Yagami's Little Girl – Interlude #4: A Child's Cry

Written By: RinoaDestiny

King of Fighters and Iori Yagami belong to SNK

"Yoshimura-sensei, why is my father always mad at me?"

"Young master, you mustn't think like that. Your father's proud of you, I'm sure. He's just not a man given to…saying what's on his mind."

"That's not true." Even at that age, he was able to figure out when he was being lied to. "He's never happy with me. He's never said a kind word to me."

"He has a lot on his mind. He needs to run the clan."

"But he can't…"

His teacher sighed, removed his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose. Yoshimura-sensei was older than his father with greying hair and the look of those ancient scholars from Iori's classical books. The only thing missing was the kimono; Yoshimura-sensei wore a brown suit and fancy shoes (which had been left outside). To Iori, his teacher didn't seem to fit within the ancient family estate. But Yoshimura-sensei was his favorite tutor and Iori trusted him. "Young master, I'm here to teach you. To guide you in matters other than what your clan specializes in. I cannot advise you on things other than what I was brought here to do."

"So you won't listen to me?"

"Young master…"

"No one listens to me." He couldn't help the desperate whine in his voice. "Father never wants to talk. Mother…Mother…" He held back his tears, aware that it was shameful for the heir of the clan to cry. Some of his ancestors had been samurai and he knew from his reading that children of samurai were taught not to cry at an early age, particularly the boys. "Mother's dead because of me. The other tutors are scared of Father. Are you scared of Father, Yoshimura-sensei? Is that why you don't…"

"Young master…"

"I don't have any friends. The clan guardians, they…" Iori shuddered. "I don't like them."

"Young master…"

"When Father's angry, he beats me. Tells me it's for my own good. Part of my training. I don't like it, Yoshimura-sensei! I don't know why…why I must…"

"I cannot advise you on that, young master. What your father does goes outside the realm of my responsibilities. I can only teach you literature and the classic treatises. I cannot be counselor and I cannot advise you against your father. That would be a breach of trust."

"But I trust you, Yoshimura-sensei!"

His tutor gazed sadly at him. Brushed his bangs aside, so that Iori could see from both eyes. "I know you do. But young master…just because you do doesn't mean things work out how you'd like them to be."

"You're scared of Father, aren't you?"

"Young master…"

"You're like the others!" He hadn't meant to shout but his tutor's reticence broke his heart. Was there no one he could talk to? Was he meant to deal with all this by himself? "You're afraid of him!"

"Young master! Wait!"

Iori left his books, his papers, his brushes and ground ink and pencils behind as he ran from the study. His sock-clad feet slapped against the tatami matting, against wood, and finally lost all sound as he fled from the main building itself into grass and dirt. Tears spilled from his eyes, ran hot down his cheeks. He just wanted to find Tama-chan. She was the only one who understood him, who listened to him, and stayed by his side.

Crying, he let his footsteps take him close to the river, where Tama-chan liked to prowl during the daytime. Flowers swayed in the breeze; Iori didn't see them or the startled expression on one of the maid's faces as he ran past the servants' quarters. His mind was focused on Tama-chan and Yoshimura-sensei.

He'd thought Yoshimura-sensei would hear him out. Would tell him something so that he could live day to day without the cringing fear whenever he heard his father's footsteps. Would comfort him so that the loneliness would ease, so that he didn't have to wonder if the boy his father harangued against – wasn't Kyo his name? – felt the same. Why couldn't they be friends? Why was Father so against him?

Iori ran until he couldn't run anymore. He fell onto his knees next to the riverbank, dirt smearing the fine cotton of his dark green summer kimono. He tried to stop crying. His nose was running.

But Yoshimura-sensei was like everyone else: lying to him, trying to keep himself safe from Father's wrath, from being dismissed, from being punished. Iori had seen his father's punishments and he hated them. He didn't want to be like his father, but his father beat him, forced him to fight, telling him this was his fate.

It was for this reason he was born.

The Yagami clan opposed the Kusanagi clan. Always. There was no questioning that.

But Iori asked questions. He wanted to know "Why?"

His father didn't like it. Didn't like that Iori was inquisitive, liked literature and music, and had no interest in the fighting arts of the clan. His father called him "soft" and "worthless" unless he put those idle amusements aside and paid more attention to the Yasakani martial arts. Because in the past, the sons of samurai focused on the arts of warfare, of logistics and opposition to enemies. Wasn't Iori a descendant of those worthy ancestors of his? Did he really want to shame them, shame their family, stain the family name?

It was merciless and Iori hated it.

The clan guardians emphasized his father's teaching, had their own ways of reinforcing it.

Iori hated and feared them, too.

He hoped Yoshimura-sensei would stand in between, give him some hope. But that hope had been dashed – gently, because Yoshimura-sensei was always kind – leaving Iori to fend for himself. Against his father and the unsmiling clan guardians, who just wanted him to fulfill his fate.

Iori didn't want to.

The fighting hurt. The flames hurt. He hurt.

His nose had stopped running. Using the sleeve of his kimono, he wiped it clean, wiped his eyes, and choked down the last hiccup as he stopped crying. A soft breeze blew past him, rustling the grass and the flowers, which Iori always found pretty around summertime. He wanted to gather a handful but there was no one to give it to. Flower arranging was for girls, his father had scoffed. That was what the maids were for.

There was a soft meow.

"Tama-chan?" He listened again, heard her meow closer to the great maple tree, and scampered off in that direction. He found Tama-chan stretching by the tree, claws out and back arching. He'd known Tama-chan since she was a kitten; he considered them one, growing up together. "Tama-chan, did you hunt?"

The cat finished stretching, meowed, and curled up next to him.

"It's good hunting day, Tama-chan. The birds are out."

Tama-chan snuggled against him, tail flicking back and forth in contentment. Iori sighed, laid his hand on Tama-chan's back and stroked her. "Tired? Wish I could go to sleep like you. Forget everything."

A cat's life didn't seem that hard. Iori wished he'd been born a cat.

"It's just you and me, Tama-chan."

Tama-chan yawned. Curled tighter against him, soft and warm.

"Love you, Tama-chan."

Iori stood next to the window, curtain pushed aside as he gazed down at the still on-going nightlife in Minami. He wasn't sure why this memory resurfaced. He'd been nine when his tutor let him down and he went finding comfort in the estate's resident cat. Tama (he resisted adding chan to it) was his only real friend growing up as the sole child and heir of the clan. If it wasn't for her, Iori supposed he would've ended up in a really bad place early on: dead, rebellious, or insane. Tama kept him company, didn't ask for much besides milk and a warm lap to sleep on, and Iori returned the favor by letting Tama into his room during the cold winter months. The servants who knew allowed him this secret. He was grateful to them for that. He didn't want his father finding out about Tama – hard lessons would follow and Iori knew he'd come away damaged and heartbroken.

As for his tutor…

Yoshimura (again, it was difficult not to append sensei to it) continued teaching him until Iori was twelve. By then, the responsibilities of being the heir became pressing, since his father began showing the symptoms of the blood curse. Iori wasn't sure what those symptoms were, because by then, he'd stopped caring about his old man. Yoshimura had passed onto him hours of intellectual stimuli and instruction about the ancient Japanese classical texts, a thorough study of the mythology, an appreciation for poetry, and handed to him a copied scroll of one of their most fruitful nights composing renga.

Iori had this scroll with him, still. He'd taken it along with him along with the copy of the Kojiki. In some way, he supposed he forgave his tutor, because it was difficult to stay angry at Yoshimura for long. In another way, he supposed he saw his tutor as a substitute for his father (not that he ever let his father know).

The day Yoshimura left was the day Iori realized he was on his own.

Tama had already passed and that day broke his heart.

Even thinking about it now made Iori realize he hadn't quite moved past both events yet. Strange how childhood memories lingered on. The glass window was cool beneath his palm. Outside, the lights continued changing, as if the city dared not sleep. He wondered, standing there, looking down – it was three in the morning – if the city ever slept. Or was it afraid to, as if stopping meant a death of a sort.

He let the curtain fall back.

Went back to bed but spent some time looking up at the ceiling before he fell asleep again. Memories, once unearthed, opened the way to others. He wasn't sure what else he remembered and had purposefully forgotten or just forgot as life moved on. He wasn't sure he was ready to face them, yet. If that was what this was all about.

Notes: Renga is a form of Japanese poetry in which two or more people compose verses, which are linked (linked verse). It has been around and evolved since Japan's early and ancient days as a nation. This form of poetry, depending on the era it was in, can have different number of stanzas, syllabic count, and even linked verse count (traditional renga had 100 links but later eras reduced this down to 36 verses (as per Wikipedia on this topic)).