It was in the nth year of his rule when I first witnessed the king having an episode.
One moment I was speaking with him about something, and the next, his head was bowed, his eyes squeezed shut, still standing but reacting to nothing. I must have said his name several times, each time with greater urgency, and even grasped his shoulder. It was only a matter of seconds before he opened his eyes, looked up and continued answering my questions as if nothing had happened. I am sure I asked him at least twice if everything was alright, and he deflected my concerns with shrugs and a bland "Musta been somethin' I ate."
He must have sensed my skepticism (or rather, seen it written all over my face - Seizan once told me that I seem to have a terrible poker face when it comes to the king, but then again that is a bit like a boulder on the shore telling a rock in a churning river that it seems to have a hard time staying where it is), as he then laughed and patted me on the shoulder. He said if I were so worried he would check himself into the infirmary for the rest of the month and that it would be "awesome" because he hated doing paperwork.
I had rolled my eyes, and the rest of the conversation had derailed into how 90% of the paperwork is actually completed by me, so I had better not succumb to food poisoning or the entire territory would grind to a halt and then fall into utter shambles, and we had moved onto other things before I realized it.
Later I had checked the day's menu, but there had been nothing even remotely alarming about it. I observed him carefully for the remainder of the week, but nothing appeared to be amiss. I quickly forgot about the incident, as 1. the king had a stomach of iron and 2. I was soon rushing about, embroiled in delicately diffusing things following yet another one of the king's harebrained "solutions". (Yes, they always seem to turn out, even brilliantly sometimes, and you would think I should be used to it after all the centuries between him and his ancestral father, but the line connecting Point A and Point B is often such a, a, as the king might put it, "royal clusterfuck" that I would swear sometimes I never need to shave my head anymore.)
It was x years later when I actually realized the king had a chronic issue.
I had just left the king's chamber following a briefing when, seconds later, I heard a loud clatter coming from the room. I immediately went back in and found the king doubled over, the items he had been holding during our briefing having fallen to the ground by his desk. As before, his head was bowed and his eyes were shut, and this time he was hugging himself tightly. Furthermore, it was at least half a minute before he responded to me and got up, his movements more noticeably sluggish than during the previous incident. One hand even gripped the edge of the table before he finally grasped my outstretched arm and pulled himself up.
Once I had made sure he was alright, I bombarded him with questions. At first he was evasive, but when he saw he was not going to be rid of me until I had received a satisfactory explanation, or at least the beginning of a plausible one, he finally relented. (As a completely, embarrassingly self-indulgent and childish aside, I felt as though I deserved a medal for actually out-bullheading the master of bullheadedness.)
"It's just the Spirit Wave orb doing its thing. Cramps and shit, comes and goes." He laughed. "Kinda like a period, but not monthly. And no blood."
I ignored this, knowing well his habit of making light of situations, especially those involving himself. "How long has this been going on?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Pretty much since the energy transfer."
"Has it grown better or worse?"
Another shrug. "Ehh, nothing I can't handle."
I gave him my that-is-not-what-I-asked look, and he pursed his lips and looked away. "'bout the same," he finally said.
"Has it grown more or less frequent?"
"Same."
"How often does it happen?"
He raised both hands, palms up. "I dunno, it's not worth counting."
After much discussion - rather, after much argument and haranguing from me, he finally agreed to start keeping track of the episodes. His attitude and progressively more curt responses clearly indicated he felt the entire conversation and exercise was a big waste of time.
"You don't have to write any detail," I implored, hoping that minimizing the effort would make it a little - well, perhaps not more appealing, but at least less of a chore. "It doesn't have to look like a formal record. Just make a tick, somewhere, so I know."
"Fine," he snapped, the words dripping with rising irritation. He jerked a finger towards a corner of the room, and my brief glance followed its direction to the wall behind his bed. "I'll make a scratch there."
"Fine," I said, louder than I would have liked. I was equally irritated, ignoring the fact that he had basically proposed vandalizing the furnishings.
He crossed his arms over his chest. "Fine," he repeated, childishly.
I bowed and exited, allowing the king the last word if he wished, and letting my silence and speed of departure speak for my own displeasure. Obviously, neither of us were happy with the encounter nor the outcome. But as long as he did something so that I could actually help him manage this, I was satisfied.
That did not mean I was going to sit back and wait for his reports to start flooding in. Just because he had said he would track it didn't mean I was going to blindly trust his recordkeeping skills (because to be frank, I would never). And while I accompanied him a great deal, I wasn't with him all the time; in some cases, necessity required me to serve as the substitute representative, so we couldn't be in the same place.
That said, a right hand man could not afford to not be trusted, either.
So I told one other person, someone who I could be absolutely sure would not say anything, nor likely to give anything away by accident. I only mentioned general episodes of discomfort related to the Spirit Wave technique, and said nothing of the scratches. Seizan promised to keep an eye out, but shook his head when I asked if he had noticed any such incidents.
"He seems quite open about what he is thinking, more so than King Raizen," Seizan said to me. "But that is deceptive. He actually reveals very little about how he is feeling, except perhaps to you." He paused. "Sometimes."
Time passed. I checked the wall behind the bed every time I was in the king's room; it remained unmarked. I wondered if he was even bothering, and took to conducting random spot checks on him, privacy be damned if he wasn't going to cooperate with me. I didn't notice anything, however, and neither did Seizan, and my checks grew less frequent. I figured the orb's cycle was a slow process and a relatively rare occurrence, perhaps once a year at the most.
It was x months later when I finally understood the extent of the king's problem.
As caretaker for all things of note regarding the king, I had quickly come to learn there were particular times of the year the king became more subtly moody or restless: around important anniversaries, memorials of milestones and people from his human life, that sort of thing.
During those periods, I kept his work calendar light; meanwhile, I handled more meetings and paperwork than usual. I didn't particularly mind as I much preferred seeing the king in good spirits. In place of banal administrative duties, I tried to schedule opportunities for him to see old friends, to visit the other territories, to explore uncharted areas, to train (or as Touou gracefully put it, let him run around and beat things up) - anything to help take his mind off of whatever was bothering him.
His moods never lasted long, fortunately. On very rare occasions, they did grow particularly melancholy, though few saw this outside of myself. The worst of it usually fell during what would be a winter in his home in the human world. For that period of time we had the gardens, which we closed to the public, and on some of his darkest days he would spend hours there, surrounded by blue flowers and fat, happy Ningenkai cats.
One late morning I had still neither seen nor heard a peep from the king, not even to complain that he was hungry. I canceled all his appointments for the day, which was easy seeing as I had only booked three, and went to go see if he wished to visit the gardens.
I knocked on his door and called his name. There was no answer. Finally, after two more attempts (also met with silence) and a moment of hesitation, I carefully opened the door and peeked in.
He was still in bed, curled up like a tight knot, a modest lump buried under the thick covers. As the bed was huge - fit for a king, after all - and he was not of large stature by any means, he looked very small indeed.
"My Lord?" I asked, quietly but clearly, to make sure he knew I had intruded.
The lump responded with an uncharacteristic sound that could only be described as a whimper.
I was immediately at his bedside. I crouched to his prone level and gently pulled the covers down, slightly, so I could see his face. His hands were balled into fists, covering his eyes.
"Are you alright?" I asked. (A stupid question, I realize.)
He might have mumbled something in response. It vaguely sounded like "No", but I couldn't make it out and was unsure.
"My Lord?" I asked, uncertain.
"I will be," he answered in a very small, tight voice. It did not sound particularly convincing; in fact, it was quite piteous.
I reached over and felt his forehead. It was not burning, but it was quite warm, and I strongly suspected it had been even hotter earlier as his skin was flushed and damp, as though from great exertion.
"I'll summon the doctor," I said, rising.
"No point," he replied, with such flat certainty in his tone that I believed him completely and sank back down on my knees next to his bed.
"Water?" I asked.
He shifted his hands slightly so that he was peering out at me from under his bangs, over his knuckles. He shook his head.
I bit my lip. There were faint traces of what appeared to be dried tears, and viciously dark circles under his eyes. The latter was clearly from lack of sleep, but so bad it created the impression of painful bruises. The sight - and the aftermath - of the king being punched in the face was not unfamiliar. But now he appeared so unguarded and defenceless, so completely different from his usual bold, assured presence, that I honestly felt like the most terrible person in the world merely looking at him. As if I had been the perpetrator inflicting violence on a very tiny and innocent animal.
My mind went back to that day in his chambers. "Is it the Spirit Wave?"
He nodded. This was by far the worst I had ever seen him. I wondered if it was something that built up over time in intensity.
"Is this the first in a long while?" I asked, maintaining calmness in my voice.
He shook his head again. I glanced at the wall, which was still as pristine as the day we had argued, and kept my emotions in check.
"Why," I asked, as gently as I could, trying not to sound accusatory or upset in any way, "didn't you keep track of this like we discussed?"
"I did," he said.
I blinked at him in surprise. I knew the king was no liar. Prone at times to lack of care or laziness, perhaps, but ...
"But there are no scratches on the wall," I said, not comprehending.
He squinted his eyes slightly as if he were trying to make sense of what I had said, then lifted one unsteady arm and pointed.
Under the bed.
Anything I felt even vaguely resembling anger evaporated. Well, anything directed at him; I was about ready to beat myself. I swallowed silently. With perfect hindsight now, it was obvious why he picked this location. It would have been much more difficult and awkward for most to reach below the bed, but of course I could easily stretch and ribbon my neck and head, and had very good eyesight.
I looked. And I was most definitely ready for some self-flagellation.
It was the best-kept record I could ever remember the king maintaining. There were scratches as far as I could see, an entire army of painstaking little marks in clear rows. Some long, some short, some straight, crooked, wobbly. I did a rough count of the number of scratches to estimate how many ran the length and width of the area under the bed, and did a quick calculation in my head.
No wonder he had said it wasn't worth tracking. It wasn't yearly. It wasn't monthly. It was every single day.
I was flabbergasted at the thought of him doing this following every episode, big or small - carefully moving the heavy bed, making the mark, carefully pushing the bed back so that no one - if I certainly hadn't, then absolutely no one - noticed anything had ever been shifted.
I wondered how long he would have kept this up if we had never had this conversation. A very long time, I would wager. He was exceptionally stubborn, to state it mildly.
I took a very deep breath and retracted my neck. My gaze remained trained on the floor. I felt so much shame I couldn't bring myself to look him in the eye. I wanted to set myself on fire and find a hole somewhere to crawl into where I could burn quietly into ashes, not disturbing anyone, least of all the king, with my idiocy and ill-informed assumptions.
"I am so sorry," I said, meaning every single syllable more than I have meant anything in my entire life. There was no point even asking for forgiveness when it was not deserved.
"Why?" asked the king, sounding genuinely puzzled.
"I... " I finally lifted my head to look at him. "I should have known."
He squinted at me again. The mild shift in his expression seemed to indicate he knew I wasn't speaking only of the scratches. The king gave me a shrug that, despite its weakness, was still somehow as dismissive as ever at the mere consideration of laying blame on me. "It doesn't matter."
"I-" I stopped because I couldn't bring myself to say, I at least could have avoided forcing this on you when you were already in pain. I knew the instant the words fell out of my mouth, he would be all over them, wholly dedicated to convincing me I had done nothing wrong. Nothing at all, only made a chronic invalid shift half the furniture in his room twice a day for no reason. And wasting his breath and energy on me was the last thing he should be doing right now. "-Is there nothing we can do to alleviate it?"
"I dun think so." He gingerly rolled onto his back. "Not unless I pass it on to someone else. And I'm not gonna just do that. It's hell." He started to rub his eyes with the backs of his hands, and then with his palms, until I reached out and lightly caught his arm to make him stop.
"It's okay," he said tiredly. "It'll pass."
"I'm sorry," I said again, pathetically.
He tilted his head at me, now looking more sleepy than in discomfort, and one corner of his mouth quirked up in a faint smile. "Don't be. You always take really good care of me. And you put up with all my shit. Thank you."
I still felt like the most fetid, loathsome piece of animal dung ever expelled upon the face of the earth, but forced a smile back at him. "I will always put up with your shit, my Lord."
He looked at me with a startled expression, then pulled the sheets over his head. The covers vibrated with choked, muffled laughter behind them. After a few moments, he lowered the sheets and looked up at me.
"You swearing is the most hilarious thing in the universe," he said. "As your king, I command you do more of it on a regular basis." He gestured grandly as he made the pronouncement, his movements somewhat drunken.
"Then it wouldn't be funny," I said.
He considered this, then frowned. "Damn."
I smiled, sincerely this time. "Go to sleep."
"Okay," he replied. He closed his eyes and rolled back onto his side towards me, folding his arms against his chest and nestling his cheek against his hands, a small smile on his face. I checked his temperature again on his forehead and neck - as he had promised, it was cooling and closer to normal. I adjusted his pillows and covers, watched him for a while, and when I was certain he was comfortable, I got up to fetch some water.
"You don't have to go," he said.
I paused and looked down at him. His eyes were still closed. "I'm only getting you water," I told him. "I'll be right back."
"Don't need any," he said, his eyes never opening.
After several more moments, I sat back down next to him on the bed. I stayed with him even long after he had fallen into a deep sleep, and long after the smile on his face had faded.
Author's note: This story was actually completed well before Travel Guide, Live Coverage and Crash, but I wanted to have the information about Blue Gardens up before posting this, and then Live Coverage fit so well immediately after the guide, and then I had an itch to write the actual Hiei VS Yusuke fight, so this ended up getting pushed further and further.
I think I've internalized this idea for so long that when I finally wrote, it was one of those rare moments where it all came out very quickly over the course of several hours straight without getting stuck in "how am I gonna transition from this part to this other part/ugh I still need to write this scene but I can't figure it out, let's leave it for X days/months" land.
Ends of the Earth will use Seizan's name as it appears in the manga versus the anime (where it was changed to Seitei); I prefer the meaning of that name to balance out the four main monks (so you have God and King, Mountain and Ocean), though the sound of Seitei does work better.
I've got a pretty clear voice for Hokushin in my head, but as you might notice I haven't exactly settled on the details of execution. Hopefully this inconsistency isn't too jarring since all of the pieces are standalone.