuddered as he slammed it shut with far too much force. He came to a halt in front of his desk, breathing hard, tightly clenched fists raised. The shadows lifted from the corners and swirled around him, picking up speed, sweeping a few loose sheets of paper off the desk. Tatsumi watched them coil, their whisper turning into the noise of destruction as the shadows took a solid form and cut them into shreds. With narrowed eyes, he followed the thin stripes as they fluttered and fell onto the floor, the tendrils of shadow dissipating slowly as he regained some sense of control.
He had expected nothing like what had occurred; not by any stretch of imagination, not even in the worst scenarios he had thought of. Faced with such an overwhelming storm crashing down on his head, he found himself forced to keep himself in check, and feared the moment he would fail.
How could Watari have been so careless, he thought furiously, willing the shadows down with a slowly exhaled breath. He must have known Enma could have heard, perhaps even seen, every detail of their conversation. But he had said as much, Tatsumi remembered when his thoughts cleared a little, and he shook his head at having caught himself sinking down the path of anger once more. Where could they have gone to keep their words unheard? Was there still a safe place, anywhere at all?
Drawing deep breaths, he turned his focus inwards, gradually calming his shaky nerves. It was Enma he wanted as the target of his rage, he realized, and he wondered how he had managed to retain enough common sense to keep from lashing out on the god. The long years of training had not gone into waste, after all.
Yet those words had cut through him like the sharpest shards of ice; they had fallen on a breeding ground in his mind, where Tatsumi all but lost a part of himself, while he tried to make sense of it all.
-
Konoe had heard; from Enma himself, he had every right to suspect. He stopped by Tatsumi's office not long after the Shadow Master had returned and told him to take the rest of the day off. Tatsumi refused, but as he sat at his desk and failed to muster enough focus to concentrate on the tasks at hand, he gathered a handful of papers and vanished quietly, avoiding the others who were still around.
The previous night seemed so distant when he walked into his house again. As though it had happened in another century and, since morning when he had last been there, everything had taken yet another turn. He left the papers he had brought with him at the door, for now, too distracted to think of taking proper care of them. He leaned back, painfully tense shoulders braced against the wall, and took off his glasses as his eyes slid shut.
You let that pathetic infatuation with Watari cloud your judgment.
Tatsumi swept a shaking hand across his face. Was that so? Infatuation. That word did not sit well with him at all.
He pulled himself up and made his way to the living room before his thoughts could trail off into too dark a place in his mind. He had to think, had to parse the facts and decide upon his next move, but not like that. He had already exceeded his limit of brash decisions for at least ten years.
He sank back onto his couch and let his head roll to the side. Weariness had crept up on him, tension slowly letting go as he breathed lighter air again – away from EnmaCho, from the stress of the past few days.
He reached for the blanket - folded neatly by Watari's hand, he knew - and pulled at it to wrap it around himself. He frowned; something soft slipped between his fingers and he felt around between the folds to see what it could have been. As he rose and brought it up to take a closer look, he let out a quiet groan.
Watari's silk ribbon looked so red against his hand.