a/n: many thanks to all the lovely reviewers, esp. Fenrir's Lockhart, for catching the Kohana/Kohza mix-up.
It's not often, he thinks, that he feels like the house is burning down. The smoke fills his lungs, as he tries, manfully, not to cough the thick cough of the overwhelmed. He waves the fan frantically over the grill, trying to save what's left of the fresh fish he'd bought, the paper still wet and crumpled in the corner. He asked the fishmonger, twice, *thrice* over, the best way to cook this particularly scaly creature. Apparently even his trained attention wasn't worth much, when it came to the finer points of handling seafood.
Her laugh, tremulous at first, then fuller and—to his ears—much truer, peals through the small space as she hurries to open the shutters, her long sleeves fluttering with her quick step as she undoes the latches, noisily knocking wood on wood. He thinks that he catches a glimpse of her amused eye through the smoke, but he can't really tell, everything's too gray and he is entirely too mortified, wondering if his face has caught fire, it feels so flash-hot under his skin. She grins, quickly, breaking her perfect manners. That he does see, and his embarrassment is slightly settled in his gut.
We are all imperfect, in the end. Something his master said, he's sure of it, the way it's a melancholic and utterly true phrase, all at once. He was imperfect, once, but now, he thinks, maybe he can live with these imperfections of his, without hating himself into a lonely grave, like he almost did, back then, by those waterfalls that promised new lives to those who dared them.
He's too glad for her smile, he can tell. Too attached to her, to what she is, to what she meant for him, in his days of wandering.
A loud yawp startles them both and Jin quickly turns, eyes flashing quick and dangerous. Shino is calmer, demurely covering her still-grin with a hand. The river-boat-man, dark-skinned, eyes entirely too knowing, voice keening in that strange language of his—one that speaks of sand and faraway skies, where the stars are brighter and sharper than they ever were out here, in this town with the too-shallow river—holds out a roll. A seal is affixed to it, Jin notices, though he can't quite tell whose, not in the smoke that doesn't hurry itself to clear.
Shino busies herself saving the fish—it is a good one, she notes approvingly, Jin can at least do this much—while Jin reaches out a hand to the river-boat-man, whose name Jin still, after five months of silent communion by a river across from a temple, cannot even claim to know. The river-boat-man cocks his head, staring knowingly at the roll. His fingers are light, light upon it, as if he did not wish to smudge the seal. As if it were a document entirely too precious.
And thus, entirely too dangerous.
Their fingers brush against the other's as Jin takes the roll, and Jin notes the roughness of calluses, maybe even a splinter still buried deep. The river-boat-man yawns, jaws slack and stretching wide, as if to swallow the sky whole.
Jin wonders if it's a summons from the main family to appear before them, though the seal looks finer, more expensive, than the kind he imagines these country lords to have. He has, he notes wryly, been accused of being closed-minded before. Maybe this was one of those moments.
"Jin, is that..." Shino's voice cuts through his distracted thoughts.
"The Chief Magistrate's seal, yes," he says, his voice flat. Shino's eyes dart to his face-not to his eyes, he is careful to hide anything that could give him away-but to the slight wrinkle in his brow, the quick stiffening of his neck, his head held slightly straighter. It is not fear, she thinks—she thinks that Jin fears nothing, at least, nothing that still lives—but something altogether stronger. Obligation?
Friendship?
"Tea, sir?" Shino gestures to the river-boat-man, who looks at her, almost an animal, head cocking one way and then the other. Shino likes him—even in his strangeness he exudes a palpable warmth, and that is more than she can ask for, in her exile. He nods briskly, and unceremoniously saunters over the threshold and plants himself near a window, staring at the roof-timbers of the house. Jin's hands play with the seal, feeling its edges, its texture. It is, he thinks, rubbing the fine ink against his fingers, entirely too real.
He doesn't look at Shino, thinking back to the dream of death he'd woken into one night, his master's blood all over him, the paper screen ripped jagged, the moonlight leaking all over him. He hasn't yet told her these things, but he feels she knows, in the way she slips her hand now through his, reminding him that despite everything, there is still this, the world of terribly real and lovely things, to return to.
He wonders, this time, if it will a betrayal that he can live with.
Shoulda known that girl was too good for me, Mugen thinks hazily as the sun splinters through the wooden slats on the high window of the storeroom. He checks, instinctively, hands, feet, head, all attached. Sword...absent. Headache, alarmingly present. He doesn't have that deep ache of death he had, back when he was slashed and blown to bits, all in the breeze of the sea, and was only held to life by a tiny voice, an even tinier hope that if he came back to the world, he would not be alone. So he lives another day, if a bit too painfully.
He felt an urge to stretch, and only belatedly realized his hands were bound, though his feet were still free. Idiots, as always. He neatly lunged upward, the muscles in his lean limbs straining to balance on his arched feet, and managed to stand up. His face felt a right mess, though he wasn't vain enough to inspect the damage, and he felt the binding of bandages holding his face together. Light leaked through them-it would seem, despite his usual care, that he hadn't lost his sight in the eye. He supposed he could be thankful for that.
He looked around, inhaled deeply.
Spice, he thought, catching the sharp whiff of pepper. There were few places where the smell of spice ran this deep, and all of them—yes, he caught it now, the faint drift of the salt breeze—were by the sea. Too steady to be a boat out at sea, so wherever he was, if he could get out of here, he could find his way back to the roads and the ragged towns that hugged them close. If he was still by Ise...it wouldn't be long now before he could make it to Nagasaki, figure out what the annoying lady wanted.
He doesn't give thought, of course, to his own reasons for starting out on this somewhat bewildering caper, his own need to see, to make sure of things.
What have I become, a damn dog?, he mused wearily, annoyed at his urge to escape with haste, rather than wait for the bastards to come back so he could beat nine shades of death into them. This was the first time, in a long time, that he felt as if there were places that he needed to be, places that he needed to go to, places that he hadn't yet reached. What do they call that, having a goal or somethin'? It certainly didn't feel like much of an admirable improvement.
Gray eyes wandered, taking in the dark, water-stained wood, the sacks of pepper and barrels of dried fish. A right proper storehouse, this. He started looking for edges, for wayward and forgotten blades. His bindings were beginning to chafe, but more than that, he felt that nervy restlessness eating at him again. There's something about this, about the tight confines of the room, and the stale air he sucks in with every breath, that grates at his worn nerves, that sets him ever closer to that edge from where he stops looking, goes entirely blind.
Success, he thought, smirking broadly in the emptiness. A dockworker had left his gutting blade, still unwashed, on the work table. Blood to blood, he remembered, the only rule of the land, back when he was a ghost. Some careful juggling later, and his hands were free.
He didn't relinquish the knife, holding it loosely, the blade pointed backwards, up against his wrist. He could feel the certainty in his gut, the wild anticipation. A fight's coming my way, he thought, and cracked a loose smile.
There was never anything more exciting. He set his jaw, lips pulled back in a horrific smirk, the bandages on his face leaving him half-blind, and tested the door, tapping here and there with his foot.
He cocked his head slightly, suddenly alert. Voices mingled with the spice-drenched air, hearty, well-fed voices. He was suddenly a shadow, pressing his lean frame into the space just by the door. His bandages itched, his head ached, and the low whine of madness was starting to fill his skull.
Let's have at it, ya morons, he thought, as the sounds of locks turning and keys clinking frayed his tenuous patience. There was only ever one way to silence the whine, and today was not his day to die.
"Hey, you think-" and the voice was cut as Mugen smashed forward out of the shadows, jamming the gutting knife deep into the man's throat before twisting and pulling sideways, letting the blade go. The man fell, gurgling helplessly as his life bubbled out of him, but Mugen swept low and snatched his short sword out of his belt.
Mugen pulled the sheath off with his teeth, one smooth stroke, and there, his one unbandaged eye gleaming feral in the dappled sunlight, he burst out of the doorway, slashing and kicking, a death-delivering whirlwind. Three workers, all horribly, but certainly dead. He blinked owlishly in the fuller blaze of the noontime sun, and thanked his threadbare luck-the lunchtime hour meant there were few others down at the docks to go hunting for his head.
The salt breeze stung at his skin, and his feet nervously tapped and scratched the ground, seeking, sensing. Had it been days? They probably hadn't gotten that far, this gang, not with the way he'd roughed them all up. Still close to Nagasaki, he hoped. There was no way of knowing, at least, not until he had disappeared for a while. Damn bitches, he thought, they're always making ya do the dirty work. He shrugged, loosening his shoulders, and bent over to look through the pockets of the newly dead.
The pickings were slim, but there was enough change for some booze, maybe a change of bandages if he felt like it. Pocketing the coins, he dropped the short sword by the a worker's lifeless head-the man's eye still gleaming, oddly fishlike, in the blaze of the sun. Mugen exhaled, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, suddenly tired. I need to sleep, gotta get out of here. He pulled the long sword from the worker's belt, noting its finely decorated sheath.
Stolen, eh, he thought tiredly, as he tottered away. Probably never even used the blade. That, he supposed, would at least change.
Thieves to thieves, dust to dust. There had never been anything more to it, in the end.