Chapter 2: Mystery of emotions
Kiku never liked bathing in the comfort of her heated room where the red silken curtains separated the large steaming tub full of gurgling mountain water and a vast space with a few neatly stacked up tatami mats by the side. She never grasped the reason behind the combined seating and bathing room. How is it possible to bathe comfortably when someone may be lurking outside while good-naturedly sipping oolong tea? Also at intervals, maids in-waiting drifted in and out to change her towel, wash her hair, scrub her skin and comment at such a dainty maiden she was. The word : privacy obviously never existed in them. While kicking her bare legs against the currents of the river and thus dislocating some pebbles, she thought of Rikimaru and blushed. Those silly maids in the Gohda mansion were constantly bickering over who was to fetch the soap and towels for him, and was so ridiculous to the extent of sketching out a timetable on who gets to serve him so each of them got equal chance. Of course, the plumb rosy head maid dished out three time slots to herself. The heat rose up her cheeks and settled into her cheekbones.
"Rikimaru" Kiku enunciated aloud. She liked how the name rolled on her tongue, as smooth as ice.
No one knew of this. Not yet. Kiku couldn't take the risk of declaring her love. Not when her father called for an arranged marriage between the wealthy merchant of Gion's son, Sasuke who was four years her senior and turning twenty- two that year. If she married him, it would be hard, or more like cumbersome to return home to see her family. Gion was an awful distance away. The journey by horse alone would take many days.
Or maybe Rikimaru fancied Ayame. Kiku saw the way he looked at Ayame- the soft warming smile dancing in his eyes and emulating sparks that would connect with Ayame's if Ayame did glance back and look him in the eye, and felt a tinge of jealousy. Rikimaru was always giving her 'bedtime tugs' when he was not on any of his fatal missions, even though she was already seventeen; the truth was that she whined for him and telling her he was glad to take care of someone like her. Did that mean that he has always treated her as a sister? Nothing more to that?
Questions hit on her and invaded the rest of her thoughts. If Rikimaru liked Ayame, and Ayame liked him back, they would be two people in love. Did he take off her yukata in the darkness while the moon beamed upon them, did he touch her in secret places, learn of mysterious routes her body sculpted and watch her face relax in pleasure, did he put his manly thing into her and expel love? Like what the samurai Chiaki did to the court lady and Emperor's concubine Mei, along the corridors in the Palace of Solace- Their unbridled moaning etching through the paper screens and woke the whole palace up. Those forbidden books and naughty sex stories her friends at school had fed her with gave her enough knowledge to know what it was all about.
Kiku pondered hard. She wondered if she wanted Rikimaru to kiss her, hold her and slide his body, warm with desire against her. Again, she flushed at the thought of the possible intimacy between them, where his skin on her skin, and trailing fervor kisses on her collarbone will blaze fireworks.
Once when Kiku was fifteen, she casually mentioned to her father that she may want to elope with Hayakube, one of her father's friend ninja when she was older, because staying at home was so boring and he almost exploded with rage. Ninjas are shoddy characters, I won't marry you to one. He cried, turning red in anger that his precious daughter would ever possess such a thought. Stomping her foot with indignity, the young maiden rebuked him swiftly. Her father's eyes sifted and he heaved a sign of despair.
So you want to marry a dog? One of my lapdogs? Someone who takes orders. Someone without a mind of his own. Someone with a hardened cruel heart, who treats death and bloodshed as nothing more than seasons passing. He ranted on and on.
Kiku didn't say anything after that. It was pointless.
And henceforth that night, when Rikimaru came to her room to tug in and relate one of his death-throe stories to her, Kiku sat up and put her arms around his shoulders, he was surprised by her action but did not say anything.
"I want to marry you Rikimaru, and we'll have a cottage by the woods with honey suckles growing on the walls and a flurry of rose vines creeping at the steps. " Kiku in her clinging monkey-like position murmured into his neck, so enwrapped on her childish western fantasy.
"Eh?" He questioned, or grunted, furrowing his brows in concern. What happened to Kiku? "Are you having a fever?" He finally responded.
Kiku caught a whim of his light sweat. It was slightly musty, resolute yet clotting- something she expected boldness to smell off. "Father said that I couldn't marry Hayakube. And have five children. And sell rice balls on a push carriage."
Rikimaru laughed. It was so like Kiku to have silly day dreams.
The water gleamed like the color of a black pearl and some lone birds cawed airy high-pitched mating cries that sent chills down Kiku's spine. It was time to return. She didn't want one of the maids to come, breathless and dizzy with anticipation, calling for her, and then reprimand her to leaving the palace without security.
Beneath the dense forest loomed an ominous figure. The moonlight shot slivery daggers on his pale skin and his blue veins appeared more prominent in the dark. Shuffles and trudging were in the direction of the lake. He had heard soft splashing sounds- not delicate enough to be made by the flop of a fish, coming from there. Onikage was feeling a tad perkish. The day's extermination of several incompetent guards from the Tenrai fortress was pointless and also very energy-draining. At last, he sent them off to a bloody parade.
Was that not Gohda's daughter, what's-her-name? That didn't matter much. She- her body, lithe like fishes in the ocean, hair slicked on pale skin in airs of curls, pretty face with proportionate features and spunky personality spelt out 'delicious'. Onikage would have her served on a plate. And begging for him. Soon.
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Cobbled streets, rows of two-story houses with slanting roofs and flower boxes teeming with the spring season's picks- Daffodils, Tulips, and Hyacinths. Scents of lavender drifted lazily through . Along a lined, the potter crafted exquisite jars while his assistant, a painter drew intricate court ladies on the glazed face and snaked patterns up handles. Soft mud encrusted his hands and cheeks. Still the potter beamed a chip-toothed smile and gaily nodded at passer-bys.
Little make-shift street stalls were perched at the beginning of alleys. Vendors hollered bargains and smiled graciously at potential customers. My back was shoved forward and sides jostled with handles of paper umbrellas decorated in painted maple leaf motifs.
Estranged tides of strong wind huffed its anger on the shopping street. Shopkeepers, together with passer-bys wrapped up their goods and scurried like mice chased by cats for shelter. In a haste of carelessness, I tripped over a plank of plywood jutting out awkwardly from an abandoned table, landed in a distasteful fashion facewards and let the villagers sneak pilfered laughter in my direction.
The speed of the wind picked up. Stray tendrils escaped from my chignon broke into a scuffle at the nape of my neck. I felt a pair of strong arms support me and pull me back into reality. My rapidly blinking eyes sought out a figure before vision sank in and the image was clearer. I blinked hard, rubbing my dry eyes with one hand and the other grabbing the corner of a table.
That man, I sneaked another glance at him through the gaps of my raven bangs. The gale seemed to stop its thunderous, yet childish fit when our eyes met. His eyes are unique- a shade of grey framed with a tincture of monotonous green. I no longer cared about the state of myself. I allowed the wind's mischievous fingers to pry my lark-patterned yukata open and balloon up to reveal my legs. Around those eyes exhaling sighs of mystery, there is a light scar running down his left eye. An almost grabbing seizure shook me as I resist the urge to touch it and, kiss it. Oh no. This is not the first time I discover I have violent tendencies. Slowly, my eyes trailed down his budging muscular frame making tell-tale creases horizontally, although covered in an azure robe. Suddenly, I think I would fancy holding his hand, telling him my dreams and savor being enveloped into a hug of security.
Is that what they call – love at first sight? Breathing sharply, I tried to collect my thoughts, erase those obscene ones on that man and walk away with as much dignity as I can muster while the beat in my heart fades.
"Miss. You dropped this." A voice followed my staggering trail. It is deep, husky and strong-sounding; very much like the way a samurai will holler his command.
I turned back. The handsome stranger strode over and held a cotton handkerchief with embroided butterflies up. His steps are firm and silent without making a single dust devil along the trail.
"Oh yes, thanks." I was glad I didn't stammer or murmur my words out. The air, heavy with miscellaneous scents of musky rain and sandal wood swirled around me, nestling between my toes giving me an additional tingling feeling. I felt embarrassed and odd.
He gave a head jerk to signify "you're welcome", although I didn't feel the least bit welcome.
My eyes sought his and I smile sweetly at him, shamefully hoping he would be interested in me- I want to know him. But he didn't return it. Instead, his stiff coldness disappeared into the throng of people and his body weaved off with the wind.
I am disappointed, however also somewhat elated at my heart's pounding reaction towards this fleeting romantic, in my opinion session with the handsome stranger. Being a 'frog in the well', excursions outside home are rare as Father is afraid I will try to runaway. It is a very justifiable and self-explanatory given my dire status.
When I get home, Father will make me betray myself by entertaining horrid incorrigible gamblers. The worse of all are the newly migrated Mongolians-with grisly bare chests exposed in sheep-skin tunics leaned forward to squeeze what I have hidden under my tightly secured kimono. Their gruff kisses tears my cheeks and leaves me tingling with devastation clenched in my fists. My mother does nothing about it from her position in an urn on the shelf, and I don't blame her. In the wee hours of the morning, my ears buzz of the mahjong tiles scrapping the ends of Kotasu, crude vocabulary making my night and tears will shelter my face for the umpteenth time while the waning light saunters off my skin.
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That girl. Rikimaru mulled hard. The sound of walking tabi boots invaded the still air and footsteps making dented crusts in the dirt-covered walkway. She appeared to be different from the rest. He was not too such if the reason behind his thumping heart was because she was watching him watching her and her eyes caught the whole act. September air was as light as snow ferries, yet Rikimaru's mind was heaving with thoughts which suddenly became tangible. He thought of her shapely legs of a milky tone and wonder if she had purposely allowed him to catch a glimpse of it. The 'O' her petite cherry lips made matched the surprised expression etched on her face.
Was he falling for another woman? Rikimaru knew deep down inside, Ayame was the only woman who secured a place in his heart, besides his deceased mother. Maybe it was because he had not visited a house full of room dominated by cooing women desperate to please, since Tatsumaru's death that he was experiencing a needy sense of withdrawal symptoms.
Nonetheless in life people pass and go. Perhaps, that mystery girl was one of them.
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Ayame has a dirty little secret. Something she had sworn on her blades, never to let Rikimaru or Kiku, or worse Tatsumaru come across this. Deep in the hollow of the floorboards of her room, and wrapped in peony silk is a tightly wound up roll of cloth- the square of material so white and immaculate, however the pureness was violently defiled by a large splotch of crimson slanted to the left. Now, the stain was a rusty brown and flakey but the metallic smell remained. Till now, the cloth was a genteel remainder of that unforgettable night and mainly acting as a symbol – of her ache for freedom, to be a smiling wife. Her first time happened four years ago, a period of time when Tatsumaru was still around.
Being born and raised as a cold assassin, and trained to fix stares that literally shoot daggers of fear at others, Ayame had not much idea on what love was. She only knew that love could be mutual or not, and between two parties brought happiness and joy so high that it was unexplainable. The feeling was just there and it was impossible trying to hide it. Ayame was skeptical about the affection she was having towards Tatsumaru .
Under the sky of blue, when Ayame had given herself to Onikage, a spur laden with fatigue engulfed her. Suddenly, she felt so tired, so tired of duels, so tired of hunting and slashing, so tired of scrubbing at encrusted blood and rubbing ointment at bruises after her mission. All she wanted was to be a normal girl, a maiden with a proper family. Someone giggling at young men who asked for her hand, someone having an appropriate education in kanji and poetry, just like a commoner. Why did she have to take lives all the time? It just wasn't right at all from her own private perception.
The whole incident was done accidently on purpose. Lord Gohda had instructed her to kill Onikage, a mission so occurring, it was common to return with the bad news that the invincible Onikage was still at large. Ayame recalled herself looking at his direction, but glaze lingering on his lips and it went further than that. For a moment she was furious with herself for following her heart and letting those eyes explore his body.
The night at Tenrai's fortress loomed with creatures darting in and out of shadows, dread crept out of the cracked walls and bleakness was stirred the air. Still, the warmth emitting from Onikage seized Ayame with a firm grip. After he exalted his trademark continuous as strong as bull kicks and she sprang a triple somersault to avoid this, the spinning massive lantern grazed her arm and Ayame dropped her blades.
Onikage rushed forward, it was his big chance to axe her out of his life forever. He knelt in front of her, breathing hard. Ayame shut her eyes; she was only nineteen and her life would be snatched off by fate any moment. During the brief moment, the player in her head ran images of her closest friends and 'family'- her sensei, her master, her co- accomplices and the female she loved so much- Kiku. She realized that only when one was about to die, then the nostalgic feelings of treasuring them returned.
Instead, the pale half-demon ninja reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Shell-shocked, Ayame widened her eyes and stared deep into his eyes, pleading for an explanation. Beneath the dilated dark pupils, she saw herself as a pitiful young girl. Onikage was eight years her senior and so experienced she would hardly be the one to slice her blades through his heart and wrench it out for good. When Onikage bend his head and his lips made contact with her lip, fireworks whooshed through her and Ayame battled with a urge to kiss harder. Soon, angry tears ran like rivers down her cheeks.
"Kill me now." Ayame gritted her teeth.
Onikage smirked even harder and started to nuzzle her neck. "I thought you would prefer the seeing the next snowfall."
It was too hard to believe. "Right, and after you are done playing with me, you'll kill me. I know you too well, Onikage."
Ayame was afraid. She knew she was still the little girl who climbed into Sensei's lap after training and begged him to tell her folklores, the one who blushed at the sight of a man's bare chest; she wasn't ready. And yet she allowed this strange man to conquer a peak in her heart and toy with her body. Onikage was nothing like the other ninjas she's met, he was eccentric, had the occasional mood-swings and a mind full of blasphemous manipulations. All in all, it made her scared to know that she was enjoying what he was doing to her.
"Ayame… You like me, don't you?" His words were slick and so smooth that it sliced through the blanket of thick air and prodded at her heart.
"P-Please stop." She was ashamed the fear and terror that debilitated her body caused her stammer.
"I only stop when I have ended." With that, Onikage swept her up despite desperate pleads and threw her petite body onto the half-made futon in the middle.
To his mouth gnawing at her swollen lips and body hot on hers, Ayame voluntarily responded with equal vigor. Onikage's body was hot and cold at the same time; skin was as chilly as ice bergs, while blue-blooded veins burst with the heat of volcanic lava. His curved lips maliciously drifted lower and lower causing her to gasp, groan and writhe for more. Their actions were rapid and in a whirl wind, it was going to happen.
He whispered into her ears. "You're the most beautiful assassin I've come across so far."
Star struck, Ayame breathed "Really?"
It was bullshit definitely. Onikage had several women before, including that dumb woman – Princess Yukihotaru whom he murdered so callously after she proved to be no more of use to him. Anyway, what was woman to him? Someone to satisfy his lust for a tad before he continued with his ruthless conquest for power.
"I'll be gentle. "He said when he felt her tensing up.
"With you, Ayame's not afraid."
Those words had not an inch of truth in them. Ayame was not terrified of the foreignness of him like concrete in her or the sharpness of his fangs coursing her chest. The truth was that Ayame was if he did it to her, she may fall in love with him.
The motion was wonderful, out of the world, an experience that matched yin to yang, birds to the robin streaked sky and custard to chawamushi. The pleasure expanding in her body was so overwhelming she cried out at every thrust. After he released in ecstasy and rolled off her, Ayame held his finger tips to the hills on her lips and said "I love you."
Onikage opened his mouth then shut it tight. In the moonlight, she saw the reflection of the new her in his misty eyes. No longer a girl, but reborn as a woman. Then the expression in his eyes glinted hard.
Onikage pulled away roughly from her and dressed quickly. Without even throwing a glance at her, he muttered "See you around" and left just like that.
And Ayame wondered if he wanted to return her love back then.
A/N: Ohkay.. too much lovey dovey parts. Hope you readers will write more Tenchu fanfics too! Sayuri's a "Mary Sue" I've created for angsty effect.