Maka found that angry stitches were actually much straighter than the usual half-hearted ones, and she seemed to have that rage in long supply. That stubborn man had locked himself within a secret room that had magically appeared without a word for hours. She had managed the bib and a small cap, finer than anything she'd ever created before, but her hands still fiddled with anxiety. She stood, coming to the secret door and slamming it with her knuckles. "My lord."
Nothing.
Obstinance reared in her gut. "Soul?"
Still nothing, not a stir, not a rustle.
"Fine," she snapped again with another firm knock. "I'm going out." That seemed like enough of a threat that violent life would emerge, but there was only silence. With it leaked a wave of agony, some silent scream tearing at her heart. She swallowed a bit of air, trying to ignore the odd wash of a feeling that couldn't possibly be real. "I-I'm going ," she urged uselessly before moving towards her bedding. She picked up her handiwork before starting out into the fading sunlight.
Marie set the tray on the engawa, staring at the empty room with bewilderment. Both of their lunches were in only slightly varying stages of half-eaten– dishes that she had expected Masao to have returned with hours ago. The tea she'd brought was only a ruse– an excuse to invade his space since entering without Soul's request was a sin in its own right. As she looked around the vacant, quiet room, Marie's heart started to thunder in her ears.
It was eclipsed by the sound of footsteps, leaving Marie to turn her head towards the motion instead as Masao slipped between the boards in the fence. "Masao?" A fragile thread of panic started to strengthen as her fear braided in another line.
"Oh, Marie." The page stopped, bewildered, but quickly rushed over to start to collect the wayward dishes. "I'm sorry! I forgot to return these. You must've–"
"Where's Soul?" She never had the ability with the other boys, but with this one she felt free to clutch the questionable youth by the shoulders to rattle the thin bones under her fingers.
Masao's eyes shot wide. "He went in that room–"
"Oh, no–" withered from Marie's lips with little strength. Instead, all of her efforts ran towards the clamor to the room, her fingers desperate to find the catch in the wall that held the secret of the door. "Soul, please– please– "
"Marie?" Masao's voice crackled with fear, his footsteps only just behind hers.
Even with all her shaking, Marie managed to get the door open to allow the light to explode into the darkness of the room. The slumped figure was still nothing more than a shadow. "Soul!" The rule was nowhere in her mind, just the old memories spurring her forward. "Oh, please," she begged to the entirety of the world around her, but what she found was still the same.
He had collapsed on his forearms, spine curled with his knees tucked under him. Splatters of dried blood painted the mat around him, some still growing from leaking splotches on his kosode. His maskless face hid between his fists.
Marie's hand shot to his neck, digging to find the weak beat of his heart. Every time. Every time I can't help but think you're dead, but thank you– thank you for living again. Her hand drifted into his hair as she turned glossy eyes back to the page who was now a wavering shadow in the doorway. "Get my husband."
Those green eyes blinked back with no recognition, only taking in the sight of Soul bathed in blood.
"Masao!" Marie snapped, her voice ringing true down to the page's spine. "Get out of here and get the physician!"
"Y-yes." His legs wobbled slightly but he was still off, leaving only sunlight in his wake.
"Soul," Marie cooed gently as she tried to work her fingers to his shoulders.
He twitched, coughing weakly. "Marie… don't…"
"You're too weak to hurt me now," she murmured. Regardless of the slick, tacky liquid that smeared against her skin, Marie began to turn Soul to his side. His face was ghostly white, red eyes fluttered to try and open. "You need to rest." Her fingers hovered to try to force his eyes shut, but the blood on the tips stopped her, instead moving to press his shoulders further until he was on his back. She moved to his legs, stretching them out as she watched shallow breaths stutter in his chest.
His shaking fingers moved along the mat blindly. "Marie…"
"I'm still here." She went to take his hand, but as soon as their skin met he jerked away.
"Mask…" he murmured as he changed the trajectory of his search.
"Soul," she warbled mournfully as she reached for what he couldn't see. As she touched the cool wood, that undying urge to break it under her fingers welled up in her heart. When will this stop? When will you get whatever forgiveness you need to– to let all of this go? Or will you just die first? The question brought bitter tears to her eyes as she gently balanced the wood over his face.
No matter the urgency Maka spurred into her step, that damned physician only kept his steady gait. "He was bleeding!" she reminded over her shoulder but found it didn't hit its mark.
"I'm sure he was," Franken muttered back with a growing sense of boredom.
I'm sure he was! Maka almost spat back but wisely left her momentum forward instead of towards the useless man. How did that happen? Who got to him? Is that why he was so quiet in that room? But I would have heard someone attack him unless this was Star's little hunch – and if so I'll kill him .
"Franken?" Marie's tearful voice called as soon as they broke the yard.
Maka produced an unsteady sprint up into the room, barreling towards the doorway to revisit the nightmare in front of her. Soul was on his back now, mask pressed to skin just as pale. For a moment, between Marie's tearful face and his motionlessness, Maka was sure her job had been done for her. He's dead. He's dead, and I–
His chest jittered through an unsteady breath.
Maka's throat constricted, her eyes burning without her permission.
It was then that Franken elbowed past her, settling directly at Marie's side. "Darling." Maka's eyes widened as the man first cupped Marie's cheeks, fingers that only spoke of dissection suddenly becoming as tender as a lover's. "He'll need some sustenance. Go make some broth and porridge."
She lifted her bloodied hands between them, palms tacky and flaking.
They're black . A cold finger dug down Maka's spine. That's too dark. There's no way. How is his blood–?
Marie choked, "He–"
"Is alive," Franken finished steadily for her. "Go now, love." One more soft brush of his palms cleared her cheeks before she stood. As she started out of the room, Franken's tone drifted back to clinical: "Masao, come here."
Marie refused to meet Maka's eyes as she passed, but she was far too gone to notice. Her mind still desperately played over the dark night instead of a crimson stain.
"Masao," Franken called again. He was starting to arrange his tools at Soul's side.
Maka moved slowly across from him, her glance darting from black disk to black disk on Soul's kosode.
"Undress him."
Beats started to thunder in her ears, her hands shaking in limbo between her and the pale body.
"Now is not the time to worry about his rules," Franken scolded. He was leaning towards Soul's head, hand drifting gently under his neck to tilt enough to get a strange elixir to his lips. "Drink."
His throat bobbed on the command.
"Masao, undress him."
There had been a few times she had helped her papa into his kosode, usually when a fight left him battered and bruised, but undressing a man wasn't something Maka had ever imagined herself well-versed in. It's just like anyone else, she tried to urge but her fingers still trembled as she grasped his arm. While his skin was ice, there was a fizzle of electricity that snapped through the pads up to her spine. She tried to focus on the anger that she knew was about to sprout from him.
Instead, he was lifeless– a doll beneath her fingers. His limp arm took little work to slide from the wide sleeve. Franken did her the favor of turning him towards her, allowing her to get his kosode plastered to the mat instead of him.
"His hakama, and then come here to clean after I stitch."
Stitch? She was glad the stupid question only reverberated in her mind as her gaze jumped from one wound to the next. There was nothing so deep that warranted his life, but the wounds oozed all the same. Maka counted six on his chest alone, and as her eyes drifted to his hakama, whose darkness would most certainly hide the stains, she feared for more.
"You're too slow," Franken pressed.
Maka urged her hands forward, starting at the tie at his waist. The intimacy of it was instantly lost on her as his skin underneath chilled her fingers. "He's so cold," she murmured.
"The sensible reply is that he has lost a lot of blood," Franken murmured absently as his hands started the well-practiced sweep of stitching into Soul's skin. "I also think he goes into a state of shock, hence his pliability. Come clean, Masao."
She moved to Franken's side, picking up the cloth and using it to dab at the weeping that his stitches left behind.
"Others used to slick their tongues with the idea that his mother was a yuki-onna ." Whether he was enjoying the story or his work, Franken's smile was blossoming vibrantly. "Maybe that's why he bathes so often– to prove he won't melt away." A dry chuckle followed. "There is a vial there, Masao. Use it to wet a new cloth and clean the ones I've finished."
Maka followed orders closely, forcing her to focus on the wounds rather than be reminded of the man behind them. "Y-you didn't know his mother."
"No," Franken answered easily, but the second half drifted with odd melancholy, "and perhaps if he did not his life would have been easier."
"It's not that simple…" The words escaped her before she could catch them. She tried to look absorbed in her task, hoping the slip would be taken as nothing more than discontented grumbling.
"As someone who lost both of their parents I suppose you would know."
Maka bit any answer on her tongue.
"When did your father die?" Normally, a question like that wouldn't be dangerous just on the face of it, but Maka's skin prickled at the amusement that lightly laced between those words.
"Both of them died when I was ten."
While most would gush with sympathy, Maka found nothing but stone in his features. "How?"
She tried to lose the question in her cleaning, swabbing away the ebony oozing from his skin. "Murder–" the word clipped tightly between her teeth. "Why is his blood so dark?"
"Would you believe it's yuki-onna blood?" A cat-like curl tainted his grin.
Maka raised her eyes, meeting his empty glare. I'm not sure I believe a word you say– or at least I shouldn't. "I should know about my lord's health."
"You should know what he tells you," Franken spat back succinctly as he tied off another suture. He settled down to Soul's legs, starting at a gash in his thigh. "It's nothing you'll catch , so don't concern yourself with it."
Maka refused to let her eyes linger towards Franken's work, Soul's undergarments certainly not enough to safely allow a glance.
"Is something amiss?"
"No," Maka snapped quickly before she forced her eyes past the thin fabric of his fundoshi to the meat of his thigh where Franken's hands worked steadily.
His soft chuckle drifted between them, making Maka's spine stiffen. "This is the last one. Clean it."
Maka reached towards Franken's hands, wiping away the darkness from the pitifully paled flesh underneath. "I know it's pointless to ask, but who did this to him?"
Franken sighed as he shifted back on his haunches while rearranging his tools. His silence easily could have been the answer, but another bitter, breathy laugh left him. "You'll only ever know what he tells you. Feel free to ask him when he wakes." The floor creaked under his weight as he got to his feet. "Marie will be back shortly."
She refused to watch him, eyes focused on Soul's face which was anything but restful even under the mask. Her hand hovered, threatening to grasp the wood that hid him. The urge collapsed, making her hand fall to her side as she continued to examine a man who—for the second time in just a few days—seemed on the brink of death. The first time was poison– poison he drank on purpose – but this time–
"Masao," Marie's tear-ladened voice snapped Maka from her thoughts, "you're going to tell me exactly what happened before Soul went in that room."
She was suddenly a girl again, sure her mother was about to take away her sweets for at least a year. "Marie, I'm sorry–"
"No," she snapped quickly as she placed the tray next to Soul's still motionless head. "I don't want your apologies, I want to know why ."
Maka tried to swallow her fear, but as her eyes met Marie's, it was a hopeless endeavor. The tear stained rims, the bruised agony in those doe eyes did nothing but strip Maka of any ability to bite her tongue. "I upset him. I'm not sure why, but– I know it was about touching him." Marie sighed, letting her head drop into her hands for a moment before rubbing them over her cheeks. The wave of disappointment hit Maka head on, only urging her mouth open again. "I just wanted to do him a favor and sew his kosode."
A weak laugh hiccuped from her throat. "All over a kosode." Marie's hand trembled outward, smoothing the hair just above his mask. "Soul, please–" The useless plea ended there as Marie brought her attention back to the tray. On one side was a fresh folding of cloth. "Let's get him into this sleeping robe at least." She instantly pulled at Soul's shoulder, rolling him towards her.
Maka caught sight of his back and the continued spider web of scars that littered his skin. She would have followed the pattern if it hadn't been for the white suddenly obscuring her view. It spurred her fingers to action, smoothing out the robe along his back. "I really am sorry, Marie."
Her first reply was to teeter Soul back towards Maka, fishing under his shoulder to grab the other end to pull his arm into. Her teeth nibbled into her lip while she fiddled with wrapping him up. She smoothed the lapels over his chest, watching the steadying rise and fall of his breath. "Please don't leave him like that again." She raised her eyes to Maka, the shine of tears returning. "He… he tries to keep himself alone, but he won't survive like that and I– maybe it's selfish, but I need him to survive."
Survive? Maka tried to study the lines of Marie's face, to read what wasn't coming off her lips. Are you trying to say that if I hadn't left him, this wouldn't have happened? That he– She looked down at the sleeping face, the tender hands that Marie still had resting on his chest as if she were testing the beat of his heart. No— she tried to harden her heart against the thought, transposing her papa's face over his in her mind— I'm not here for Soul. I can't offer him anything.
"He's fine, Marie," Maka murmured softly in reply as she gathered the hands off his chest to squeeze them. "Leave the rest to me. I'll make sure he eats when he wakes up."
Her shaky sigh prompted her hands away, leaving Maka's empty. Marie stared down at Soul for another moment, fingers now clenched tightly in her lap. Her head shook ever so slightly before she raised to her feet. "Just make him rest." There was no need for a reply, Marie already scurrying away at the words.
Maka waited, watching the entryway for more life while her only company lay inert beside her. When the singular sound became the symphony made by the exchange of their breaths and the swell of insects, Maka got to her feet and moved out onto the engawa. There was one ageless maple, years beyond years gnarling it with a bower that offered the perfect hideaway. Instead of planting at its base, she started the climb in its branches, barely scraping by to the canopy top. She reached into her kosode, carefully taking a pouch of prayer paper out. Once she separated one of the strands, she tied it to the very top– a beacon even in the last lingering bit of daylight.
