Hello everyone!
Whenever I am beset with sadness, frustration or disappointment I write, and with the recent upsetting events of 2020 thus far I must confess I have been writing longer than my usual binges.
I can only hope for reform, change, healing but what I can do and urge you to as well is to teach, console and love those around you for the greatest changes often start with ourselves. I have faith in our resilience to recover both physically and mentally from all of this- together!
Your reviews sparked so much happiness in me, I literally exploded into tears. Thank you so much to my readers, especially those who have been following for oh so long! You know who you are and I am so grateful for your inspiration and encouragement! I've no more tissues but plenty of happy tears!
With each keystroke, I pour my energies into weaving a tale that hopefully brings you as much relief and entertainment as it does me. This is a MASSIVE update, twice the size of my usual chapters, because we are all in need of a little sunshine and fun when the world seems grey and hurtful. It won't always be this way, so keep your chin up, keep reading! As always I will read every review so kindly leave me your words :)
Chapter 24: Scars
Mitsunari rode the rest of the evening. Across fields, through towns, over a bridge, between valleys. To say he knew where to is fiction, because despite having spent his entire life campaigning across Japan, he in fact didn't. Everything aside from constructs of nature, appears the same to him.
Houses. Temples. Fields. Bridges.
Same form. Same function.
Function….
Having spent his life as a soldier, he understands function. So perhaps it was more accurate to say he knew what to do, rather than where to go. Function, not form. Design, not destination.
And so the General of the Western Army rode on until a solitary house flanked by bamboo trees in the woods came into view. A river he saw on the way courses behind the territory. It's a solid source of water and a means of preventing ambush. An uncharted wilderness is also less likely to be encountered.
This will do.
He steers into the compound, past the garden and well system.
As predicted, the residents emerge, startled by sounds of hooves.
The man staggers over cane in hand, while his wife follows in tow. Both caught sight of his sheathed sword glistening in the moonlight. They share a dubious gaze as they bow before the young general, introducing themselves.
"Good evening, your Lordship," the gray bearded man keeps his head low, "to what do I and my wife owe the honor of your visit?"
"I require your residence" Mitsunari announces, littering the ground with gold coins from a leather pouch he tossed. "This is for your troubles tonight. Request the compensation you desire from my subordinate Shima Sakon in Miyamoto Castle."
They gawk at the ryo before them that could buy ANOTHER house AND a business in town.
"H-how long will your Grace require our humble abode? We have only the essentials and I fear we lack the accommodations befitting of your status my Lord," the man stammers.
"As long as need be," his curt reply, "is that a problem?"
An immediate shake of his head, as they catch sight of the silent, battered young lady in his arms.
"Not at all."
His wife sends him a wary look. Of course it was not unheard of Lords kidnapping young maidens from other provinces. Or of samurai bringing unsuspecting women into inns after a tough raid. In their earlier years, this had been their greatest fear for their daughter until she married into the next town, but the same can't be said for all the young women of Japan. Especially those of the lower class.
"Your Excellency, your companion appears ill, my wife and I would be more than happy to care for her while you rest," the husband offers. Perhaps they can secretly release her after fabricating a story of the girl's escape overnight.
"Not necessary." Mitsunari shoots him a glare and dismounts. Bamboo trembles listlessly nearby, inciting a cold shiver up the couples' spines. "Leave. Now."
The elderly man bows, picks up the coins and excuses himself.
His wife's expression wrinkles, lines drawn by the passage of time as Mitsunari takes Ran off his steed. The porcelain sheen on the young woman's face, framed by ebony tendrils. A young and beautiful maiden in the arms of an arrogant and sinister warrior.
Her weary eyes catch a glimpse of the Lady's torn kimono helm and undone hair.
Isn't beauty a curse? Could there be no greater tragedy than to have caught the eyes of such a dangerous man?
"My Lord!" The elderly woman bows before him again.
Mitsunari stops mid-step.
Her weathered eyes meet his steel grey ones. "Your ladyship is unwell," the title churning her stomach, because this woman could very well be an abducted, unwilling daughter from simple townsfolk like them.
An arched eyebrow prompts her to continue.
Her hands knot together. "Please, my Lord, be gentle with her," comes her desperate plea.
"Nani?" His head tilts ever so slightly at the curious remark.
"Ah, t-that is to say," her husband interjects, gesturing his wife behind him, "w-what my wife means is the Lady appears of weak disposition and that is why we offer to care for her in your place, your Grace."
A moment of consideration. "That is not necessary. Leave us."
She awoke shortly after the dismount, but Mitsunari did not slow in his strides throughout the compound.
Function. He had to function.
Know what must be done and do not stray from your path.
It didn't take him long to locate the bath. A simple setup of ofuro, rags, soap and a stool. The free-standing room was permeated with mildew, cold with disuse but it will do.
Silently, he sets her down on a stool, layers of cloth sliding off her motionless frame.
"Wait here." His instruction met with a pair of dead, downcast eyes.
Outside he makes short work of firewood to heat up the bath. Within minutes, steam drifts out the window.
Returning indoors, he bites off his gloves and casts aside his armor and sword into a nearby corner.
"Are you hurt?" He asks but his inquiry is met with an empty silence. Her hollow eyes hang low on the ground.
His throat runs dry, kneeling before her with a moist rag to catch a glimpse of her gaze.
Never did he think the emptiness in her eyes could hurt more than any wound he sustained in battle, and as he wipes away the grime from her face, the tightness in his chest grows like poison from a festering wound.
He parts her hair, stopping his traitorous hand midway as it reveals a vicious blue that discolors her temple.
This bruise he could not simply rub away, and it had hurt her more than the eyes could see.
The crackling of fire wood.
Do not dawdle with the task at hand.
Mitsunari rips out a strip of fabric and secures it over his eyes.
"I see nothing, so hold still," he tells her, one hand steadying her frame while the other slides the kimono off her shoulders. With a paltry swing of his arm, he discards her clothes in the corner. They will be incinerated later.
She needn't have any memento of this day's nightmare.
Silently, he set to douse her with warm water, working through tactile memory. It wasn't the easiest, but having fought countless battles under veiled nights, it wasn't the hardest task at hand either.
The young General reaches for her hand, and again his chest stings when there's no response from her during his brief pause.
Any man would ask if she was alright, but Ishida Mitsunari is neither any man nor a man of futile, insipid words.
So he chooses silence as he always does, while occupying himself with lathering her hair.
Act with purpose.
Wordlessly, he palms for the wooden basin filled earlier, and with a steady hand, empties it slowly on her long, soap-laden hair.
It's a strange task- washing a woman's hair especially without sight and one he had never before done, but the preposterous idea of another man in his place makes his jaw stiff.
He drops the basin, lifting her to the ofuro.
Her skin is so soft it shames silk, but anyone one with a modicum of common sense could see Mitsunari is not moved by salacious intent but by duty. Function.
Know what needs to be done.
And he has always known what to do….
"...I love you," her voice barely whispers as she is lowered into steaming waters.
A moment's silence that stretches into a small eternity and inwardly, Mitsunari feels a weight drop into this core. For a warrior as swift as the wind, he is rooted to the ground by three simple words. For a man who moves armies, he is frozen by three words from this small woman. For a strategist who aided another Lord in a revolutionary coup, he is outwitted by this young woman's simple utterance.
"Ah." A default monosyllabic response bounces off cold, stone walls.
Only the crackle of fire and whisper of wind support his reply as another moment lulls by.
Ishida Mitsunari. Do not stray from your purpose.
He clears his throat and faces his back to her. "Stay here. I shall return."
Shortly after Mitsunari returns with a fresh blindfold, he wraps her in a white robe followed by a beige kimono. Sizing was the least of his concerns, but he surmised the elderly woman and Ran were of similar stature.
"Come," he tells her after drying her hair and removing his blindfold. Without another word, Mitsunari carries her back to the main compound, into a tatami mat room illuminated by a single candle.
A futon is laid out, albeit with rudimentary bedding but it will do. Spartan in design but functional.
Again he tells her to stay after settling her, the general excuses himself to the kitchen.
Miso. Tofu. Dried fish. Stocks of pickled vegetables and an entire barrel of rice. It was more than Mitsunari presumed an average household would have, given the considerable taxes levied by the deceased Gamo rat.
Mitsunari rolls up white sleeves of the kimono he briefly changed into after finding his usual attire soaked preparing the bath. Civilian clothes are strange and even though the purple hakama he dons is less restricting, it can not replace the familiarity of his Uniform.
But alas, this will do.
The stove is clean and fire easy to kindle, but moments into preparing supper, a piercing scream shatters the silent night.
"Ran!" He sprints down the outdoor corridor, only to have her frame crash into his with frantic tears.
"Nan da?" His hands on her wild, twisting, sobbing frame. "What-"
She squirms in his hold, and before he can finish, attempts to throw herself out into the garden.
He growls, tossing the screaming young woman over his shoulder effortlessly while stalking back. "Stop! You will catch your death!"
Her futile resistance finds renewed strength upon reaching the chamber again.
Mitsunari sets her down on the futon, but she wrestles his hold.
"Hold still," he demands, noting the fear in her eyes at the sight of quivering silhouettes on the opposite wall.
Reflexively, Mitsunari steps in front of her shivering frame.
The crescent moon escapes from cloaked clouds, casting an eerie glow on the svelte shapes painted on parchment.
Anyone who has been to the red light district knew there exists an art of immortalizing its lascivious creatures on paper. Mitsunari sneers, snatching the salacious Ukiyoe drawings from the walls. He knew the old man had too big a house and well-stocked a kitchen to be a simple farmer. Well drawn Ukiyoe, especially erotic ones are highly desired by brothels and extremely profitable for artists.
Crude, old man.
With a swing of his O-dachi, he shreds the parchment in mid-air. A kaleidoscope of paper snow dancing in the silver moonlight.
"I was unaware of this," he kneels before her, "forgive me."
He wraps her in sheets and brings her over the small tea house nearby. A simple free-standing structure overlooking the garden with a prerequisite bamboo fence.
"Are you able to stand?" His inquiry of course met with silent reply.
Mitsunari would not consider himself a cultured man, but the few times during his instructions with Lord Hanbei, he recalls some tea ceremonies lessons. He remembers the quiet sanctity of tea houses used for meditation. Such a place has its own rules similar to temples.
No weapons allowed.
Mitsunari remembers even his careful Sensei had momentarily parted with his sword.
Wordlessly, he places her on a tree stump allocated for chopping wood before removing his o-dachi and placing it on a bamboo rack.
"Stay here," he intones, setting her down inside before returning with her bedding.
The tea house is small, with a minimalistic veranda, made smaller with the singular light source from a lamp he bought over. A single rounded window patched with thin paper allows moonlight to filter through. Mitsunari did not care for simple aesthetics, as long as it was not a "dirty" room.
He returns some time later with a tray of rice, tofu and soup, setting it before her.
"Eat." The same brusque demand he'd give his soldiers.
Ran averts her gaze. "I've no appetite."
He frowns. She is not a soldier and he cannot answer her irrational behavior with the conventional military approach. Surely he could not counter her disobedience with his malice.
He exhales nasally and turns from his seated position to stand. The mere thought of disciplining the fragile woman as he would one of his men, sours his palate.
"Matte!" She turns to him with wide eyes. "Please, don't leave me."
The young General turns around, knee bent before the small woman. Her frame, shivering shoulders loosely wrapped in an ill-fitted kimono. Of course, she would be frightened in a foreign room on her own.
A smirk finds its way to of Lord Hanbei long ago echo in his memory.
The power of negotiation exceeds that of violence.
"Eat, and consider it done."
"You will stay?" Her eyes fixate on him.
"You have my word. But," he intones, gesturing to the lacquered tray, "all of it."
Ran bites her lip before turning to her meal.
"Itadakimasu," she whispers, picking up the chopsticks, while Mitsunari settles against a wall with a sake set from the other side of the chamber.
Apparently, the old coot conducted more than tea ceremonies here. The young General uncorks the jar and catches a whiff of the aged rice wine- a rich, bitter and nostalgic aroma.
"Go-chiso sama deshita." Ran returns her utensil to the tray as a light pattering against the roof picks up from outside. Moments later, the rushing of water down bamboo pipes resonates across the garden. She shivers, pulling the covers over her.
She turns to Mitsunari imbibing his sake, her voice frosting the air. "May I join you?"
"No." He deadpans, absentmindedly spinning the half-empty ceramic cup between long, thin fingers.
Ran shuffles in her covers. "I hear it keeps one warm in the cold," she murmurs, fisting the loose kimono fabric with one hand over her right shoulder.
Without missing a beat he locks on to her gesture. "Did he hurt you?"
Her downcast eyes are not a good enough answer.
Mitsunari shoots her a glare. "Oi, did you not hear," setting down the cup and striding over, "did that animal hurt you?"
Instinctively she turns away as he kneels before her with an outstretched hand.
"Come here," Mitsunari reaches for her wrist but she pulls away.
"Please, don't," she begs, guiding his hand away and losing her balance.
"Show me," he commands, seizing her wrist and pinning the other one on the futon.
"D-don't do this." Her plea is a hollow cry, struggling between him and the tussled bedding.
Of course with a blindfold earlier, any injuries she sustained would be missed. If her wound was great, he would need to summon a physician.
Let the mission be etched into your heart, like ink on paper.
"A serious injury must be treated!" Mitsunari's reply, a borderline snarl as he grasps her collar and yanks it off her shoulder.
Her gasp pierces the silent chamber.
"Kore wa…." Mitsunari breathes, eyes like steel plates fixated not on curves of her chest but on the large solemn scar.
She turns away, squeezing fresh tears from the corners of her eyes.
"He did not do this." Her cry paralyzes him like venom from a shinobi's dart.
Mitsunari swallows.
No, it was I.
He traces over the small area on her chest with long fingers. The angry wound, like a mistroke mars the smooth silk palette of her skin.
Ran opens her eyes, blinking out her blurry vision.
"Such a beauty on the outside, what a shame you're hideous and broken on the inside! To think any man would desire you!"
She sobs as his skin touches her. "Don't look! It's hideous. That man said so!"
His hand freezes. "That animal," he corrects with the precision of a sword's edge, "is dead, and from what I witnessed, he had not hurt you more than the eye can see."
Her eyes refuse to meet his despite reassuring her most burning question. "It's hideous," she repeats. "I do not want you to see."
He looks down at the young woman at his mercy, whimpering and indecent beneath him. Like lightning it hits him their current predicament and like fire he releases his grip pinning her wrist on the ground.
I did this. All of this.
Lord Hanbei would never condone this.
"Forgive me," he apologizes, for more reasons than one, though his hand lingers over her scar.
The finest silk would pale in comparison to her skin and he vaguely muses if her face was just as smooth and soft.
"Kasui kizu desu," he mutters, following the scar down with thin fingertips, "it is but a small scratch."
She turns her head, her wild eyes meeting with his firm rims of steel. "Nani?" Her whisper, barely audible but he's never missed a word. "What are you saying?"
His gray irises turn to meet hers.
"A memento of courage and testament of one's devotion to a cause greater than life itself," he elaborates after a moment's silence, sitting up for some distance.
"Hontou desu ka? Is that the truth?" She breathes, as if her current breath is the first in a very, very, long time.
"Ah." His trademark monosyllabic reply.
She is a flash of white darting over his seated frame, throwing the both of them off balance. Her arms embracing his broad shoulders.
"What- are you out of your mind?!" He growls, seizing her by both shoulders for distance to meet the famous wild, bright smile of hers from above.
"Thank goodness," she grins, tears rolling down her cheeks, barely missing his. "It isn't...hideous?"
He quirks an eyebrow.
That's what this is about? What an unbelievable woman!
"There is nothing hideous of the sacrifice behind scars."
The young man deigns to shove her away and defers his gaze instead.
Ran sits up, oblivious to their close proximity.
" Yokatta," she sighs and looks at him again. "Then, Mitsunari do you have scars?"
He scoffs, sitting up as well for distance between them. "There is neither a soldier, samurai nor warrior who does not carry scars."
The young healer is silent for a moment. "I wish to see yours."
If Mitsunari had been drinking, the sake would have gone down the wrong pipe.
"What?"
What kind of request is that? What a ridiculous thing to say!
"You saw my scars," she pouts, closing the distance between them.
"To assess your injuries," he remarks bluntly, avoiding her gaze.
That fool, did she truly not know why? He may be Intolerable, irascible and intimidating, but even she had to know he is anything but an insidious womanizer. If it's true, why then the heavy sensation hanging over his chest?
"I want to see…." She inches closer and the distance grows smaller.
"Absolutely not." His arms cross. The sacred Code of Bushido, woven into his character from youth by Lord Hanbei, had strict tenets regarding behavior towards women and children.
She's silent for a moment. The sound of incessant patter of rain outside.
"Mitsunari, if you comply, I will forgive you. All YOUR questionable transgressions today."
Was she negotiating or manipulating him?
His skin tingles at the thought of her as a ruling official. How terrifying her terms would be.
Still he could not look at her and the pressure in his chest is stifling despite a cool draft sweeping indoors.
"Do what you want," he mutters, still turned away from her.
She frowns and motions for him to face her.
He clears his throat, still avoiding her gaze.
Ran looks down. "Ah, Sumimasen!"
Her hand flew up to seize the deviant kimono collar that exposed a great area of her shoulder and chest.
"Mitsunari, I-"
"It's fine," he coughs, uncrossing his arms.
She reaches for the white collar of his kimono, fingers trembling at the soft, pure textile.
"Well?" He sneers with a mocking half-smile. "Intimidated? Regretting your terms?"
"No," she swallows.
Hesitantly, Ran tugs the fabric apart and past his shoulders down to his slender, sculpted abdomen.
Her eyes are wide, beholding the young general's sinewy frame, riddled with linear scars. A gasp escapes her, seeing a particularly large slash over his right anterior chest. Her rebellious hand skimms over the old wound.
"The One-Eyed Dragon of Oshu, during the battle of Sekigahara," his voice, deep, slicing through the dim flickering amber.
"You recall the origin of every scar?" .
"All samurai must learn from mistrials, so they may continue to serve as stalwart vassals to their Lord."
"I see," she half-mindedly murmurs, a scarlet heat slithering up her neck from grazing the young general's chiseled chest. His squared shoulders are strong with a sharp jawline that sends heat radiating to her face.
Kami-sama, I shouldn't do this. Not with a man like him.
Never in all her years had she so much held a boy's hand, yet here she was running her thin fingers against the heated chest of a man.
Not this man.
The flaring candle casts hard shadows against his strong jaw and sharp eyes.
This fatally attractive man.
"Kami-sama, it must have hurt! Did it hurt?" Heart drums relentlessly in tune with her hot breath.
"Is that a rhetorical question?" Comes his sneer, and despite his cold reply, he smells of warm musk. Silent but strong. Simple and subtle.
She captures the entire scar within her thin hand, brows knit with concern. Her inncous whisper. "My injury is the most pain I have ever felt. I cannot imagine the pain you've experienced with such large scars. It must hurt immensely. You are so brave..."
A rumble erupts from his chest, following an evanescent smirk. This impossible woman who doesn't comprehend a word he says, out of her mind for venturing into the red light district and risking death from elemental exposure, now begs him to entertain her asinine inquiry?
Inconceivable.
"Ah. It did." He murmurs unsure the reason for his reply; dark shadows casting into the small tea house. "But no longer. Yours as well, will heal."
She sustained only flesh wounds much to his silent relief.
"Mitsunari-dono, has always come to my rescue," her large dark eyes rising to meet his, "I am grateful for your aid."
Steel eyes dart down to meet her small frame.
"You should not have been in the red light district."
Her face glows in the flickering candlelight, and he swears there's little that can rival her beauty- perhaps even less that can rival her frustrating silence.
Impatient hands grip on her shoulders. "Pray tell what possessed you to venture into dangerous grounds?"
Ran wrings the white loose sleeves of the ill-fitting robe. "Forgive me, I did not know. I have never heard of such a place."
Of course, she would not know, especially since she hails from a small village where such a place does not exist. Alas, all the hindsight in the world could not reel back the young man's sour words.
He clamps on to both her shoulders, voice deep, quiet with wild eyes. "How can you be so fearless? Can you fathom the outcome had I arrived a moment later?"
She trembles in her thin kimono.
"I lived my life in a small village, afraid of so many things. Bandits. Wild animals. Discord of businessmen. Even a thunderstorm, I would cry for Iroha-sensei. I carried my late mother's protection amulet and would reach for it whenever I was scared."
Mitsunari- dono, are you worried for me?
Her gaze graced with a small smile, rises to meet his steel visage. "But ever since I met Mitsunari-dono, I have changed. The amulet, I lost. Fighting, murder, blood, battle- I have seen so much and become so brave."
The sad irony of her unexpected laughter softens his features.
'Brave to a point, I stood without reservation between you and arquebus fire. Fearless to an extent, I almost leaped to my death to avoid the clutches of a man I did not love."
Again, that sad, eerie laugh.
His grip slacks and hands slide down her arms. "You preposterous woman. You narrowly escaped death, how could you revisit such a dangerous encounter again?"
"For you, I regret nothing," her words echo with silent finality, liquid crystal forming in corners of her eyes.
Mitsunari directs his attention to the shoji window with a pattering rhythm. "Your pledge is brave but unnecessary as long as I stand. Need I repeat myself, that fool died a dog's death."
Her jaw drops. "Mitsunari-dono, you killed him?"
A wave of his hand. "I need not do such a thing. Swift judgement and grave punishment will be exacted upon those who commit acts of violence against women and children without impunity regardless of social rank."
"Your words?"
"The armistice agreement I signed. With new laws in effect, that animal will wish for an expedient death."
Word for word the young General had committed the agreement to memory before signing. He spent days negotiating terms with the council and Lord Miyamoto to eradicate the old corrupt order of the Gamo regime and to usher in a new era of strength, unity and perhaps unknowingly, peace.
Forgive my impudence Lord Hideyoshi as this vassal deviates from your path.
Once long ago, that the strong would prevail was like a beautiful, stark piece of calligraphy inked on white paper, but after the events of Sekigahara and a fated defeat by a certain one-eyed samurai, the writing has transformed into a murky, dimensional piece.
A young woman with a smile like the sun by a bed of dancing irises flashes in his mind peripherally. The same woman who had never held so much as a knife in her life would die for a murderer like him. Perhaps there is more to strength than physical aptitude and there is no strength in a nation that cannot protect its own people. Unity cannot exist without the whole of its people in harmony.
Ah, it isn't so easy to read the characters now on its soggy parchment, but it isn't unsightly. Rather...
He turns to face her. Revolutions start as small sparks, and he would give his life to protect this one.
My Lord, grant this selfish request of mine to rebuild this nation to which I shall devote my life.
Starting with her.
"Mitsunari-dono, I am indebted to your efforts." Eyes welling with tears.
"You misunderstand my words," he sighs nasally, silver irises bouncing off light, "true the laws will safeguard society's general safety, but you've an option to rely on my protection as well."
She shakes her head. "Mitsunari-dono, will protect me?"
"Do not mangle my words," anger flaring in his tone, snatching the sake to quell a smoldering flame inside.
I will die for you.
"If it requires my life to protect you, so be it. That is all."
Ran blinks away her tears. "Eh? I relinquished my title and freed you from my lineage's servitude. You've no obligation to me."
"True that may be, however" he rotates the small sake cup with deft fingers before emptying it in one sip, "that is what I have decided. You however, do not dare be reckless again and throw your life away."
Especially not for me.
Ran's eyes fall. A defeated sigh escapes her, prompting the young woman to retreat to her bed. The wind, a mad wolf howling outside, sends shivers down her spine.
She turns away in the futon, careful to conceal the warm drops escaping from the corners of her eyes.
"If what Mitsunari-dono say is true, then please at least for tonight don't leave my side," comes her plea.
Or ever.