Back, haha. *dodges projectiles* I went away for vacation and recently celebrated my birthday- not valid reasons for absence but explanations for those who thought me dead. Haha. I am alive and well.
I'm thinking of another piece in the near future- please take the poll to help me out. Thanks!
Chapter 12: Deceit
Ran rubbed her eyes for the fifth time, her other hand suspending brush over paper. After a few words, she sighs before mashing the draft over to join its predecessors in a nearby pile.
She had to finish this tonight. It's been far too long since she wrote to him.
Sensei, I have been well…
A frustrated groan followed by crunched parchment. How bland and ineloquent- was she lost for words? She laid the brush down, hands under her chin, gazing at the swirls of incense on her desk as they coil into the air.
It may be just a letter, but for some reason the meager focus required to pen such a simple document eluded her. Again, palms rubbing the hollows of her eyes, this time accompanied with a yawn and she could practically taste the rich, smooth, imported lavender. Sweet- sweeter than expected, but it had been imported. She dismissed the thought as tendrils of incense snaked into the air.
Maybe it was the aroma, or maybe it was the one who donated said gift, but she felt corners of her lips curl. The memory makes her heart dance, her cheeks glow and the layers she wears suddenly seem too much.
As if to answer her prayers, a whistling draft invades her chambers through a crack in the door, raising bumps on her skin.
"When did I…" she murmurs to no one in particular, getting up.
Half way across the room she feels it. The acute sway and swirl. She swears her gait is fine, but the world- it moves to an extent that is more than enough tip her balance. A small gasp escapes her lips, and although her arms reflexively brace themselves it does nothing to assuage the impact of her cheek onto the tatami mat. The floors, the door- they swirl still but her orientation resets as she pushes off the ground.
Another frustrated groan. "I must be tired," she whispers to herself, sliding the door to a close and retreating to bed.
"Good morning, Mitsunari-dono," a retinue of female servants chirp, as they part ways for him to pass.
The General of the Ishida Army barely nodded as he stalked by more preoccupied on the war council he was about to convene pertaining to arquebus trade than petty servant mannerisms. It barely registers that it usually isn't this pitchy brood that he'd see, rather a certain stubborn peasant who would first cross his path early in the day.
A scowl. A silent scolding. Irrelevant detail.
One less annoying peasant to-
"Somebody, help!" Shattering tranquil dawn. A voice that sounded frighteningly familiar. A voice he's known since his childhood.
Trespassers? Bandits? Shinobi?
A smirk evanesces on to his ghastly features. Someone was in a hurry to die if they think to trespass. He cuts a corner. If there is a fool seeking swift execution, he would gladly oblige.
What greets him is neither a group of bandits nor enemy combatants. Nay, not even men, because Mitsunari soon finds his prior scowl unwarranted and previous thoughts rescinded.
"Sakichi, come quick!" Tschiyo's voice taut with panic.
She laid motionless, in a sprawl of lavender silk on the icy wooden planks; hair undone by the collision.
"I found her this way," her voice quivering, as she draws the healer on to her lap, "there is a pulse, but there's not telling how long she's been like this."
Perhaps, it's the fright in the older woman's voice, or, it's his military training, but his body moves as it would on the battlefield. In the blink of an eye, he is besides Tschiyo, inciting a gasp from his caretaker, and in one fell swoop gathers the syncopized woman into his arms.
"Come," he beckons, leading the way into her chambers- his pace chaotic underneath a calm surface.
Mitsunari comes close to smashing the doors open, but fortunately Tschiyo anticipates and rushes ahead.
She lived simply in a minimally furnished room. Save the desk stacked with medications, manuscripts and a vanity with multiple drawers, there was nothing.
"Place her here, Sakichi," Tschiyo smoothing out the futon she had pulled from the closet. He complies while she digs through the vanity, returning with a ceramic bottle.
Bottle uncorked, its contents are applied to the back of Tschiyo's hand.
"Have her sit upright," and he does as he's told while she places her hand within a breath of Ran's nostrils.
Truth be told he didn't think it was effective, whatever IT was, but when the peasant's countenance wrinkled before the pungent concoction of herbs, he thought otherwise.
Her eyes crack open, just a bit. The world as blurry as a newborn's.
"Ran-dono, you're awake! Thank goodness!"
The healer manages something along the lines of a grunt, attempting to relieve Mitsunari's burden of being her headrest.
"Please don't strain yourself, Ran-dono. You just woke up. We found you unconscious in the hall- I'll fetch some water. Sakichi will stay with you," she replies, meeting the General's eyes with a look he had not seen in years before hurrying outside.
Ran waits until the footsteps fade. "Mitsunari-dono, I am alright" her voice barely a whisper, "please let go of-"
As if on fire, his iron grip snaps off.
She flexes her fingers to evaluate for damage before moving over to her futon. It won't bruise, but it she's in for a few weeks of crampy wrist work. "Thank you," raising her head but only to meet the white coat on his back.
A deep draft slices its way inside between a crack in the doors, but it does nothing to assuage her flushed countenance.
"What is that?" He inhales.
"What is what?" Her expression etched like a puzzle.
"That foul odor," he spats, another inhalation and something like a vague memory drifting in the air. Mitsunari rises from his crouch, circling her chamber until he halts before a ceramic container with ashes on her desk.
"That is the incense Mitsunari-dono gave-"
Without another word, the doors swing wide open as he hurls the container far into the open garden. A moment of silence before the pitch of shards shatter the still wintry air.
Her eyes grow wide- wet. Ran readies her protest but the blast of cold, fresh air influxes into her chambers. Her olfactory sense, lulled by the persuasion of sweet lavender now catches on to a bitterness of more insidious intent.
This bitter smell, so distinct. Few have ever lived to recant the tale.
"This is…" she breathes, stumbling backwards into her futon, "there's no mistake..."
"Tch, you call yourself a healer- how careless! Have you considered the results of your negligence?" he snaps, hand crunching over handle of his O-dachi.
Ran winces but recovery comes quick. Eyes no longer moist. "I-I have the antidote," she reaches over to her vanity, uncovering a parcel as footsteps echo down the hall. "It has only been a few short days."
A pattering of footsteps.
"Ran-dono, please you must stay in bed!" The older woman places the tray down before drawing the covers over her charge.
"I shall be fine, Tschiyo-san. There seemed to be foul play in the incense, but Mitsunari helped me dispose of it. I have the antidote," she turns to the Ishida General, "there is no need for worry."
He shoots her an incredulous glare.
Worry? As if!
"Che." He scoffs, turning to leave the two.
The corridors shudder as he stomps back to his chambers. The slam of sliding doors.
Worried? He sneers. He had been anything but! Hand crunching at the mere thought of her carelessness.
He kneels down with weapon by his side, mind spewing volcanic anger. Had she considered the grave effects of her thoughtlessness? The tragic end? NO. Complacent fool! She could have died!
He glares at the plant before him that she defied his orders to take back.
…Careless…
The slender soft edges of its stem and leaves dry with decay.
…Carefree…
It's prized purple, shriveled on the floor.
…Caregiver…
Traitorous hands reach for fallen petals. The image of her pale silhouette outlined by ebony strands tracing on to wooden floors. A hand with fingers frozen into a semi-curl. There is no draft, but a wave of cold still washes over, freezing his nerves of steel. A sharp inhale before he regains his bearings.
Peripherally, Tschiyo shuffles by, a billowing, black cloud. Maybe it's the eerie dance of dead petals along the floor, or maybe out of pure curiosity but he brusquely stalks over.
"Where are you going?" In the blink of an eye, he stands before the older woman in the hall.
"Sakichi," she gasps, dropping her bamboo hat and grasping the knot of her cloak. "No where particular, just the village."
He replies with a silent side-step that mirrored hers. A quirked eyebrow.
In this weather, when a mere gust was a knife to the face?
A defeated sigh for the boy she raised who could see through all deceit. "I am going to visit Iroha Sensei."
His arm against sliding doors prevents her passage. "You are to remain here."
"Sakichi, I must go see Iroha-sensei for Ran-dono's –"
"Stay here." His voice taut with finality as he stomps over to a certain peasant's room. He hears a pattering distantly, but whether it's from Tschiyo's retreating footsteps or the hammering within his chest, he could not tell.
Mitsunari finds her at the desk, weighing medication with a small scale.
"Mitsunari-dono," the layout immediately covered with her sleeve, "I- I will be alright, please do not worry."
No one worries over a peasant- especially one capable of falsehood!
"Tschiyo was on her way to see that old fool. Explain yourself," he demanded, eyes as sharp as steel.
"I see…" Ran uncovered her sleeve. "I did not want you to know…but the amount of antidote I require is more than I have," she sighed, gaze downcast in a cross of shame and frustration that he did not understand. A frosty breeze drifts between the door frame behind him, caressing tendrils across her pallid features. A face robbed of its natural blush. A complexion he deemed undeserving of a countenance frequented by childish smiles and bright eyes. Not that he would know.
His hands swap weapon possession. "I will go." The conviction of a thousand men. "Tschiyo stays. You stay." He turns for the corridor.
The look of horror as she scrambles over, clutching on to his overcoat. "Matte! Mitsunari-dono, you must not. Your men need you! The next campaign is close at hand-"
"That is none of your concern," Mitsunari barks. He didn't have to look. He could feel the sunken eyes of worry etched on alabaster skin. The gravity of her stung features crushing against his back.
Mindless peasant!
The next campaign can wait!
Insurgents can wait!
Illegal trade can wait!
His hands crunch around the o-dachi, and a gnawing feeling he could not describe churns deep inside.
She can not…
"The last scout has yet to arrive," his voice decibels lower, avoiding her eyes should he find more than worry. "I shall return in 2 days time. You have my word."
He is half way out the door when she speaks.
"Then, please take this. It will help you." Hands reaching into folds of her kimono to extract the purple omamori. "Iroha sensei has many visitors, with this, he will know who I am and why you seek him…I will pray for your safe return."
Mitsunari spares a glance at the item in her palm, oblivious to her bidding for a swift and safe journey.
"Ah," he acknowledges, more for the item than in response to her blessing, before pocketing it into the recesses of his overcoat and entering the brisk cold.
Moments later, the Ishida General is west-bound on his steed, plowing through white frost. He mutters how the old fool better not stall time with his aimless prattle upon arrival.
He did not have the patience.
She did not have the time.