lawly

by footfungus

lawly

45. Chapter 45

Before the first light of day dared to streak through the sky, Utahime found herself perched on the edge of anticipation, nestled within the confines of a fishing vessel, sailing with the Gojo brat. The cloak of night wrapped the world in obsidian, revealing only the dim outlines of a vessel modest in size, stretching out for about forty feet. Its silhouette bore witness to the hemp and cotton in the crafting of three-square sails that stood sentry against the oncoming breeze.

A lone mast rose proudly to carry the weight of the sails, its structure interwoven with the sinews of wood while the rigging with its network of veins, crisscrossed the air with ropes of hemp. Each line held the promise of orchestrating the sails' symphony, ensuring that the vessel became a masterful puppet, manipulating the currents to its advantage. The ship anticipated the whims of the sea with oars stowed away. Crafted from sturdy timber, these oars were ready for use in case the wind chose not to be a willing partner, or if the need to maneuver tight spaces became apparent. And then there was the cabin. The cabin was larger than normal as it cradled the crew within its protective embrace, shielding them from the bite of the night wind or the unwelcome kiss of a sudden drizzle. The hull was a silent storage chamber in the belly of this maritime beast, waiting patiently for the bounty of the sea, or something else completely.

On the journey to Hamamatsu, the vessel stretched across the coastline waters, promising an unwanted odyssey that spanned twelve to eighteen hours of ceaseless travel. The rhythm of progress was dictated by the weather and the wind would most likely average four to five knots of ship speed. The ship was manned by a crew of four men, each an expert, their hands attuned to the pulse of the vessel.

Utahime and Gojo were passengers, and quite frankly, the woman did not know how to operate a ship. It was already a risk just getting on a boat with Gojo in the first place. What if he planned on pushing her overboard? She was able to swim, but she doubted she could swim from the coastline to the shore.

The woman anchored herself firmly against the outside walls of the cabin, a deliberate choice to distance herself from the ship's rails that flirted with the edge of the unknown abyss. The men were inside the cabin, and she was frankly more comfortable out in the biting, cold wind than inside with those people. The rhythmic melody of the sea, punctuated by the stinging essence of salt, caressed her senses as Utahime settled into a chair. Arms crossed and eyes shut, she sought refuge in the early morning's heart, taking in the ocean's serenade, relying on her ears to decipher the secrets whispered by the waves. The shroud of uncertainty draped over her like the mist rising from the restless waters.

Gojo's silence about the purpose of this venture into his family's territory only fueled Utahime's unease. The notion of a vague "mission" hung in the air, and it was an enigma that the princess couldn't decipher due to the lack of information he wasn't willing to provide. Going off memory of what she had been taught about the noble families of the land, Hamamatsu was part of the Gojo's vast domain, and currently she was entering a realm where his influence knew no bounds. Additionally, the white-haired samurai's command to bring her katana added weight to the gravity of the unknown situation as she acknowledged the potential perils that awaited her on the horizon.

And then like a specter materializing from the shadowy mists of the waters, Gojo stood before her as her skin grew bumps upon feeling him near her. The corners of her mouth turned downward. His presence was a manifestation of quietude, eclipsing her like an ominous storm cloud. The proximity of his looming silhouette and shadow added a layer of concern to the already tense atmosphere between the two. Utahime found herself entwined with threads of uncertainty when it came to Gojo's intentions. It was like watching the horizon that stretched infinitely before her eyes, never knowing where it began and ended, always remaining veiled in secret.

Her fingers clung to the reassuring weight of the steel in her hand, finding a semblance of solace in the familiar touch of the hilt and the scabbard. Her eyes remained sealed shut, a conscious effort to steal what rest she could amid the undulating rhythm of the sea. And Utahime was also putting forth a conscious effort to shut him out. Yet, Gojo's lingering shade disrupted the quietness of the night for her, forcing her to acknowledge his presence.

With a voice that echoed the weariness of her journey, she inquired, "Yes? What is it?"

Gojo responded with a smile that held secrets. He was surprisingly not wearing his black bifocals. His tall, long-legged figure casually leaned against the wooden railing, embracing the elements as the sea adorned his cheek with droplets of brine. A single bead of saltwater lingered at the corner of his mouth. His tongue darted out of the corner of his mouth and licked the drop. His attention, however, remained fixed on the woman resting before him.

The tall man posed a question that danced on the edge of casual curiosity, "Utahime, have you been on many boats before?"

What kind of question was that? Of course, she had been on many boats before. Her response, honest and unguarded, cut through the sea breeze, "Yes."

"Do you know how to man a ship?"

"No."

The young man's response, a light jeer tinged with amusement, played on the breeze like a mischievous whisper. "Wow," he teased, "You're well-loved, aren't you? You're so spoiled. Spoiled child."

In return, the princess cracked open one amber eye and peered up at the strange man before her. The youth was smiling down at her in that carefree manner. With a measured retort that carried a subtle edge, she shifted her weight against the scabbard of her katana, leaning into the wooden sheath.

"Takes one to know one," Utahime shot back before shutting him out from her world again.

"You're going to make my soldiers weak," he said easily and almost in a bored tone. "Weak like you."

What was he going on about? Utahime scrunched her brows together, but she refused to crack her eyes open.

Gojo, his playful demeanor shedding its lightness, delved into a more serious tone, his words cutting through the ambient sea breeze like a sharpened blade. "What you're doing – is it just playing War? Do you think you can waltz in and out of a war whenever you want? It's not like playing house with dolls, Utahime."

Her eyes, once sealed in an attempt to escape the relentless reality of the boy before her, snapped open, anger coursing through her veins as his words struck a nerve. "I'm not playing. I'm here to save my father."

Gojo's laughter was cruel and unrestrained, echoing in the early morning mist.

"How?" he jeered; the mockery intense in the air. "You're weak. You will need rescue instead. Utahime, you should just go home and play dress up with some of your dolls."

The venom of his words injected a surge of indignation into her, and with a sudden burst of energy, Utahime surged from the chair. The grip she possessed on the katana her father forged for her became impossibly tight. Its hilt was then clutched with an intensity that mirrored the tightening of her jaw. Gojo was unfazed, continuing to find amusement in her defiance as his laughter continued the taunting melody.

Frustration bubbled to the surface as Utahime made her stance clear amidst the turmoil and chaos he sowed within her. "For the last time, I'm not playing."

The tension crackled between them on the precipice of conflict.

In the face of her mounting irritation, Gojo's laughter persisted, a maddening chorus until he just didn't couldn't laugh anymore. In the moment of strained silence that followed, she demanded from him clarity. The princess begrudgingly questioned, "What is this mission? Tell me before I lose my mind by interacting with you for even a second longer than necessary."

Gojo relinquished the comfort of the wooden railing his body leaned against, and instead invaded her personal space effortlessly with one long stride. As a towering presence, the youth loomed over her. The assertion of his build over her was a calculated imposition that left her defiant gaze meeting his dark, gleaming blue eyes. In that intimate proximity, his amusement morphed into a cruel grin as he relished the power he possessed over her.

With a calculated choice of words, Gojo declared easily, "I will allow you the chance to live up to your family name."

The ambiguity of his statement hung in the air, much like a cryptic invitation that echoed the complexity of dealing with Gojo Satoru. Utahime, ever wary of his inscrutable nature, questioned, "What do you mean?"

In that flippant manner of his, Gojo offered an explanation that unraveled their mission. He explained in a bored voice as if he was reading something of a report. "There have been details that a major smuggler working with Fushiguro was spotted in my territory. He has an inkling for pretty things and pretty people. Your mission is simple: find a way to get access to his plans and information."

"How do I do that?" she pressed, a pragmatic edge to her inquiry. Utahime couldn't help but wonder if there was more to this than he was saying. Anyone could play spy – she wasn't stupid. Did he want her to leave out of her own will? Gojo's response was nonchalant and brimming with an air of detachment, leaving the burden of choice to her.

"Up to you. You figure it out. Field experience is always better than learning through books and theories," he asserted. "This is a trial by fire. Maybe I might step in if you beg me. It's okay if you want to turn around now. It's okay to be weak. The weak live longer."

A defiant snarl curled on Utahime's lips as she met his challenge head-on. "Don't count me out before I even get a chance."

The declaration hung in the air like a gauntlet thrown.

When the young woman delved into the intricate details of the report Gojo provided, trying to unravel what information Shigemo Haruta possessed that the brat needed her to get. And as her eyes scanned the document, the vivid portrait of the man provided began to take shape in her mind as she memorized its contents. The drawing provided in the report depicted Shigemo with long, flowing blonde hair secured in a ponytail to the left side of his head. It was a distinctive feature, perhaps intentional, making him easily recognizable in a crowd. She suspected it was a deliberate effort to stand out.

The report dived into Shigemo's peculiar interests. The criminal possessed a penchant for both pretty women and men, and his definition of "fun" raised more questions than answers. It was a vague term, leaving room for a myriad of possibilities, each more unsettling than the last as her imagination ran wild.

What exactly constituted as "fun" for Shigemo Haruta?

Utahime also couldn't help but ponder the curious choice of territory for Shigemo's illicit activities. Hamamatsu was a place he frequented with almost alarming regularity, and the location itself caught her attention. The Gojos were known for their watchful eyes and having a sixth sense when it came to everything. So why would Shigemo risk his business and do the activities under the nose of the Gojos?

The potential reasons behind Shigemo's risky ventures sparked Utahime's curiosity. Was it a high-stakes, high-rewards situation? Perhaps the Gojo territory held something immensely valuable, enticing him to navigate the perilous waters of smuggling within this specific port city. Maybe Shigemo enjoyed a monopoly in the area with little competition, daring to challenge the hostile Gojos.

As Utahime plunged deeper into the possibilities, she considered Shigemo's motives. Was the smuggling in Hamamatsu a choice or a necessity? Did he willingly tread into dangerous territories, or were external circumstances pushing him into the jaws of risk? Debts, powerful enemies, vital necessities – all plausible reasons that could force a man like Shigemo into such a position.

Despite her analytical approach, the princess couldn't shake the nagging question: wasn't Shigemo Haru just asking to be caught? The frequency of his visits to the Gojo territory was audacious, almost as if he played a dangerous game with fate. Utahime couldn't help but wonder if there was a method to his madness or if Shigemo was, in fact, dancing on the precipice of his own downfall due to his own ego.

Utahime's mind buzzed with intrigue as she considered the potential motives and intricacies of the Gojo brat's involvement in the smuggling operation. The situation was more than a simple case of illicit trade involving Fushiguro; there was probably the weight of political and systemic complexities involved too, but to what extent she couldn't imagine now.

The first angle that struck Utahime was the possibility of corruption within the local government. Were those in power turning a blind eye or actively participating in the smuggling ring? Bribes and a share of the profits could be the currency that fueled their complicity. The corruption might be deeply ingrained, reaching various echelons of the government, and creating a web that was challenging to untangle.

Another layer of complexity emerged – there could be sympathetic or coerced insiders. The smugglers could have influential individuals within the government who manipulated law enforcement efforts from within. Whether driven by sympathy or fear, these insiders added a layer of complexity to the already convoluted web of corruption.

Her analytical mind explored the possibility of resource constraints faced by the local authorities as well in that the government lacked the necessary resources to combat the smuggling effectively. Pressing issues like political instability, internal conflicts, or economic crises might have diverted their attention and resources away from tackling the smuggling operations head-on.

Political maneuvering then entered the realm of speculation. What if the government was intentionally allowing the smuggling to serve their own political agenda? The illicit trade could be a tool for destabilizing rival factions, diverting attention from internal problems, or even playing a part in a larger geopolitical strategy.

The Gojo brat's urgency for her to infiltrate the smuggling operation didn't make sense in the truest of senses. She still couldn't understand his motivations. Although she highly suspected he was using Shigemo to scare her away since she was going "to make his men weak." The Gojo brat wanted her out of his army, but out of her own violation she assumed.

The situation at hand was that the Gojo family were already secretly monitoring the operation, patiently gathering intelligence for some sort of strategic takedown. It appeared to Utahime that the local government was playing the long game, aiming not just to address the symptoms but to dismantle the entire network in one decisive move. As Utahime tried to piece together the complex puzzle, the line between criminals and those meant to uphold justice blurred. The landscape was fraught with hidden agendas, power plays, and a delicate dance of political intrigue, making her mission all the more headache inducing.

The young woman's attention was drawn away from the myriad of job postings on the town's bulletin board when a voice cut through the bustling street.

"Hey, you boy," called out a stout man, his words carrying an air of opportunity. The man, adorned in finer clothes than the commoners that populated the area, exuded an air of prosperity – likely a merchant or a businessman with connections that reached beyond the ordinary. "Are you looking for work?"

Turning towards the man with a curious tilt of her head, Utahime nodded, silently urging him to elaborate on the offer. There was a hunger in the stout man's gaze, a greediness that did not go unnoticed as he assessed her, sizing her up like a commodity ripe for exploitation. She touched her sword briefly to remind herself that it was still there by her hip.

"You would be perfect for a lord's manor," he declared with a tone that hinted at both opportunity and transient commitment. "It would be only temporarily for a couple of days before he must leave again. But the pay is very good. The lord enjoys looking at pretty things, and you would be perfect for the job."

Utahime's eyes narrowed, a shrewdness settling in as she considered the implications of such an offer. The man's words painted a vivid picture of a lord with a penchant for aesthetics, and she couldn't shake the feeling that she already knew the identity of this mysterious nobleman.

"Who is the lord, good man?" she inquired, her voice holding a deliberate edge of curiosity. Her instincts whispered the answer, but she wanted confirmation from the source. "What is the work?"

The stout man leaned in closer as if sharing a clandestine secret.

"A very rich man who only goes by the name Lord Haru," he revealed, his words hanging in the air. The pieces of the puzzle fell into place, and Utahime couldn't ignore the good luck of encountering a man offering work under the banner of Lord Haru – the same name that resonated in the depths of her investigation into the smuggling operation. Was it luck, or was this a sweet trap? The man then said, "You would just be guarding him closely."

The woman played her part with practiced finesse, feigning reluctance in the face of the stout man's persistent offer.

"I'd rather have steady work over temporary work. Sorry," she stated, adopting an air of indifference that masked the wheels turning in her sharp mind as her face purposefully turned sour at the sight of the man.

The man, sensing his proposition slipping away, turned desperate.

"No, no," he pleaded, his voice tinged with urgency. "I will pay you three times the normal wage you would receive."

The offer only deepened the skepticism in Utahime's eyes. Throwing the man another reluctant look, as if his insistence was becoming a bothersome inconvenience, she coolly replied, "Thank you, sir, but if something is too good to be true, it is too good to be true. Goodbye."

Her words hung in the air, a polite yet firm dismissal, but the stout man wasn't ready to let go.

"You only have to work for a few days," he clung to her sleeve, a desperate grasp to salvage the offer. "Young man, it is for Lord Haru's birthday. There will be countless beauties in the compound. This isn't a trafficking business if that is what you're thinking. The compound is not far from town. It is close to the water."

The man's reassurances only fueled her suspicions even. His words danced on the edge of deceit, and she could almost taste the deceitful sweetness of the offer. It sounded exactly like a trafficking scheme veiled in the guise of a nobleman's celebration. The proximity to the water added another layer of unease, conjuring images of underground dealings and hidden agendas.

With a final, decisive shake of her sleeve, Utahime extricated herself from the man's desperate grip.

"Sorry, sir, but my instincts tell me to steer clear of such tempting offers. Goodbye." Her steps carried her away from the dubious proposition, leaving the stout man to grapple with the fading possibility of recruiting her for whatever illegal affair lay behind the façade of Lord Haru's birthday celebration.

The next morning, Utahime found herself once again standing in front of the bustling bulletin board. Like clockwork, the stout man, driven by a persistent eagerness, approached her with the familiar offer.

"Young man, still looking for work?" he called out, a semblance of hope in his voice.

This time, Utahime nodded, a subtle acknowledgment that played into the act she had meticulously crafted. She made sure her eyes were tinged with a hint of desperation. Her sword was still tucked by her side, making sure the greedy man saw it. There was no eagerness in her demeanor; instead, a calculated acceptance of the offer lingered in her eyes. The eager man led her through the labyrinthine streets of the town, eventually arriving at the compound he had spoken of – a place nestled just a little way out of the main port, near the glistening expanse of water.

The compound itself was a demonstration of opulence, a realm of extravagance that hinted at the impending celebration. Decorations adorned the surroundings, transforming the place into a spectacle befitting a nobleman's festivities. It was a visual feast, but her discerning eyes sought beyond the surface, probing for the hidden layers beneath the veneer of grandeur.

Guided by the stout man, Utahime was introduced to the housekeeper – a woman whose demeanor exuded kindness and geniality. However, her words sent a shiver down Utahime's spine despite her mental readiness for anything to happen.

"You're so tiny and scrawny. You are the master's type. I will assign you to the master's quarters." The implications hung in the air, a reminder of the chilling dimension to the ostensibly harmless job offer.

A maid, with an air of deference, led the disguised woman deeper into the compound. The atmosphere became substantially different, the opulence giving way to an undercurrent of secrecy. Utahime couldn't help but notice the formidable presence of bodyguards and hired muscle that surrounded the compound. It was heavily guarded, and with each step she took, the situation at hand reinforced the notion that there was more to Lord Haru's birthday celebration than met the eye.

As she traversed the ornate halls and corridors, her senses were in high alert. The grandeur of the surroundings clashed with the subtle signs of guarded secrets, and she couldn't shake the feeling that the celebration was a façade – a cover for something far more intricate and potentially dangerous. Or at least, it was being used to cover something insidious.

A gruff man, seemingly the gatekeeper of this secretive realm, halted Utahime and the maid in their tracks.

"I haven't seen this person's face before," he grumbled, suspicion etched in his features as he took in the newcomer's face.

"He is new and assigned to the lord's quarters as a wallflower," the maid explained with humble deference, her eyes cast downward. Utahime mirrored the gesture, maintaining a guise of meekness while keeping her ears attuned to every word. "He will be working around here, so please don't mind him."

The gruff man, apparently satisfied with the explanation, nodded, and allowed them to proceed toward Lord Haru's quarters. The atmosphere grew tense as they ventured deeper into the heart of the compound.

Lord Haru's quarters, contrary to her expectations, were shrouded in unexpected quiet. However, the illusion of tranquility shattered when her eyes fell upon two men laboring to move a rolled sack bundled in a bloodied, straw mat out of the lord's domain. Frantic maids scurried about; their faces twisted in terror as they fervently cleaned the blood-stained floor.

The pooling blood dripped onto the dirt beneath the veranda.

Reality struck Utahime with a force that left her momentarily breathless as she didn't expect to see a body right away. And of course, Lord Haru was none other than the notorious smuggler, Shigemo Haruta. His kimono hung half-undone, a disheveled attire that mirrored the chaos within the compound. Specks of blood adorned his clothing and thin frame, gruesome evidence to the brutality that had unfolded within the confines of the opulent quarters.

In a languid display of menace, Shigemo with his katana in one hand, lazily looked at the newcomers. His voice, pitched higher than anticipated, sliced through the air with a chilling command. "Who are you?"

Utahime, still maintaining her submissive posture, responded with practiced uncertainty, "I am here to serve, my lord. I was assigned to assist in your quarters."

Beneath the veneer of obedience, her mind raced with different plans and counterplans, dissecting the unfolding display. She grappled with the revelation that the man she sought to expose was now before her, draped in the grim aftermath of his illicit activities. He noted the sword on her side. Shigemo's demand cut through the air, a command that left no room for hesitation.

"Let me see your face," he ordered, the urgency in his tone demanding swift compliance.

Utahime was mindful of the delicate dance she was performing, and slowly lifted her head but kept her eyes cast downward. She understood the unspoken rule when it came to men like Shigemo – eye contact was a realm of exposure that this man likely despised.

A low whistle escaped Shigemo's lips as he approached, his footfalls quick and purposeful. His smooth hand seized her chin, a touch that sent a shiver crawling down her spine, though she masked her repulsion beneath the facade of submission. "You're a really pretty one, aren't you. Prettier than a woman."

The irony of his words wasn't lost on Utahime. If only he knew the truth – she was, in fact, a woman in disguise. She kept her silence, a strategic choice as Shigemo continued to lay claim to her identity.

"Your name from now on is known as Kirei, dear wallflower," he declared, releasing her chin from his grasp. "Kirei, do your best to not irritate me. I like quiet objects."

The instructions were clear, and Utahime, still maintaining her composed demeanor, nodded and bowed in acknowledgment. As Shigemo's attention shifted, he issued an order to the maid.

"Fix him a room," he commanded, a dismissal that released Utahime from his scrutiny for the moment. The compound buzzed with an undercurrent of fear as Shigemo continued to terrorize the female servants, and Utahime, now bearing the name Kirei, navigated the labyrinth of deceit with a careful balance of obedience and hidden defiance.

The third day in Hamamatsu unfurled, and for the disguised woman, it marked her second day in the clandestine service of Shigemo. Her assignment shifted to a closer proximity, standing guard and maintaining a vigilant silence while Shigemo navigated the intricacies of his operations.

"I enjoy looking at your face," Shigemo mentioned casually as Utahime stood, eyes downcast, playing the role of the obedient, silent guardian. She absorbed every detail around her, focusing not only on Shigemo, but also on the contents of the locked box he guarded with a bronze key. Names and numbers were meticulously recorded on his ledger, forming a puzzle that begged to be deciphered.

A new player entered the scene, and it was a Korean man named Kong Shiu, or was it Gong Si-u. Utahime tucked his name into the recesses of her brain as she removed herself from Shigemo's side. The back gate opened, forcing the area to vacate as the two men engaged in a private conversation. The woman then seized the opportunity, choosing to stay away, and redirect her attention to the housekeeper's area.

"Ah, Kirei," the housekeeper greeted her with a smile, her demeanor seemingly warm and approachable. "How is the master treating you?"

"I don't know," she replied with practiced ease, her smile masking the complexities that brewed beneath the surface. "Serving him is easier than expected for someone like me. He doesn't require much out of me."

The housekeeper, seemingly content with the response, nodded in understanding. "The pay is always good when he comes around. Just keep to yourself, and he will leave as soon as he is done here."

The loyalty that the housekeeper displayed toward Shigemo didn't go unnoticed by Utahime. Maintaining her amiable facade, she shifted the conversation with feigned innocence.

"Is it really the Lord's birthday in three days?" she asked in a voice that dripped with naivety.

The older woman affirmed with a nod, "Yes, that is why we must do our best to keep him happy."

Utahime's mind raced with a growing urgency. Time was running low for her. The pieces of the puzzle were scattered, and she knew that unraveling the truth behind Shigemo's operations required meticulous precision and swift action.

As the evening descended upon the compound, a sinister scene unfolded. The six geishas and six oirans that were summoned to entertain Shigemo and Kong Shiu were ensnared in a nightmarish circumstance. With only four of Shigemo's most trusted guards in attendance, everyone else was forcefully instructed to steer clear of Shigemo's quarters for the remainder of the evening until the entertainers and prostitutes left.

It wasn't until the early hours of the morning that the women were finally permitted to leave. Their appearance spoke volumes of the brutality they endured as their disheveled hair, tattered clothing, and instruments shattered to bits, were all on display. The marks of violence etched across their bodies, leaving Utahime's senses reeling with disgust and horror. Large burn marks adorned the backs of the geishas' hands while the oirans bore cuts on their faces, scars of an unforgiving night.

A silent vow echoed within her as a thought crossed her mind: this man would not have another birthday to celebrate.

Communication with Gojo remained elusive as she had contacted them in about three days, yet Utahime harbored an unwavering belief that they were well aware of her whereabouts and mission. Gojo had entrusted her with the Shigemo task, and the woman intended to fulfill it on her terms.

Day six in Hamamatsu unfolded with an air of trepidation. Utahime couldn't help but be reminded when her father and his men would have to leave; therefore, the women were left to defend the territory to the best of their abilities against bandits and men like Shigemo. Night after night, a new woman fell victim to his sadistic whims, and the compound held its breath, awaiting the departure of this malevolent force.

The impending departure of Shigemo loomed on the horizon as he was scheduled to leave for the morning after the macabre celebration planned for tonight. Kong Shiu had already departed, his presence no longer tethered to the impending darkness that would shroud the compound.

Through plotting of her own, Utahime accompanied Yatsumaro, the greedy man, to the geisha house instead of the usual guard Shigemo assigned to him. As Yatsumaro engaged in desperate negotiations with the master of the artisan house, her sharp gaze caught the figure of a geisha she recognized from the previous night before, limping into the garden.

Silent as a ghost, Utahime skillfully slipped away from the room she was placed in as she melded into the shadows, pursuing the wounded geisha. Alone in the garden, the geisha's tears intermingled with the soft rustle of leaves. Utahime approached the distressed geisha as her hand clamped gently over the geisha's mouth to stifle any protests.

"Please listen to me," Utahime whispered, her voice a delicate murmur that threaded through the quiet air. "Yatsumaro, the man talking to your master, is trying to procure more geishas and apprentices for Shigemo's birthday celebration. I know what Shigemo did to you and your sisters, and the oirans."

The weight of her words hung in the air, wrapped in empathy. Utahime's amber eyes bore into the bandages tightly wound around the geisha's hands. The scars, beneath the bindings, spoke of a pain that transcended the physical realm. The disguised woman, in her gentlest voice, broke the silence that enveloped them.

"It's hard to ask, but don't be afraid of me. You and I have the same interests. We both want Shigemo to suffer," Utahime whispered the shared purpose, trying her best to weave an unspoken bond between them. Her gaze continued lingering on the bandaged hands; a silent acknowledgment of the irreversible change that had been wrought. She would also use it to her advantage.

Her voice carried the weight of compassion as she continued, "I know your hands will never play your instruments the same ever again. You will never be the same ever again. Your sisters will never be the same… Even so, what if I told you I can give you a chance to exact revenge on the man who did this to you? All you must do is help me get in front of him without raising any suspicions."

She could sense the turmoil in the geisha's heart, the echoes of pain and fear that reverberated through her. Utahime pressed on, addressing the unspoken doubts that lingered in the air. "You're probably wondering how I can help you against a powerful man like Shigemo,"

Utahime continued, her words were confident and straightforward. "It would be easier for me if I have your cooperation and your sisters' help, but the man will disappear tonight regardless of your participation… It is human to be afraid of those more powerful than us. It is human to be scared of those who hurt us. It is human to accept the situation as is because no one will listen or help those of us who are weak."

A pause lingered in the air before Utahime concluded, her voice carrying a quiet intensity. "I'm not asking you to trust me, but I am asking you to believe in me and that I will deliver on what I'm saying. Look down at the scars on your hands and tell me if the sight of your injustice does not make your blood boil."

The challenge hung in the air, an invitation to reclaim righteousness in the face of injustice. In the stillness of the garden, Utahime held the trembling geisha in a delicate embrace, their unspoken pact binding them. The tear-streaked face rested against Utahime's thumb as teardrops lined the curve of her hand, tracing down until it landed on the ground.

"If you're interested in this, nod two times," Utahime gently instructed. The geisha quivered in her arms, and after a moment of contemplation, the geisha nodded twice.

"Thank you," Utahime murmured, a soft expression of gratitude that carried the weight of unspoken understanding. "All I require is the clothing and fan of a Shirabyoshi. The finale will be Shizuka Gozen's song. Nod twice if you agree."

Once again, the geisha nodded twice.

"Perfect," she declared, her voice a subtle assurance. "I will know if you have cooperated if you bring the clothing and fan."

With that, the disguised woman released the geisha from their meeting. As the geisha came to with shuddering breaths, she turned around only to find the garden empty with no trace of the mysterious figure who had woven promises of justice.

Under the veil of an ink-dark sky, the geishas arrived in their ox carts as a silent procession into the compound's hidden depths. Yatsumaro and Utahime ushered the six women into the heart of the complex. The geisha she had spoken to earlier in the day cradled the typical attire of a Shirabyoshi dancer, and her heart stirred with satisfaction at the sight.

Once within the secure confines of the compound where none were permitted until the geishas' were allowed to depart, Utahime seized the moment to set her plan in motion. Yatsumaro and Utahime led the women into a side room prepared for the geishas. Once everyone was within the side room, and the sliding door snapped shut, Utahime moved quickly.

She struck Yatsumaro's carotid sinus on the side of his neck with a swift and precise palm chop, catching him as his body crumpled unconscious as his blood pressure immediately fell in one swoop. The women didn't appear surprised; in fact, they were relishing in the sight of the unconscious man. The disguised woman approached the room's closet as her fingers caught the latch, sliding open its door to reveal the tools of her trade. A pre-prepared rope emerged from the darkness within the closet. Yatsumaro was swiftly bound, and his mouth gagged to ensure his silence, before being confined to the hidden recesses of the closet. It was a sequence of swift actions that spoke of practiced expertise, leaving little doubt that Utahime was no stranger to such endeavors.

Addressing the geishas, who observed her with slight surprise, and plenty of acceptance, Utahime accepted the Shirabyoshi attire with grace. She confidently declared, "Thank you for your help. I promise to make this worth your time."

A smile graced her lips as Utahime made a request. "May I request you ladies to turn around?"

The geishas complied without question, leaving their trust in this person.

In the cocoon of secrecy, Utahime shed her layers swiftly as her plain hakama fell away to the ground. The unlined silk kimono garment that came as part of the costume cascaded over her clothed body, draped over the layers of unlined kimonos she wore beneath. Three layers of undergarment fabric now adorned her frame.

The wide-legged, pleated red hakama trousers soon followed as she guided them over her legs and hips, cinching them higher on her waist than convention dictated. The wide obi belt, a rich purple sash, wound around her waist as her hands twisted behind her in deft quick movements. Utahime retained her black, flat leather boots as it was a pragmatic choice hidden beneath the veil of the long trousers the went past her feet, the fabric trailing on the ground as intended.

The high ponytail, once a practical arrangement, yielded to the simplicity of a loose cascade as her hands released it from its confinement. Her past shoulder-blade hair found a new form as she secured the tresses in a loose ponytail with a Takenaga ribbon. Her fingers then rendered her face with oshiroi and deft strokes as the porcelain paint portrayed her complexion as an otherworldly white. The painted dark brows were elevated higher on her forehead bespoke a theatrical artistry as she painted her lips scarlet red.

The symbol of the Shirabyoshi ensemble was the tate-eboshi hat. Tall, gold, and stiff, the hat's black cords were tied beneath her jaw, adding a finishing touch to the ensemble. The lacquered gold silk bestowed a polished sheen, accentuating the smooth lines of the cylindrical form that rose vertically from her head. A white and red suikan Shinto jacket, traditionally male attire but embraced by Shirabyoshi dancers, enveloped her frame. The sleeves, allowing ease of movement, extended below the waist, reaching her knees. Fastenings adorned the jacket's front opening as the ties and intricate knots added a touch of elegance. Her katana replaced the position of a ceremonial blade that should have accompanied the ensemble – a subtle switch that most people would not notice.

In the meticulous choreography of her attire, Utahime placed the kawahori hand fan in the hakama pant pocket. The fan was a classic folding design with its thin bamboo ribs holding a covering that was adorned with red petals resembling splattered blood. The final touch was her hair, lifted from behind the suikan jacket to rest against the silk fabric like a layer of armor.

In the muted glow of the room, Utahime, now adorned in the intricate Shirabyoshi attire, stood poised on the threshold of the next phase of her plan. She couldn't help but be reminded of the times when she and the other women in Miura readied themselves against the onslaught of bandits when the men weren't there to defend the territory. Her body knew she was about to go into battle.

The procession of seven women, draped in the elegance of their traditional attire, marched with a rhythmic grace toward the performing room nestled beside the blossoming Sakura tree. The first geisha, a herald of their presence, slid open the door with a fluid motion, announcing in a voice adorned with reverence, "Lord Haru, flowers have come to celebrate your birth on this auspicious day."

With instruments in hand and bandages concealing the evidence of their shared plight, the women filed into the room as a visual symphony of colors and poise. Shigemo, seated at the forefront of the room, gazed upon the unfolding spectacle with amused glee. His most trusted aids and bodyguards, four men in total, flanked the rectangular space, already indulging in cups of alcohol. The bodyguards were seated on the floor and their swords were laid next to them.

As each geisha took her position at the back of the room, standing tall and resplendent like blooming flowers, the disguised woman entered last. Her appearance, a departure from the expected, drew Shigemo's intrigue, and he couldn't conceal the wild dog-like grin that wormed across his face.

"What is this?" he inquired; the anticipation evident in his salivating expression. He gestured for the women to assume their places, captivated by the unconventional scene before him. "I have never seen anything like this before."

Utahime, radiating an air of regality, extracted her fan from the hakama pants and positioned herself at the center, facing Shigemo. Her demeanor shifted, her voice adopting a tone that was a pitch higher than normal, dripping with arrogance. Her knees were slightly bent as her hand holding the fan stretched it out in a straight line away from her body while her dominant hand gripped the hilt of her katana. She then announced, "Lord Haru, tonight a most beautiful performance of the famous Shizuka Gozen and her lament will be performed in your honor."

With a dramatic unfurling of the fan, the swordswoman signaled the commencement of the performance. The geishas behind her orchestrated a symphony of instruments – flute, koto, shamisen, drum, sanshin, and finally, the haunting tones of the biwa. Utahime was a vision of elegance and beauty as her body turned, beginning a slow dance, enticing the criminal before her. Her voice possessed a soft and beautiful cadence as she began singing the tragic tale of the famous Shirabyoshi, Shizuka Gozen.

The room was bathed in the muted shadow of the Sakura tree for the unfolding drama. Clouds, like transient veils, draped themselves over the moon, withholding its radiant light. The compound, once illuminated by the lunar glow, succumbed to complete darkness.

In this void of light, the only remnants of illumination were the dimly lit tea lights within the room. Their feeble flames flickered with every movement, every turn, every twirl, and step that Utahime orchestrated. Each movement, each note, and each breath unfolded, casting a spell that transcended the boundaries of mere performance. As the swordswoman wove the tragedy of Shizuka Gozen in the dimly lit darkness, the flickering tea lights added even more of an allure to the beauty created.

The thing about men like Shigemo – most of the time, they didn't expect poison to exist underneath the beauty of flowers, but Utahime was no flower.

She would cut down these bandits.

Gojo, the master swordsman, focused intently on his blades as his fingers polished and sharpened the steel with a love that existed solely for the swords. The air in the secured Gojo manor near the port hummed with the rhythmic cadence of metal meeting stone. His gloved hand, accustomed to the weight and edge of the swords, tested the sharpness of Mugen with a practiced motion.

His concentration remained unbroken even as his spy returned to report. The spy, standing in the presence of his master, hesitated before delivering the news.

"Iori escaped our tailing for the past four days," came the admission, the words almost reluctantly offered. "Today we were able to tail him again, and it seems like Iori is engaging Shigemo directly."

His eyes, gleaming like cold sapphires, blinked at the revelation. Slowly, he lifted them from the wakizashi, placing the blade back into the scabbard with a sharp, annoyed snap. His voice was calm and edged with frustration, cutting through the air. "What do you mean Iori escaped you for the past four days? And you didn't think to report back to me about that as soon as you lost Iori? And now you tell me that the idiot is fighting Shigemo directly? There's a lot wrong with what you just said, but that can be dealt with at a later time."

Descending from the veranda with his swords in tow, Gojo motioned for the spy to follow. His orders were crisp and clear, a blend of strategic insight and impatience. "We close in on Shigemo quietly. Surround every exit. We kill everyone but Shigemo. Do not touch Iori. Iori is dumber than I expected. All Iori needed to do was get information and then come back."

Gojo's annoyance was unmistakable as he considered the unfolding situation. The realization that his spies had failed to report after the second day irked him. A sigh escaped him, laden with both exasperation and a lingering hope that the princess, for all her perceived foolishness, was not as reckless as she seemed. An annoyed look settled over his face as he mobilized the Gojo troops in Hamamatsu.

In the ephemeral climax of the haunting melody, a recounting of Shizuka Gozen's love for Yoshitsune at a temple celebration, the dance and song reached a crescendo. Utahime seized the moment of suspended breath. In the ensuing heartbeat, the geishas continued their melodic enchantment behind her. With a flick of her wrist, she threw her fan high into the air, a transient comet tracing its path in the dimly lit room. Utahime's hand, which had gracefully wielded the fan, seamlessly transitioned to the sheath of her blade tucked to her side. In one swift motion, her dominant hand drew forth the katana as steel emerged from its sheath, the polished blade gleamed under the flickering fire of the tea lights.

The tea lights were now extinguished, draping the room in darkness.

The sharpened blade connected with the necks of the bodyguards on the right first with deadly precision. Her first swing was deadly, instantly killing the bodyguards as their blood splattered all over the shoji walls like a grisly mural. A little bit of their blood landed on the white of her Shinto jacket sleeves. With a quick pivot of her hips, her next swing was just as fast as the first one. The katana sliced through arteries in the necks of the bodyguards on the left, painting the floor in red. Both of her hands held the hilt of the blade as she positioned the steel high near her chest, pointing the pointed, curved edge at Shigemo. The blade dripped with the blood of the bandits.

As the moonlight emerged from behind the departing clouds, Utahime moved with a dancer's grace. Her amber gaze was fixed on Shigemo as her feet closed the distance in four steps. The shadows embraced her, and the air pulsed with a silent understanding that Shigemo was going to die along with his men today. Shigemo quickly scrambled onto his feet, reacting a little faster than she had anticipated as he brought the sheath of his katana up, blocking her downward swing.

The collision of steel meeting lacquered wood reverberated through the room, a dissonant interruption to the silence of the room. Her katana broke through his sheath, and she withdrew the blade, dodging the blonde man's one-handed swing at her as she took two steps back. Her boots splashed in the pooling blood of the bodyguard as her feet meticulously dodged and pivoted Shigemo's reckless swinging. One swing was about to come crashing down on her, but her hands swung her own blade to his, blocking it effectively as the clash of steel against steel punctuated the silence.

Despite his thin frame, Shigemo was strong. The swordswoman lifted her leg and kicked him in the ribs, pushing him back as her feet extended and collided briefly with him. Her lifted leg came down swiftly and she ran after him with razor focus, not allowing him one second to think.

Shigemo's panic was etched across his features as he moved with an unexpected swiftness. In a strategic maneuver, he chose evasion over confrontation, sidestepping Utahime with a fluid grace as her two swings that came down like a cross missed him. Her sword was stuck in the floorboards, causing her to take a moment to pull the sword out. He shifted his focus away from the dancer and directed his attention towards the scrambling geishas. Shigemo sought his prey among the scattering figures of the geishas, choosing to bring as much death as he could before he died.

His steel blade was an extension of his malevolence as he hazardously cut down the geishas one by one as he ran by them, pushing them down as he ran out of the room. His sword thrust into the back of one geisha, stabbing through her chest. He withdrew the sword and then cleanly sliced through the back of another geisha's neck. The elegant figures screamed, their cries piercing the silence of the compounds, lay bleeding on the cold floor. As the remaining geishas tried to scramble out of the doorway, his sword came down crashing down on their backs, deeply engraving his marks into them as he then thrust the sword through their necks.

In his panic, he looked behind him and saw the bloodied dancer coming straight for him. He trampled and ran over their bodies as he fell out of the doorway. He got up quickly and ran for his life.

"Anyone! Anyone! Help!"

His screams for help pierced the air as Shigemo ran out into the courtyard, leaving chaos in his wake. Utahime pursued him with relentless fortitude as the echoes of her footsteps were right behind him. Her katana sliced through the air, catching the tips of his blonde hair as he ducked her swing. Shigemo was desperate and cornered, blocking another one of her strikes once more. Their blades collided in a symphony of clashing steel, but unexpectedly, Shigemo's sword shattered Utahime's katana, cleaving it in half when her downward swing was blocked by his sword, surprising the both of them.

The coldness in her amber eyes betrayed no hint of defeat.

Her hands drove her broken sword into his hand holding his katana, digging the makeshift dagger into the vulnerable flesh of his exposed arm, the steel meeting the bone of his wrist as her free hand knocked the katana out of his one-handed hold. The katana fell onto the ground as her quick kicks to his knees knocked him onto the ground. She kicked the katana away from him as she wretched her broken sword from his wrist, forcing a scream out of him.

The defeated man, now sprawled on the unforgiving pavement, begged for mercy with desperation in his eyes. "Stop. I have money. I can give you anything you want," he pleaded, his words a feeble attempt to stave off the impending justice.

Utahime didn't reply to him, and instead her pointed feet connected with the side of his face as his body met the ground. The bottom of her boot-clad feet then stomped on his face, knocking him out cold. A cautious check confirmed Shigemo's defeated state, his body limp and defenseless.

As the dust settled from the confrontation, Utahime turned away from the fallen foe and hastened back to the bloody room where the geishas were. A shiver crawled down her spine as she surveyed the chaos. The cold reality struck her as the lifeless forms of the geishas lay cold and unresponsive. Anguish, like a torrential wave, flooded her being. Anger simmered beneath the surface, sadness gripped her soul, and then an undeniable emptiness settled in as realization was thrust upon her as she looked at the dead women.

Her selfishness to involve the women resulted in their unnecessary deaths.

"I'm sorry," she uttered, bowing with respect to the women who helped her. "I'm sorry."

Utahime, with the weight of her broken blade in hand, stooped to retrieve the biwa from the blood-stained floor. The instrument now bore the gruesome echoes of the recent skirmish as its face was splattered with droplets of blood, much like the back of her hand that cradled its neck. The crimson stains on her clothing, hands, neck, and face felt strangely heavy.

Returning to the slumbering form of Shigemo beneath the Sakura tree, her bloodied footprints painted a silent tale on the courtyard's cobbled surface as the biwa accompanied her every step, the blood becoming lighter and lighter until they disappeared. A subtle breeze whispered through the air, stirring the branches of the blossoming tree. In response, a cascade of delicate petals descended like nature's confetti, creating an ephemeral dance in the wind.

Utahime found herself enveloped in a flurry of pink. The falling petals created a surreal dreamscape, contrasting with the harsh reality of the recent confrontation. Her amber eyes, bright and piercing, lifted towards the Sakura tree and the dark canvas of the night sky above.

The gates groaned under the force of Gojo's entrance; their protest drowned out by the loud echoes of his characteristic boisterousness. With a thunderous presence, he marched through the threshold, announcing, "Utahime, I'm here to bail you out!"

The proclamation hung in the air, cutting through the silent courtyard like a blade. As quickly as he made his bold entrance, Gojo's momentum came to an abrupt halt as he stood a few feet away from the bloodied princess.

The sudden acceleration of his heart caught Gojo Satoru by surprise. It was as though an enchantment had woven its tendrils around him, and the source of this ethereal allure stood before him – the woman who seemed to embody the divine herself.

If Benzaiten, the Lucky Goddess of Arts, Love, Music, Wealth, Fortune and War, was to descend from the heavens, surely she would mirror the fascinating figure that held a biwa in one hand and a broken katana in the other.

Cherry blossom petals descended, forming a delicate curtain of beauty around Utahime. Each petal was a fleeting masterpiece, adding to the spectacle of the magnificent woman warrior standing amidst the ephemeral pink shower. The beauty before him unfolded like a living painting, capturing the essence of Utahime's magnificence and glory. It was a true embodiment of splendor.

Her gaze was like molten gold when she turned her attention towards Gojo, and for a moment, the world paused. Her unbound raven locks framed her face, obscuring her nose and mouth, leaving only her piercing, bright amber, golden eyes exposed. Those eyes stole a beat from Gojo's heart. They were not just beautiful; they were a radiant manifestation of golden brilliance, a gaze that possessed the mysteries of the universe within.

The orbs of golden radiance bewitched Gojo's senses. In that stolen heartbeat as his breath caught in his throat, a hot flush painted his cheeks with unexpected pinkness. The warmth surged from within as if ignited by the very gaze of the captivating woman before him. The moonlight draped Utahime in an ethereal glow, casting a luminous halo that enhanced her already profound glory and beauty. The falling petals continued their dance around her, creating a surreal aura that seemed to transcend the boundaries of reality.

Gojo grappled with the unfamiliar tide of emotions coursing through him. This wasn't just the familiar thrill of the battlefield; it was something altogether different. Nor it wasn't the familiar surge of adrenaline on the battlefield; this was a different kind of intoxication that rendered him utterly vulnerable. And this sensation stirred his soul in ways he couldn't quite fathom.

Conflicted and entranced, Gojo found himself standing at the crossroads of desire and uncertainty. His mind grappled with the ambiguity of his own emotions, yearning to move forward and yet, his body was frozen. It wasn't the scorching heat of battle that consumed him, but a different kind of fire that surged through his veins, making him feel vibrantly alive.

The palpitations of his heart echoed like a war drum, a rapid and thunderous tempo. It was a sensation both exhilarating and unnerving. His hand instinctively sought solace over his heart as if to physically anchor himself in the midst of this emotional tempest. The organ beneath his touch raced.

The pace of his heart raced with such fervor that it was on the verge of bursting free from the confines of his chest. The unmistakable thud echoed in his ears as a symphony of accelerated beats ran through the core of his being. It was as if the very seams of his existence were unraveling.

Gojo was having a hard time identifying the source of sensations surging through him as his mind tried to logic with itself.

The unfolding experience was a heady cocktail of euphoria and disarray. A grin, wide and unbridled, stretched across his face, as wild exhilaration coursed through his veins. These emotions were a different kind of high, one that made him feel both alive and untethered. He was surprised anything that didn't involve the chaos of the battlefield could invoke such feelings from him.

As his mouth quirked upward in that uncontainable grin, Gojo surrendered to the whims of this unfamiliar emotional tempest. The moonlit glow accentuated the contours of his face, revealing the unabashed joy that played upon his features. The bite mark on Gojo's arm, a lingering gift from a few days past, suddenly itched with life. A blooming ache unfurled within him as if the memory of that bite had been reawakened with an unexpected and delightful intensity. Hot waves of pleasure radiated from remembering the bite mark, intertwining with the heightened emotions stirred by the human Benzaiten before him.

His racing heart wouldn't stay still as his mind, body, and soul burned the image of the bloodied Utahime into his very being.

Notes:

Thanks for reading, and like always I would love to know your thoughts.

I believe this is the first time we get a proper POV from Gojo.

Gojo is just like, "be still my heart," while Utahime is like, "fuck, I killed those women."

Totally different!

Chapter 13: I Do Not Know Where This Love Will Take Me

Notes:

Hello and I hope you enjoy your time here.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

13

I Do Not Know Where This Love Will Take Me

"You did quite the number," Gojo said, finally finding his voice as his blue eyes scanned the aftermath of the chaos. Only the two of them occupied the restricted area while his troops diligently executed his orders, ensuring that no one in the compound escaped the grasp of death as the servants and other individuals were killed in their sleep, or made to disappear.

Utahime turned her eyes over her shoulder towards the room behind her. Her gaze lingered on the scene of the madness she had wrought, and with a solemn tone, the woman made a request that cut through the tense air, "Please give the women in the room a proper burial."

The Gojo brat, acknowledging her words with a subtle nod, observed the control with which Utahime carried herself. Her hand gently laid down the biwa as a delicate act of reverence before she efficiently cut off a portion of the suikan jacket sleeve with her broken blade. The precision in her movements was deliberate and measured.

After tearing off the cut sleeve, her nimble hand gripped the hilt tightly and placed the broken weapon back into its sheath at her side. The fractured blade on the floor became the focal point of her attention. Her dexterous fingers utilized the ornate silk sleeve to pick up and delicately wrap around the fragmented half of her blade lying on the earth. The fabric became a shroud, a makeshift cocoon cradling the remnants of a weapon that had served its purpose.

Utahime's announcement was delivered with a sense of authority. Her eyes were fixed on the unconscious man before her, revealing a nugget of crucial information, "He always carries a bronze key with him. It should open the armory box inside. Or it can be a key with multiple uses. The key should still be on him – he never takes it off."

Gojo was ever the efficient leader as the youth wasted no time in checking the unconscious man for the key. His experienced gaze didn't have to travel far as the bronze key hung around the man's neck, suspended on a string. Swiftly pocketing the key, Gojo shifted his attention to one of his troops who had appeared minutes later.

With a tone that brooked no argument, Gojo issued orders, "Take care of the bodies first. The women in the room will be cremated and prayed for – hire the local priest with discretion. Everyone else gets the following: wrapped, stoned, and fished. Shigemo will be coming along with me, prep him for transfer along with all contents of the house and his vessels. The story is that Shigemo disappeared in the middle of the night with all of his servants, let everyone else come to their own conclusion. Use his vessels to dump the bodies. This manor is officially Gojo property and quarantined."

The weight of the grim responsibilities hung in the air as the troops moved to carry out their orders, navigating the aftermath with practiced efficiency. Gojo returned his gaze to the bloodied yet composed woman before him, offering a directive, "Come with me. Let's get you cleaned up before we go back."

"Thank you," Utahime responded with a careful grip on the other half of the blade. Her eyes lingered briefly on the biwa with silent contemplation before ultimately deciding against taking the instrument.

In the aftermath of chaos, where crimson stains adorned her form, her lack of protest, complaint, and fight caught Gojo off guard. It felt almost unnatural, this absence of resistance from Utahime. The usual sparring of wills, the verbal skirmishes that had become a trademark of their recent interactions, was temporarily dissipated. He had grown accustomed to the pushback she posed.

Utahime's compliance, though welcomed on a practical level, left a lingering sense of unease.

Gojo stood sentinel outside the bathhouse as the echo of water cascading down blended with the subtle sounds of the secure Gojo manor. Within the small room, Utahime washed away the scarlet stains that clung to her body. The clean water was momentarily kissed by a tint of pink and orange, cascading down the drains, carrying with it the remnants of the recent chaos.

The Shirabyoshi clothing met its end in the embrace of flames as it was consumed by fire, disappearing into ashes. New garments, pristine and untainted, awaited the woman when she finished cleaning herself. Her broken sword was now encased in a cushioned, lacquered box, laying in patient repose. The artisan box was ready for her retrieval after she took care of herself.

In the privacy of the bathhouse, her now clean hands emptied hot water over herself. Her movements were quick and efficient, knowing not to linger in the presence of a man especially someone like the Gojo brat. Strands of blood-matted hair succumbed to the cascade, the water turning a brief shade of pink as the last remnants of the skirmish were cleansed away, efficiently washing away the crimson memories that clung to her body.

Curiosity was like a lingering mist as it enveloped Gojo's voice as he breached the silence, "You've killed before…How many?"

The question hung in the air, lingering like a quiet storm.

Her demeanor remained unchanged by the question. Utahime's brow rose despite being unseen by Gojo. He really wanted to know her kill count. Turning towards the door, she countered, "Why?"

"No real reason," Gojo replied, his shoulders lifting in a casual shrug. "Just trying to understand you."

"Not as many as you," Utahime retorted with a hint of dry humor, rising from her kneeling position on the bamboo floor. Her hands wrapped a towel around her body. A contemplative pause followed before she added, "With those four added, it will be twenty."

The weight of her words lingered in the steam-laden air, a revelation that echoed the toll of battles fought and lives ended by her own hands.

"Raiders that resulted from the Battle of Sendai?" Gojo inquired, his curiosity still lingering in the air like a quiet melody. He was sent there to quell the chaos, and of course, he took Suguru along.

"Some," Utahime admitted, her voice carrying the weight of a history intricately woven with threads of conflict. "Others were assassination attempts on my brother. Some were also skirmishes from bandits."

As Gojo continued his line of questioning, crossing his arms and leaning his tall frame against the wooden wall of the bathhouse, he delved into a more personal realm, "When was your first kill?"

Utahime's response came with a disarming ease, "I was sixteen."

The admission, delivered in the tranquil ambiance of the bathhouse, hung in the air like a shared secret. The echoes of the past, the first brush with mortality and the choices forged by her, lingered in the space between them.

The revelation struck Gojo with a curious twist of humor. His first kill and Utahime's occurred around the same time – he at the tender age of fourteen, and she at sixteen. The shared proximity of those pivotal moments, each etching its mark on the threads of their lives, held a certain brand of dark humor for him.

Gojo's lips curved into a dark smile as the subtle play of shadows in the dark accentuated the contours of his expression and features. A gentle laugh escaped his lips. With the gloom of adolescence cast against the backdrop of violence, he couldn't help but weave an unspoken connection between them.

His laughter was soft, breaking the solemnity of the moment.

"No wonder you want to rush into battle," he remarked, his tone a blend of understanding and acknowledgment.

Utahime frowned. She wasn't looking to rush into battle as he deemed it. She didn't relish in taking lives, nor was her desire rooted in a love for violence. She just wanted to protect all she held dear because if the woman didn't try her best to protect them, who else would?

"I thought you would be more distraught over the women," Gojo confessed, his words carrying a hint of curiosity. His expectations were unmet. "More emotional. I thought you would be in tears."

Utahime met his admission with a calm resolve.

"I feel terrible about them," she responded, her thoughts momentarily drifting back to the images of the slain women. "I did not know them, however."

Gojo's comment lingered, a judgment or an observation veiled in a simple, "How cold."

But to the woman, the notion was clear. Why would she shed tears for those she barely knew? Empathy, yes. Sadness, undoubtedly. However, the reservoir of her emotions wasn't one easily breached by unfamiliar faces. Her tears were not a currency she spent lightly; they were reserved for the deeply personal, the intricately woven threads of her own life. In her world, feeling sad for others didn't always translate into the outward display of tears. It was a distinction that perhaps Gojo failed to grasp, but one that Utahime held firmly in the fabric of her being.

Her footsteps echoed in the bathhouse as she moved toward the dry area, her body enveloped by the secure embrace of a towel. Fingers clutched the fabric tightly around her as a shield against the vulnerability that lingered after cleansing and washing.

As the princess eyed the clothing provided by the brat, a deep frown etched itself onto the corners of her mouth. The disapproval was a visible thread deeply woven into the fabric of her expression. Amber eyes twitched with a subtle irritation, an unspoken protest against the garments laid out for her.

Her brows knit together, forming an uneven line of dissatisfaction. The kimono was adorned with the emblem of the Gojo clan – a triple pine tree with branches – lay before her. Its colors were also dyed in Gojo white and a lighter shade of Gojo blue. The crest conveyed the omnipresence of the Gojo's, letting everyone who recognized the symbol that they were everywhere. The hakama, in a dark shade of Gojo blue, completed the ensemble.

However, the very idea of draping herself in the colors and symbol of the brat's clan stirred a visceral reaction within her. It felt like a declaration, an unwanted association with a name and lineage that wasn't hers. The thought irritated Utahime to the point of gritting her teeth, a silent defiance against the imposition.

"I don't think these clothes fit me," she called out, the kindness in her voice a thin veneer over the simmering indignation within. "Do you have anything else?"

Gojo, unmoved by the subtle plea, countered, "What's wrong with the clothes? Are you sure they don't fit you?"

Her silence became a deliberate choice, an acknowledgment to herself that attempting to reason with him would lead nowhere. It would only make herself angrier in the process. In the quiet standoff, the tension hung in the air like an unspoken challenge.

In the quietude of the bathhouse, she recognized the pragmatism of the situation. Beggars couldn't be choosers, and at this moment, the princess stood as a beggar with no clothes to her name. The clash of her personal aversion and the necessity of the situation painted a nuanced portrait of a woman caught between pride and practicality.

As she reluctantly donned the unlined white undergarment, each movement a reluctant concession to the practicality of the situation, a realization settled over her. The offensive clothing that made her want to throw up was draped over and around her, a tangible reminder of the clash between necessity and personal aversion.

Yet, amid her internal resistance, another concern surfaced. He had forgotten to provide her with something else. The oversight was a subtle but irksome detail, adding a layer of frustration to the already tense princess. Of course, he wouldn't have thought of it, or that she would need it. The unspoken inconvenience hung in the air as she grappled with the realization that she needed to ask him for this.

Unlatching the door to the bathhouse, she slid it aside, emerging clothed and with her hair gathered in a loose ponytail as its end was secured with a vibrant red ribbon. Gojo, who had moved away from the wall, cast a once-over glance at her, a tiny smile softening his features. It was an expression that left her questioning its intentions. The uncertainty added a layer of unease to the air.

She couldn't fathom the reason behind his smile, but an instinctive wariness told her it wasn't anything good. Despite the unease settling in her gut, she composed herself and made a request, "Gojo, I need gauze or chest bindings."

His blue eyes openly traveled to her chest, lingering longer than necessary. A scrunched nose and a seemingly innocuous remark followed, "Why? They're not very big, but that's okay. Haha, it's not a problem even if you have nothing."

The absolute nerve of this boy, brat!

Her modest chest wasn't nonexistent, and a flash of fire burned in her eyes as his words registered. In an instant, her hands seized the lapels of his haori jacket, pulling him down to her eye level as she issued a firm command, "Don't mess with me. Get the bindings."

There was an unexpected intensity in her grip. She was not a woman not to be dismissed lightly.

The journey back unfolded in an unexpected quietness, the rhythmic hum of the fishing vessel sailing on the water and waves was pleasant to hear as her eyes watched the endless stretch of sea that sprawled before them. The young woman was perched on the edge of the boat, watching the morning horizon with a contemplative gaze as the sea breeze played with strands of her hair.

The brat, normally vocal and brimming with an irritating energy, seemed oddly reserved. He kept to himself, and his subtle but plain shift in his demeanor didn't escape Utahime's keen observation. His occasional glances in her direction, despite his black bifocals obscuring his gaze, was obvious. She could feel the weight of his stare and she didn't like it. His actions raised a flicker of suspicion in her mind. What was he plotting? Did those consistent glances conceal some hidden agenda?

Unable to endure his heavy and overt staring any longer, the princess redirected her attention to the brat seated on a wooden chair with his chin resting on his knee. An annoyed voice, laced with irritation, cut through the tension as she inquired, "What do you want?"

His legs were casually parted, and his lips slightly ajar. The untamed strands of his already disheveled white hair seemed to rebel even further against the salt-laden wind, forming slight curls that danced upwards at the ends. The visual chaos of his appearance mirrored the internal tumult that accompanied him.

In response to her question, the white-haired samurai, seemingly unperturbed, asked, "Are you mad at me?"

A question that bordered on absurdity given the glaring evidence of her displeasure.

Scoffing, Utahime replied with biting condescension, "Why wouldn't I be mad at you?"

Gojo, maintaining an easygoing demeanor, offered a reply that only stoked the embers of her anger, "Because I haven't done anything to you yet. At least, not today."

Her frustration heightened, and Utahime almost saw red at his nonchalant attitude. Marching over to him, she delivered a cutting declaration, "You clearly don't understand. Where I am from, when you do what you have done to me, people like you – they are hated and disliked on sight. I'm not sure what's going on in that brain of yours, but you need to understand that you're despicable and unhinged."

His silence in the face of her verbal assault irked her further. She desired a response, an acknowledgment that he grasped the weight of her words, but the quiet lingered between them, and then a maddening void for acknowledgement formed. And that void begged to be filled with some form of response, anything.

"Well?" she pressed, fishing for a response. Her arms crossed and foot tapping impatiently, she challenged, "Has the talkative Gojo finally lost his tongue?"

The silence that followed felt like a small victory, but Utahime couldn't shake the disappointment that lingered. His quietness, while a departure from his usual demeanor, lacked the satisfying impact she had anticipated. Gojo, removing his chin from its cushioning on his palm, leaned back against the cabin wall. Fingers folded together, he observed her, a calculated stillness in his posture.

Growing tired of his contemplative silence, the woman warrior was poised to unleash more vitriol when unexpected words broke the silence.

"I apologize," he said, his voice devoid of emotion.

The apology hung in the air, a fragile offering that left Utahime grappling with uncertainty. She couldn't discern the sincerity behind the words or whether Gojo truly meant what he said. Narrowing her eyes, she chose silence as her response, staring back into the black reflective glasses. A sigh escaped her lips as she turned her gaze away from his hidden gaze, refusing to reveal her thoughts. Without a word, she walked back and then settled on the deck, draping her head with the white and blue Gojo clan haori jacket to shield from the morning sun that was hidden by clouds, fog, and mist. How vexing it was to wear clothing made with his clan's symbols and colors!

As she sought refuge from the now-overcast sky, the unspoken tension lingered between them.

His long legs then settled next to her, a proximity that stirred memories of a time when she harbored a semblance of trust in him. Flashes of the lake and sandy bank to the purple flower curtains of the wisteria trees immediately flooded her mind, and sweet and sour mandarin pieces shared. The recollection, however, turned sour, fueling a renewed annoyance that manifested in her nails digging into the silk of the jacket, leaving half-moon imprints on the fabric. The haori obscured her face, a deliberate shield from his gaze that lingered at the periphery of his blue eyes.

A statement broke the heavy air, his words taking her by surprise. "I suppose having your hate is better than your indifference."

"What?" she retorted, turning to face him, a frown etched on her features. Uncertain of his intentions, round, wide eyes scrutinized him, demanding an explanation. "You think you're funny? You think you're smart?"

Though his eyes remained hidden behind black glasses, she felt the weight of his calculating gaze. A bright smile accompanied his next words, "Yeah, I definitely do."

The shift in his tone, the playfulness that danced in his words, left her bewildered.

"You're looking at me now, aren't you," Gojo remarked with a subtle hint of slyness.

She inhaled, a subtle sound that betrayed her surprise. Murmuring, "You're so very strange," she found herself caught in the frustration that was Gojo Satoru.

"I'll make sure you'll never be apathetic towards me," he vowed, the words hanging in the air with a promise that stirred a complex blend of certainty and confidence.

What an eccentric statement to make, thought the princess as she enjoyed the ebb and flow of the waves rocking the ship. She didn't linger on it much though. Utahime did not want to devote more of her attention to the boy beside her.

"Have you ever navigated a river?" Gojo's inquiry echoed between them. His knees knocked lightly into hers, trying his best to provoke her, but she barely ignored his act of annoyance. The question lingered in the air as Utahime's gaze flickered toward him, capturing the essence of his form through the slivers of visibility offered by the folds of her haori jacket.

Why was he so huge? She rolled her eyes. Gojo took up so much space that he encroached on her territory! Her body scooted away from him.

"Like swimming?" the young woman responded, her attention snagged by his cross-legged posture which somehow touched her shins now. Her view was limited, but the impression of his long legs made her jaw twitch just the tiniest bit. How did he suddenly occupy her space once more?

"Boating?"

"Yeah, boating," he confirmed, a subtle anticipation in his voice.

A huff escaped her lips, laced with a hint of envy.

"How nice it must be that you, Gojo Satoru, are able to occupy anything without any worries," she remarked, staring at his elongated legs that pressed into her shins. "Can you remove your person from me?"

The white-haired youth chose silence as his response, a patient expectancy hanging in the air as he awaited her reply to his question. The young woman refused to give any more space to him! She was going to stand her ground.

Utahime, in a moment of whimsy, decided to play along. The memories of riverbanks and the gentle sway of a boat came effortlessly to her mind. "Yes, plenty of times."

"Ever felt a little lost?" Gojo's voice held a subtle nuance. "Adrift?"

"No?" Utahime replied, a note of certainty in her voice, a reflection of a life that followed a clear course. She wasn't sure of the meaning behind his words.

"I don't think I have either," he admitted to having never lost his way.

Then, with swift precision, Gojo's long, limber fingers traced down the white and blue haori jacket that shrouded her head and body, electrifying the woman through the cloth barrier. The silk fabric fluttered between them like a veil being gently taken off, revealing the unseen. The action, unexpected and intimate, startled her as she gazed into the black bifocals with furrowed brows and a tiny frown decorating her lips.

The sudden act of unveiling her left Utahime in a state of disquiet, her composure disrupted as the tips of her ears, concealed beneath a cascade of dark hair, ignited with a subtle heat. Gojo's action breached an unspoken boundary, and she was quick to respond.

In a swift motion, she redirected her focus to the black bifocals perched on his face. With an unexpected burst of agility, her fingers snatched the glasses from his features as a flash of grit showed in her eyes. The frames now in her possession, she folded them with deliberate care, studying the intricate design that bespoke both practicality and style.

Placing the glasses on the vast expanse of his thigh, she ensured her touch did not extend beyond the frames. It was an impulsive move from her in the aftermath of his imprudent act.

Utahime's eyes, like storm clouds gathering on the horizon, then shifted and remained fixed ahead. She was determined not to succumb to his undertow, resisting the gravitational pull of his easygoing demeanor and the fiery, carefree attitude that engulfed everything in its path. And yet, despite her staunch resistance, there lingered a covetousness within her, a silent and unwanted acknowledgment of the magnetism he held.

The way he talked grated against her, an irritation that burrowed beneath her skin. His chopsticks, held with a strength reminiscent of a sword grip, were a source of inexplicable displeasure. Logically, there was nothing wrong with it, but it echoed the facets of his character that she found difficult to reconcile. His duplicitous nature, the unreadable depths that shielded his true self, all fueled her list of dislikes.

She hated how Gojo Satoru took up so much of her space with his body and his presence.

The princess despised the fact that her attention gravitated towards him. Her thoughts, like unruly currents, were consumed by his presence, a force that held power over her in ways she couldn't comprehend. She detested the hold he had on her, yearning for a semblance of control over her life.

Gojo Satoru controlled her using her mistake, and she couldn't do anything about it.

The thought made her grind her teeth.

As she brooded over her internal strife, his head unexpectedly popped up in front of her, a surprise that caused her to jump back with a yelp. Her hands instinctively landed behind her, caught off guard by the sudden intrusion into even more of her personal space.

"Then again," Gojo Satoru smiled at her, a declaration hanging in the air like an unanswered question. "I don't know. I do not know what will become nor do I know where the river flow will take me."

His eyes, akin to sparkling gems, held a mesmerizing quality that momentarily disarmed her. In that moment, a flicker of jealousy and greed stirred within the princess as her heart fluttered, alarmed by the unexpected twist in the tide of their interaction.

Notes:

The title of this chapter comes from Hyakunin Isshu: Poem 46, Yura No To Wo by Sone no Yoshitada.

由良のとを
渡る舟人
かぢをたえ
行くへも知らぬ
恋の道かな

Like a boatsman
Crossing the mouth of Yura
The oar lost, boat adrift
I do not know
The way of love

P.S. Gojo didn't say her name once this chapter. And Utahime called him by his name?!

What is going on?

Thanks for reading, and let me know your thoughts if you have any. :)

Chapter 14: A Girl Worth Fighting For

Notes:

Hello all! I am back with an update. I was listening to the song while writing this chapter. This chapter was harder for me to write. There were several things I wanted to accomplish and I'm not sure if I did.

Anywho, thanks for reading and enjoy.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

14

A Girl Worth Fighting For

The fishing vessel eventually navigated its way back to the port of Hakone. The box containing her broken sword hung over one of Utahime's shoulders. A detachable strap secured the long box. The ship eased into the harbor with a subtle grace, its hull cutting through the waters as it approached the awaiting dock. As the vessel settled into place, the sound of creaking ropes and the distant calls of seagulls blended with the murmur of activity on the docks. From the belly of the ship emerged a long trunk that was formidable and secured with a complex network of locks. Its sides bore peculiar holes on the side. The trunk was carefully loaded onto a waiting cart.

The journey from the dock to the barracks was uneventful, the cart winding its way up a mountain path. The landscape unfolded with every turn, revealing the sprawling training grounds that awaited them. The air grew crisp as they ascended, the distant echoes of soldiers in drills becoming more distinct.

Upon reaching the training grounds, a subtle tension filled the atmosphere. The moment Utahime and Gojo set foot on the grounds, a lower-ranking sergeant approached with a crisp bow for the seasoned captain.

"Captain Gojo," the sergeant addressed with a respectful tone, "the generals request your presence, along with Iori, at General Gakuganji's quarters."

"Is that so? Alright then," Gojo's response was composed, devoid of any immediate reaction. His stoic demeanor betrayed no hint of the thoughts racing through his mind. He acknowledged the orders with a simple nod, directing attention to the enigmatic trunk on the cart.

"This is also for the generals," the captain stated with a calm authority as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Important cargo, if you will."

The sergeant, understanding the significance of the situation, nodded in turn.

"We will transport it to the residence," he affirmed before bowing and organizing the men to carry the trunk to General Gakuganji's private quarters.

As the trunk disappeared from view, the young woman turned to the youth as curiosity etched across her features.

"Why do you suppose the generals want to meet us?" she inquired, seeking insight into the impending summons.

"We will see," he replied. Gojo's response carried a hint of wariness; his fingers coming up to comb the back of his head.

Her keen amber eyes scanned the boy's countenance with subtle amusement as her grinning mouth was partially hidden behind a sleeve. The seasoned captain displayed a rare moment of hesitation. There was a hint of fluster, a touch of frustration, and perhaps a flicker of apprehension in his eyes. It was a departure from his usual devil-may-care self, and Utahime couldn't help but find his state to be retribution for all the trouble he caused. It was nice to know that even the great and honorable Gojo Satoru was not in control all the time. A ripple of glee surged through her veins, savoring the novelty of witnessing Gojo in a state of mild disgruntlement. As the young woman observed him, she couldn't help but muse on the hurdle that lay ahead. Whatever awaited them in General Gakuganji's quarters was significant enough to elicit such an atypical response from the young man.

With a practiced motion, the young man slid open the shoji door, revealing the two older men already seated and savoring tea in the large room. General Yaga's demeanor was gruff and cool, occupying one cushioned seat on the tatami while the other was filled by the elderly General Gakuganji who bore the weight of age with dignity. Gakuganji beckoned the two inside, and Gojo closed the door behind them as Utahime stepped forward with a stoic face in tow.

"Come over here," Yaga commanded as his voice was stern, leaving no room for argument. Gojo, who was very adept at reading the room, knew he was caught. Surrendering to the authority of his generals and teacher, he shuffled over without a fight.

"Kneel," Yaga ordered, and without hesitation, Gojo dropped to his knees in front of the generals.

Utahime readied herself to kneel, but Gakuganji stopped her with a single word, "Princess."

The word "princess" caused her heart to start racing as the two generals turned towards Utahime, offering a bow of reverence to the princess. Yaga also forced Gojo to do the same as their faces lowered and bodies inclined, kneeling on the floor with heads bowed.

A subtle curvature appeared on her lips, slowly evolving into an upward tilt upon seeing the white-haired demon prostrate himself in front of her. A growing smirk stretched across her face as if a heavy burden was lifted, and then she covered her mouth with her hand.

The blue-eyed youth didn't miss the growing smirk on her face before Utahime quickly concealed it as his eyes gazed up at her despite his teacher's hand settling on the back of his head, forcing him to bow deeply in a gesture of respect and apology.

Gakuganji's voice was weathered by time, but it carried a reassuring tone as he made a formal announcement, "We have been informed of your circumstances, princess. My apologies for the late recognition and introduction."

With measured grace, he then introduced himself, "Gakuganji Yoshinobu is at your service and use," a declaration that echoed with the weight of authority and experience. The old man's demeanor exuded a quiet strength that spoke of a lifetime of leadership.

General Yaga was also no stranger to decorum as he followed suit with his own introduction.

"Yaga Masamichi at your service and use," he stated, the words were carrying a stoic determination. The two generals, having acknowledged the princess' status, maintained their bowed posture before her.

Although she heard them, her eyes were trained on the hunched form of Gojo Satoru. The brat finally showing her some decency and respect brought inexplicit glee through her body. In that moment, Utahime realized the tables had turned.

Gojo no longer held any power or control over her now that his superiors were most likely informed by her uncle. That was easy to deduce. The princess feared she was going to embarrass her family if outsiders in powerful places knew, but as the present situation currently was, it became clear to her that her actions were being overlooked. Being the direct niece of the emperor had its perks, she supposed.

Absolute bliss filled her body as this brat of a boy could no longer push and prod her around like some rag doll.

"Please lift your heads," Utahime requested modestly as she hid her terrifying grin behind her hand, shifting her gaze elsewhere. She didn't want the men to see how happy her heart was. To see how her eyes burned with pleasure at Gojo's forced humility.

As the men lifted their heads, the air was charged with an unspoken understanding. The true purpose of this meeting was for something else, of course. The disguised princess then asked, staring at the painting of a waterfall, "What is it that the emperor has tasked you with?"

"We are to move training camps to the imperial capital," explained Gakuganji. "And to deliver the princess from Miura to the golden palace safely as soon as possible."

"When do we leave?" she asked.

"The day after tomorrow," the old man continued, looking at his white-haired pupil accusingly. "I am sure you are weary from your journey with this one here."

"Generals," the princess said. "I believe in your best judgment; however, if my unc- if the emperor has ordered you two to deliver me as soon as possible; then perhaps it is best if we leave tomorrow or tonight. I imagine we will be leaving by boat rather than by horse. And how shall we explain the disappearance of Iori the recruit?"

"That is none of their concerns," Yaga cut in. "Do not worry."

She mused, staring at the waterfall painting and the jagged rocks depicted below the surface. "Hmm, alright. Tomorrow it is then. Mei Mei will be doing the transportation?"

"Yes," he answered gruffly.

She then requested, "Please do not fault Lady Shoko. It was my selfishness. She had no choice in the matter."

"Of course," Yaga answered.

The generals' dismissal echoed in her ears as well as their directive to endure her current lodgings for one more night. The modest quarter held a certain charm that the princess found endearing. The smallness added an intimate touch, and the quaintness wrapped around her like a familiar embrace now. As Utahime stepped out into the crisp morning air, a newfound lightness settled upon her. The prospect of shedding the burden of her false identity danced like a feather in the breeze, promising a liberation she had yearned for.

A subtle shadow crept into her elation. The weight of guilt began to form in the pit of her stomach, a nagging concern for her father. Would he be the one to bear the brunt of the impending war in her stead? With the end of April looming, a mere five months stood between the present moment and the departure of soldiers for the battlefield. The dilemma gnawed at her conscience, leaving her grappling with the consequences of her revelation.

The day unfolded with a swiftness that caught her off guard. Lunchtime arrived, bringing with it a simple yet comforting meal – a bowl of rice adorned with succulent pieces of chicken, a steaming bowl of soup, and an array of vibrant veggies. Two sweet custard buns nestled on the side, tempting her with their promise of softness. She decided to save them for later as a small indulgence in the face of uncertainty.

With the afternoon stretching ahead, she embarked on a solitary stroll around the barracks. Her destination was Gojo's hill overlooking the serene lake, beckoning her with a promise of solitude and reflection. Each step carried the weight of impending farewells was a silent acknowledgment of the imminent journey that awaited her on the morrow.

The wisteria tree by the river became her next destination, and its blossoms were a cascade of lavender framing the waters below. The princess lingered beneath its purple branches, absorbing the tranquil melody of the flowing river. The wisteria's tendrils whispered secrets of the impending departure as a breeze swept through its purple curtains, reminding her of her impending unknown fate in Kyoto.

Tomorrow she would set sail for Kyoto.

The barracks welcomed her back as the day waned into the golden hues of late afternoon. The young woman unexpectedly crossed paths with Gojo, and the brat appeared visibly roughened, sporting a split lip that marred his usual composed demeanor.

Her amber eyes widened with genuine concern, and before she could fully register her actions, Utahime found herself hastening toward him.

"What happened?" she exclaimed. The sudden display of concern surprised even Utahime as it dawned onto her that logically she should be cheering for his demise, no matter how little it was. As her eyes scanned him up and down, assessing the extent of his injuries, the princess realized that the slight worry engraved on her face betrayed a vulnerability she hadn't intended to display. Despite the clashes and animosity, a flicker of genuine concern for the captain surfaced.

He was unfazed by his current state, meeting her gaze with a piercing intensity. His stare bore down into her like she was a cryptic puzzle as his expression revealed nothing of the circumstances that led to his present condition. Though Utahime had a good idea of what happened as there were only two people here Gojo Satoru would allow to hit him freely without any retaliation.

The silence between them was heavy as she wrestled with conflicting emotions: concern for a fellow comrade and the lingering resentment that defined their interactions.

Clutching the wrapped bundle of two small custard buns in her hand, her gaze drifted to Gojo and his split lip. Her mind then echoed with the dawdling memories of the last time she shared such treats with him. The brat took her out on a boat ride, and at the end of that journey, she returned with more blood on her hands, but what was done was done. The woman would pay for her sins when it came to meet the Gods of Death.

When it came time to die, would Utahime be tried as a princess or a warrior?

Torn between the genuine concern for Gojo's well-being and the lessons she associated with giving him sweets, Utahime hesitated.

But what did that matter?

She was leaving for Kyoto the next day. The weight of imminent departure hung in the air, and the realization that she was bound for Kyoto cast a poignant shadow over the present moment. Despite the regretful expression idling on her face, a surge of compassion overpowered the rational reservations that had held her back. In a begrudging voice, she addressed the towering figure of Gojo before her, the bundle of pastries extended like a tentative offering.

"I don't know what happened, or why you have a damaged lip," she admitted, her words carrying a hint of sincerity beneath the surface tension that seeped through whenever her tongue rolled a sound too harshly. The unspoken complexities of their history lingered in the air between the two, but her compassion prevailed over the bitterness.

"You can do whatever you want with these. They are clean and untouched," Utahime added. This simple act of offering pastries was a gesture of reconciliation as a tentative bridge across the chasm that separated them.

In the delicate exchange, Gojo's large hand enveloped the bundle of pastries from the princess. The subtle current remained charged despite the silence; and as he grabbed them, his fingertips grazed across her open palm. The sharp bite of electricity crawled up her body, clinging onto her as the unexpected touch sent a jolt through her, catching her off guard as she surrendered the desserts.

Her amber eyes locked onto the black frames perched on his face. Uncertainty danced in the depths of her gaze, questioning the nature of the unnecessary contact.

Was it intentional, or a mere accident?

The touch had to have been accidental with absolute certainty. She was sure of it as her hand retracted, dropping to the side. A faint shiver ran through her, but it was the wind that was making her shiver – Utahime was positive it was nothing else as she instinctively tucked the tingling appendage behind her back. She frowned deeply at nothing and no one, but it remained present on her face. It was as if her hand brushed against sparks of cracking fire, leaving a persistent sensation that resonated in the quiet space between them.

The tall youth methodically unraveled the red bundle, deftly untying the easy knot that held it together. As the cloth fell away, revealing two soft white buns nestled within, his long fingers reached for one with a deliberate grace. Intense scrutiny marked his examination of the pastry, his eyes tracing its contours and indents.

His gaze didn't remain solely on the culinary offering. Instead, it shifted toward the woman with her arms crossed as her attention was fixed on the recruits nearby. A sly smirk played across his features. With a calculated nonchalance, Gojo bit into the soft bun as the white bread yielded beneath the pressure of his teeth. The bread was a delicate interplay of softness and subtle sweetness. It wasn't sweet enough by his personal standards, but the custard inside compensated with its velvety texture, melting over his tongue in a decadent dance of flavors.

A grin played on his face as he chewed silently, choosing to watch the girl for now. His blue eyes fixed on the sweet girl who offered the pastries; in that moment, his mind became a playground of ideas, the wheels turning with an almost mischievous intent. The simple act of indulging in a custard bun opened the door to a realm of possibilities, and as he continued to chew, Gojo was struck with inspiration.

Having savored the flavors of the soft bun, the youth swallowed with a deliberate relish, his amusement apparent as he decided to play an impish card. Leaning in, he whispered her name, a soft utterance meant for her ears alone, "Utahime."

The quiet surroundings ensured that their exchange remained between the two of them.

The effect was immediate. Her frown returned with a vengeance, transforming into a scowl as she opened her mouth to protest. "Do not say that name so carelessly mmmph-!"

But before Utahime could voice her objection, Gojo deftly silenced her with another calculated move. The remaining quarter of the custard bun found its way into her mouth as his fingers brushed against her lips with a gentle insistence, ensuring compliance. The muffled protest that escaped her lips was sealed along with the pastry. Her annoyance bristled. The disguised princess had no choice but to chew, chew, chew as the indignant glare in her amber eyes accused him of a myriad of offenses.

As her jaw chewed, forcing herself to swallow the offensive half-eaten dessert, the Gojo heir observed her with an air of quiet satisfaction as he released his hold over her mouth. His fingertips, still tingling with the memory of her lips' warmth and softness, hovered over his lips like a delicate secret he was unwilling to let go. As he traced the outline of his lips with tentative fingers, the sensation of the texture of her lips replayed in his mind. His fingers rested against his mouth, pressing against his lips in contemplation as if to preserve the essence of that stolen moment. And just as Gojo grew content to stay as is, there was a gnawing hunger for something more as the temptation to lick the pads of his resting fingers crept up on him steadily like an intrusive thought.

Her suspicion was engraved across her features was like a fine web of caution as Utahime couldn't help but demand an explanation. It hurt her to swallow his eaten dessert, but it would have also hurt her to spit out the food like some sort of unrefined person.

"What was that for?" she queried, her gaze narrowing with skepticism and irritation.

The boy, with an innocence that was easily too calculated, replied, "Oh, you opened your mouth, so I thought you wanted some."

His words hung in the air like a brazen attempt at justifying his audacious move as he removed his fingers from his mouth, licking them lightly before reaching for the last bun.

"What?" she almost screeched, unable to fathom the audacity of his logic. The sheer nerve of this brat! Indignation set in her jaw as the flash of disbelief remained in her amber eyes.

Nonchalantly, the white-haired samurai responded with a casual, "You're welcome," as if bestowing a favor upon her. His attention shifted to the second bun in his hand, but the hidden eyes focused intently on her lips as he resumed eating the sweet bun. There was an almost predatory glint in his gaze as his palate noted that the second bun was sweeter than the first bun for some odd reason.

A bright smile adorned the youth's face as he continued to chew, unfazed by the deadly tension emanating from her amber eyes. Her nails dug into the palm of her hands as she glared at him before finally sighing. He then pushed his black frames up to the top of his head, showcasing all his face to Utahime as his eyes sparkled so brightly.

"Did you want some more?" he asked, his tone dripping with a naughty charm. With a lighthearted flourish, he extended the second half-eaten bun toward her.

"Gah! No!" Utahime denied vehemently as her gaze fixated on him as if he had lost his mind. "I don't want more of your germs."

"Germs?" he replied innocently, a feigned look of realization dawning on his features. He gasped loudly. "Oh, you're right… I guess that was sort of like sharing a kiss, wasn't it?"

His words were a peculiar blend of innocence and provocation that caused her hands to itch uncontrollably. She would not have mind attempting to strangle him for saying such scandalous words. Utahime's incredulous stare pierced through Gojo as she retorted, "Are you crazy? In what world? You know what, I don't want to know what is going inside your mind."

"Oh," he teased, a playful glint in his eyes. "Looks like someone is disappointed it was only an indirect one."

A hard stare from the disguised princess followed, and just as she was ready to walk away, he stopped her with a good-natured yet insistent, "Okay, okay, okay, okay."

When the princess halted and turned to look at him over her shoulder, he declared with the corners of his mouth turning upward whimsically, "It was a thousand percent an indirect kiss."

"Yeah, you're stupid," Utahime retorted, shaking her head in exasperation. The incredulous look on her face was golden.

Standing beside her, the youth finally took a moment to fully absorb the stark contrast in their statures. Her much smaller frame became more evident as he observed her petite form. She barely reached the level of his shoulders, the top of her head a mere fraction of the height he occupied. While the awareness of her diminutive size compared to him was not entirely new, the realization struck him with fresh clarity in that moment.

Just as he was poised to utter something to the princess by his side, the exuberant figure of Haibara came bounding toward them with an infectious aura of joy radiating from him. He was so happy that his energy could be felt a mile away. Nanami and Geto trailed behind him. In response to the approaching trio, Gojo's long fingers deftly pushed down the frames perched on his head. It was a seamless adjustment as he prepared to match Haibara's enthusiasm.

With a casual yet friendly greeting, he effortlessly intercepted Haibara's energetic approach as he stepped forward with the half-eaten bun in his hand.

"Yo!" he exclaimed; a resonance of Haibara's exuberance evident in his own demeanor as the three other men came up.

Geto's dark eyes swept over Gojo's busted lip with a subtle perturbation drawn across his features. He inquired with a touch of concern, "You got in deep shit with teacher?"

Gojo, in response, offered a sheepish acknowledgment.

"You can say that," he admitted, a hint of wryness accompanying his response.

Nanami shifted the focus away from potential trouble and decided to redirect the conversation with a simple inquiry. "How was the trip, Captain? Iori?"

"It was a boat," she deadpanned, her tone laced with a dry humor. "And a town."

In contrast, Gojo's response carried a joking tone as he answered, "It was good, but part of the reason why I got this," he motioned to his face, grinning widely.

Haibara shifted his attention to the listening woman with an air of enthusiasm. He then said to the disguised woman, "Iori, I heard that you are rather popular with the women around the barracks and town!"

The unexpected revelation elicited a puzzled response from Utahime.

"Huh?" she uttered, genuinely taken aback by the news. The notion of her popularity caught her off guard, leaving her to wonder about the whispers and perceptions that circulated around her presence in the barracks and the town beyond.

Haibara's teasing continued, his playful demeanor evident as he poked fun at Iori.

"Yeah! The lunch ladies told me you're kind, polite, and quite the charmer," he declared, punctuating the statement with a light poke to her shoulder. "What a lady killer."

With a burst of enthusiasm, he declared with gusto, pumping his hand in the air, "I want a girl worth fighting for!"

"I wish I was popular," Haibara moaned dramatically. "I want a girl who can eat a lot!"

Gojo, who was always ready to join the banter, chimed in teasingly. Peering down at Utahime from behind his glasses and holding her shoulder, he suggested, "What about this girl? Paler than the moon with eyes that shine like stars?"

Haibara was undeterred though as he added his own criteria with an exclamation, "I don't care what she wears, looks like, but if she can eat and cook! Ah!"

The attention shifted to the blonde boy, and Haibara's inquisitive gaze settled on him.

"What about you?" he asked with an air of curiosity, wondering what Nanami would say.

Nanami replied with a hint of seriousness, "I want to get married eventually. Someone kind."

Geto added with confidence, "When we come home in victory, they will line up at your doors."

The three men then turned expectantly to Utahime, awaiting her response.

"Uh, how about a woman with a brain. Like Tomoe Gozen?" she suggested.

The white-haired captain beside her erupted into loud, roaring laughter as his grip on her shoulder tightened with amusement and something else. Once he managed to calm down, Gojo threw in his own opinion, "Oh Gods, Tomoe Gozen? Why choose Tomoe Gozen when Hangaku is preferable."

Shaking off his hand with a hint of annoyance, the princess retorted, "They're both great women, but I prefer Tomoe Gozen because she was never boughed down by the weight of her expectations."

"If you prefer Tomoe Gozen, then I prefer Hangaku Gozen," he countered. His words, while they were delivered in a seemingly light-hearted manner, carried a hint of seriousness. "Dressed as a boy – many men met their ends with her arrows and her blade. Fearless as a man. Beautiful as a flower. Captured and she still fulfilled her duty. She knew her place at the end. Being a wife."

As the words hung in the air, Utahime's amber eyes narrowed to slits as she took in the towering man before her. The tension between the two of them grew freezingly cold and frigid as she scoffed at the boy. A dirty glare and a sneer played on her features, holding an undercurrent of resentment as she tilted her head at him.

"Is that how you view your fiancée?" she asked bitingly; the words laced with contempt.

The mention of "fiancée" cast an unexpected stillness over the white-haired youth. He completely forgot about Shoko as his soon-to-be wife. It was as if time suspended itself for a fleeting moment, and in that silence, he found himself grappling with the realization that he still had unfinished business to take care of. The notion of her as his soon-to-be wife was a reality he momentarily overlooked, and it gripped his thoughts with a sense of unanticipated weight.

Geto managed to recover quicker than Gojo. His dark eyes were sharp and observant, catching the flicker of unease that crossed Gojo's features. The silent exchange held a depth of curiosity, a subtle probing into Gojo's thoughts about their childhood friend and his impending fiancée. His dark gaze focused intently on his best friend, seeking any tell-tale signs that might betray the captain's true sentiments despite the obscured eyes that were concealed behind black glass.

The other captain harbored a burning curiosity as distrust began igniting within him once more – he wanted to know if Satoru loved her, Shoko. The air thickened with unspoken questions.

Suguru sought an answer in Satoru's hesitation. The silence spoke volumes, revealing a truth that he hadn't wanted to acknowledge. The absence of a definitive affirmation or denial hung heavily in the air, and in that moment, Suguru sensed the void that lay between Satoru and Shoko. It was an absence of the kind of affection that could pave the way for a life together – a realization that struck him with a bitter intensity.

A bitter, ill grin contorted Suguru's mouth as the weight of the truth settled in his chest. His dear friend harbored nothing more than a friendship's affection for Shoko. The depth of his feelings, or rather the lack thereof, left a bitter taste in Suguru's mouth. The understanding clawed at him, unraveling a tempest of jealousy, envy, and greed. It was a bitter bile that welled up within him, poisoning the well of his emotions.

Satoru could never love Shoko in the way she deserved to be loved. The bitter storm within Suguru churned as the darkness consumed him bit by bit. It was as if he had consumed curses, swallowing their putrid essence. He felt like a tainted, twisted mess – a volcano on the verge of eruption as internal turmoil threatened to overshadow the bonds of friendship and plunge him into the depths of emotions he had never anticipated.

Tumultuous thoughts swirled in Suguru's mind, and in the midst of the storm, a dangerous idea flickered.

What if he just took her away?

What if he just ran away with her?

An impulsive desire to take her away, to run from the confines of their world with Shoko by his side. The notion beckoned, a tempting whisper that flirted with the idea of defying everything they had together.

Even as the allure of such a drastic action teased him, a sobering question lingered: Was it worth destroying their brotherhood, the bond they had forged over the years, for the sake of the girl who had grown up alongside them?

The weight of the decision bore down on Suguru. On one hand, there was the longing for a love he felt was rightfully his, and on the other, the fear of irreparable damage to the friendship that defined their lives. The conflict raged within him, torn between the pull of forbidden desires and the loyalty to a friendship.

In that moment of contemplation, Suguru grappled with the tangled web of emotions, unsure of which path held the key to his happiness and the preservation of their brotherhood. He wanted both.

As the evening descended, casting shadows across the barracks, Utahime found herself confronted with the unexpected sight of Captain Geto – sickly, troubled, and worn down. Just as she was making her way to dinner, the captain sought her out, a pained smile playing on his lips. The weight of his distress was evident in the lines carved on his face and the exhaustion that clung to him like a heavy shroud. He possessed deep, black bags underneath his eyes.

"Want to go for a walk?" he asked, his voice carrying the burden of the unseen turmoil within him.

"Not really," the disguised woman replied with unfiltered honesty. "The last time someone said that to me, I got beat."

"Haha," he laughed, the sound carrying a carefree yet hollow quality. "I promise I won't hurt you, Iori."

Her gaze remained on him with deep skepticism and caution woven into her scrutiny. Despite the turbulent emotions that surrounded him, she sensed a certain transparency in his words. His distaste, when present, was rarely concealed. Letting out a deep sigh, she relented.

"Fine, but it must be a quick one. It's almost dinner time," she conceded, the practicality of her nature asserting itself even in the face of a potentially revealing conversation.

The lake served as the backdrop as Captain Geto picked up rocks, and skillfully skipped them across the water's surface. The rhythmic splashes echoed through the quiet, creating a calming cadence that contrasted with the weight of the captain's troubled thoughts.

"I am torn, Little Hiko," he confessed, his voice carrying the echoes of a struggle that went beyond the physical battles they faced. "I desire something; however, my mind knows logically I should not pursue it. My love has already ended, and yet I continue to look for it."

His words were a somber reflection of the burdens he bore as he said, lingering in the forefront of his mind, "I take lives, I protect the weak because if the strong do not, then who will? If the weak were strong enough to protect themselves, I wouldn't have to take lives. I want something and yet I cannot have it."

Utahime listened to his confession with a knowing seriousness. As he spoke, she couldn't help but release a laughter that felt more like a loud exhale.

This, she thought, was what he wanted to talk about.

"If I may speak freely?" she inquired, a subtle shift in her tone.

"Go for it," he responded. He had never stopped Hiko before.

"I'm going to speak plainly. This is about Lady Shoko, Captain Gojo, and you, correct?" Utahime's words cut through the serene air, laying bare the unspoken truths that lurked beneath the surface. "You are in love with Lady Shoko, or you have some great affection for the woman, and she is the person you cannot forget, correct?"

Captain Geto, confronted with the stark honesty, remained silent. He was reluctant to speak.

"And now you are feeling troubled because you feel loyalty to yourself and Captain Gojo," continued the disguised princess, her words threading through the unspoken intricacies of their situation. "Stop me if I am misunderstanding something."

He chose to remain silent, a passive listener to the unraveling truths.

"The way how I see it is that you are lucky and beloved," she asserted, her perspective injecting a note of unexpected optimism into the conversation.

The captain, perhaps not expecting such a response, finally spoke, "I am not sure how that relates to the situation at hand." The uncertainty in his voice reflected the complexity of emotions that gripped him.

"Sure, it does," Utahime countered, her words carrying practical wisdom as she balanced herself on her haunches, her gaze fixed on the vast expanse of the lake. "What heartache is there if you just spoke to them? Yeah, yeah, you don't want to be a bother. You don't want to let your best friend know that you and his fiancée have been developing feelings for each other. Yeah, yeah, you're afraid and tired and scared. But doesn't talking about the situation at least make sure you three are all on the same page?"

"It's not that easy," Geto defended, the weight of his inner conflict evident in his words.

"I wonder why we are born with mouths then if not to talk and communicate? If eyes are meant for us to gain perspective, and our hands allow us to create, and our legs enable us to move forward, and our ears permit us to listen, then the point of our mouths must be to speak. Our minds shape us beyond fears, I would hope," she said. Her eyes rolled in response, dismissing the rather lack of justification. She was ready to move beyond the excuses. "Okay, well another option is that you stay quiet and swallow your feelings. And you let them go, and I'm pretty sure you have been doing that for a while already, but it's been to no success."

Her advice continued with a clear directive as she heavily emphasized her words.

"And I don't mean you go and find another person to love because you're nursing your feelings," she clarified. The captain couldn't help but laugh. The sound uttered by him was a momentary release from the heavy burden he carried. "Captain, live up to your name. Live up to your parents' wishes for you. Be a great man, don't be a disgusting man. Be part of the excellence your parents wished for you when they named you."

"Why would moving on with another person make me a disgusting man?" he questioned. A wide grin crossed his face as his amusement with her passionate statement was evident.

The disguised princess responded with a look that carried an unmistakable "really?"

"Anyways, Captain, the way I see it. You are lucky and loved. You have people who love you greatly. You have so many friends and people who adore you. I," the princess pointed to herself. "On the other hand, do not have that same luxury. I have maybe five people I can consider friends, and even then, it's debatable. I think those two would understand if you just spoke to them."

"Hmm," he responded noncommittally, the weight of his inner turmoil still evident in his demeanor. Uncertainty endured like a looming shadow over his thoughts.

"Okay," Utahime declared with a hint of bossiness in her tone. "Captain, go find like a leaf and something else to represent your love. Let's do a little experiment."

Intrigued, Sugu followed her directive. He sought out a wayward leaf and then plucked a stray wildflower from the rocky ground. His love was like that flower. It grew in a place where it should not have. As the captain held the leaf and the flower, the weight of his emotions found expression in the tangible objects as he too hunched over alongside the person next to him.

She said resolutely, "If you're serious about letting go of your feelings, that flower will represent your love and the leaf will be the ship, vessel, that carries it. And if you're serious about moving on, you will place them together in the river and let it go."

Her bright, burning amber eyes then turned to him seriously, and the princess promised him, "I will be the witness of your determination. I will be the person who saw that you gave it your all. It's okay to let go. It's okay to be weak. Even though I know you hate the weak. It's just part of being alive."

The words brought a sense of solace to him. The boy followed her instructions, placing the flower on the leaf, ready to release the vessel that carried his doomed and complicated love into the river. There was a hesitation in his body though. And just as Geto was about to do the silly little exercise, he heard a booming voice from behind them, interrupting the quiet moment.

"Hey!" said Gojo. Behind him was Lady Shoko in a bright red kimono, following behind her fiancé leisurely. "What are you two doing?"

A strong breeze swept through the area, catching the leaf and flower in his hand. The elements took control, carrying his love away with the wind. The act was sudden, leaving him with no choice, no deliberation. The wind dictated the course of his emotions, and as the flower and leaf floated away, he was left uncertain of where his love would land. Yet, in that moment, Geto knew one thing for sure – he still possessed it as his eyes locked onto Shoko's calm orbs that reflected him.

His love.

"Seems like you guys have a lot to do, Captain," said the disguised princess, gracefully rising from her hunched form. "I'm going to dinner. Bye. I hope you feel better."

With those parting words, the princess excused herself from the area, leaving the trio to their own devices. Whether they talked or not, the intricacies of their interactions were none of her business.

His best friend then wrapped an arm around his neck – Satoru's arm never felt so unusually heavy before. In his whiny voice, Satoru pressed for answers, "I want to know too! You two looked so close there. C'mon tell me. Don't betray me."

Suguru froze with the mention of betrayal, haunted by the echoes of treachery. The dark-haired man then gave a hard smile as he reflected on Iori's words. He couldn't live up to his name; he couldn't be an excellent man. The specter of an unfaithfulness committed long ago lingered around him like a ghostly curse because he already betrayed his best friend a long time ago.

Suguru then finally answered, looking at the woman in red who possessed an inquisitive gaze, as he said, "We were simply doing a thought exercise and experiment."

"And did it work out?" inquired Shoko, her curiosity evident in her expression.

Suguru's response came in the form of a twisted, sour smile as he admitted, "No. Never got that far."

Before dawn's first light painted the sky, the princess prepared to depart for Kyoto. Carrying her armor and the case that cradled the broken sword, she emerged from the quarters, only to be surprised by the sight of the Gojo brat waiting for her outside. He was frameless, showing off how unnaturally bright his blue eyes were even in the dark. Without a word, he took her armor from her, and then his hands deftly claimed the burden of her sword case as well.

For a moment, Utahime considered protesting, a reflex against the uninvited assistance. However, the early morning hush and the desire to avoid unnecessary questions won over. Utahime allowed him to carry her belongings, her gaze flickering to her purse to ensure it rested securely on her person. The unspoken understanding between them lingered in the quiet moments before their departure on the ox cart.

The brat seamlessly assumed the role of a silent companion in the pre-dawn shadows, casting an air of quiet solidarity over the ride down to the docks. The only sounds were the muffled echoes of hooves against the cobblestone streets and the occasional creak of the cart, carrying with it the weight of anticipation.

Her gaze drifted to her hands, fingers tracing invisible lines of uncertainty as she pondered the unknown that awaited her in Kyoto. The familiarity of his scrutinizing gaze didn't escape her notice. It had become a constant, a watchful presence that had played a significant role in her initial entanglement.

As the cart came to a halt, he disembarked first. To her surprise, he extended a helping hand as she prepared to step down. His hand enveloped hers, and it was a surprisingly warm connection that transcended the chill of the early morning. The princess accepted the support without much thought, murmuring a quiet thanks in acknowledgement of his assistance.

They descended to the dockside, where a silvered-hair vixen awaited her alongside the two generals. The youth, taking on the role of a dutiful assistant, ascended the gangway bridge to stow her belongings in the cabin. As Gojo attended to the tasks he gave himself, the princess turned to the two generals, a modest expression gracing her features. She said moderately, her tone carrying a respectful acknowledgment of the arrangements, "Thank you for all the trouble. I imagine one of you will be coming with me?"

The old man nodded, a silent confirmation of his presence. Gakuganji then said, "I will be accompanying you to the capital. The others will march by foot and horse."

"I see," she replied, expressing her gratitude with a nod. "Thank you."

As the white-haired youth descended the gangway, Mei Mei announced, "It's time to go."

The old general and Utahime trailed behind Mei Mei as they made their way towards the ship. However, as the princess crossed paths with Gojo Satoru, he halted her progress, calling out her name.

He said, "Utahime."

Not particularly worked up enough to demand respect from him, the young lady turned to the towering captain, her gaze inquisitive.

"Yes?" she responded, prompting him to reveal the reason for his interruption.

From his pocket, Gojo Satoru extracted something and presented it to her.

"I'm returning this to you," he stated matter-of-factly.

In his hand, he held the white silk hair cord that Mei Mei had given her weeks ago. The delicate accessory looked pristine and clean. This was an unexpected token of consideration from the brat. She thought it was lost all those weeks ago. Utahime felt a subtle touch of warmth at the gesture, a quiet awe coloring her voice as she expressed, "Thank you, Gojo."

She reached for the gift, her fingers delicately hovering over the silk ribbon. As her hand met the warmth of his palm, their fingers intertwined for a fleeting moment. His fingers curled up and snaked around hers, sneaking into the crevices of her hand. His fingers gently spread her apart. A wicked, knowing smile graced his lips. Their hands held each other in a silent interlude.

As quickly as their hands had come together, they parted just as swiftly. Utahime retracted her hand as if scorched, the white cord now bunched tightly in her fist. It was undeniable – an intentional act, a subtle play that left her grappling with unknown intentions.

"See you around," he whispered, the words a private exchange meant only for her ears. "Utahime."

Her cheeks burned with rage, indignation, and something else she couldn't quite place. Unable to trust her voice, she dared not reply. Swiftly, she turned around, head held high, determined to shove the unsettling encounter to the recesses of her mind. The ship awaited, and the promise of Kyoto beckoned.

As the ship began its intricate preparations for departure, the brat stood at the dock with his gaze fixated on the expansive sea that stretched endlessly before the vessel. His blue eyes traced the horizon, pondering the vastness that awaited the journey ahead. The ship slowly started to move, parting from the dock with a sense of purpose, and he continued to watch as a silent observer in the morning shadows.

Amidst the rhythmic lull of the ship, a figure with dark hair appeared at the side, leaning over to gaze at the waters below. As her eyes lifted, amber met blue in a moment of silent connection. Gojo wished he could discern the thoughts that swirled within her.

In a surprising turn of events, she raised her hand in a small, hesitant wave.

A small, rickety smile broke across his face, his eyes glittering brightly in the morning shadows. His hand instinctively rose in response, reciprocating her goodbye.

The memory of their fleeting touch as their fingers intertwined lingered like a persistent ache as the winds carried them toward the place of his birth. And he found himself standing on the precipice, unsure as he then whispered to the wind, "Utahime."

Notes:

Utahime and Gojo are no longer together as she departs for Kyoto. In this chapter, Gojo officially no longer has any more power or control over her.

I wonder what it will be like in Kyoto. Will they meet again?

As always thanks for the support, and reading. Please let me know if you have any thoughts or comments on this goodbye between them. Or if you had any favorite parts of the chapter.

Chapter 15: My Type

Notes:

This chapter is very Gojo orientated. Please enjoy! :)

Short recap of who knows about Hiko:

Her parents know, her uncle knows, Gojo knows, Shoko knows, and the two Generals at training know. So seven people know, but they were necessary tells!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

15

My Type

When was the last time he sparred with Suguru? Satoru couldn't quite remember, but enough time had pass to where the young man couldn't recall.

As dawn unfurled its delicate fingers, gently coaxing the world into wakefulness, the young man found himself in the clutches of an unrested night. Tossing and turning beneath the weight of anticipation, he rose with the first tentative rays of sunlight as restlessness kept him wide awake. He was worked up for no good reason.

The air was heavy with the scent of a spring rainstorm on the horizon and the clouds above. The wide expanse of the sky was a watercolor masterpiece of pre-dawn hues – blues ranging from the deepest midnight to the ethereal shades of awakening day, intermingled with the defiant purples that clung to the edges of the night.

His white locks were tousled, framing his forehead in a messy way as his blue eyes watched shades of orange rays stain the sky slowly. In the stillness of the early hours, he couldn't help but note his odd behaviors and emotions lately. He was anxious yet exhilarated, unsettled yet eager – heady sensations that pulsed through his veins. It was as if his body was instinctively awaiting battle, but there was no battlefield to be won.

Although he didn't try to think about it, there was no doubt that the ship arrived at the port of Kyoto.

The ship had to.

Pushing the wondering thought away to the back of his racing mind, Satoru began reminding himself of the journey ahead. Focusing on the tangible reality before him, he commenced a mental rehearsal of the journey that loomed on the horizon. Tomorrow the legion would begin its march towards Kyoto and the meticulously arranged training grounds that awaited their arrival. By foot and horse, the journey would stretch one week's time.

The concept of returning home had seldom been a source of excitement for him in the past. Yet as the prospect of stepping into the imperial city, his birthplace, drew near, nervous anticipation and excitement played within him. Uneasy eagerness crackled in the air, and the once-familiar notion of home now beckoned him like the waiting arms of a charming woman.

Restlessness was like an unwelcome companion, settling upon the captain as boredom gripped him in its monotonous embrace. The veranda was incapable of containing the burgeoning energy that pulsed through his veins. Satoru rose from his seat with a languid grace as his long and limber form unfolded. Stretching was a ritual he was used to completing as his limbs reached towards the sky, attempting to touch the very fabric of the heavens.

His active mind wondered over to the smuggler held in the depths of the dungeons below the barracks. The bronze key and the armory, and most of its contents, were handed over to his teacher the other day when he received his discipline for teasing the princess. He didn't care particularly about what happened to Shigemo; after all, the smuggler was just a disposable kyosha piece in this game of chess.

Satoru's mind and body were on edge as his impatience was obvious as his feet shuffled about, and he couldn't quite shake it off despite his warm-up exercises. The cause of his current state remained elusive from him, hidden within the depths of the emotions swirling within him. Perhaps, he mused, what he truly needed was a good fight – an outlet for the pent-up energy that coursed through him.

Perhaps today was a good day to bother Suguru.

Eagerly prepared for the day that lay ahead, the tall young man was clad in a crisp uniform, navigating the dimly lit corridors and paths of the barracks with purpose. His strides were deliberate, echoing the urgency of his mindset as he approached the entrance to his best friend's private quarters. The first light of dawn lingered on the dark horizon, painting the sky with subtle hues of pink and orange. The heavy wooden gates swung open effortlessly, revealing a secluded courtyard bathed in the soft glow of the awakening sun. As he stepped into the intimate space, his keen eyes immediately caught sight of a woman emerging from Suguru's bedroom quarters. She wore a striking red kimono that flowed gracefully with each step, accentuating the allure of her silhouette. Long, brown locks cascaded down her back – a stark contrast to the vibrant fabric that adorned her. His sharp and discerning blue eyes met the woman's brown eyes as they crossed paths in the courtyard. Her departure was purposeful and discreet as possible, heading towards the back gate where an ox cart awaited her.

The woman was momentarily caught off guard by the chance encounter with Satoru as the prostitute couldn't conceal the admiration that flashed across her face. Lips that were painted a deep shade of rouge, the pigment now faded, curled into a knowing smile. Her expression was born of experience and intrigue as her gaze lingered on the young man's features. The woman couldn't help but be captivated by the symphony of attractiveness that he exuded. With an enigmatic smile thrown at him, she continued on her path, disappearing through the back gate.

Observing the departing woman, Satoru couldn't help but picked up on details that stirred a sense of familiarity with another woman they both knew. The beauty mark was a detail delicately dotted on the canvas of the woman's face, mirroring that of Shoko's. The dark mole was positioned in an almost identical place, but there existed a nuanced difference – the beauty mark rested beneath a different eye. The cascade of brown hair that framed the prostitute's visage, though not an exact match to Shoko's medium brown coloring, echoed a similar hue. However, the most notable divergence was stark when it came to their demeanors. Shoko, with her trademark lukewarm and laidback attitude that was almost an extension of her being, possessed a certain aloofness. The other woman lacked that characteristic coolness. Her allure was painted with a different brush, exuding the warmth and experience of a practiced paramour. There was a vibrancy in her steps, and a certain liveliness that set her apart from the familiar lines of Shoko's personality.

The ethereal glow of dawn began to tenderly embrace the secluded courtyard. In its gentle light, a subtle haze materialized, tobacco smoke, in the air. Lazy tendrils of smoke coiled and slithered through the air, weaving an intricate tapestry of briefness as the haze and smoke dissipated into the air like ghost. The source of this ashy haze was the bedroom which the enigmatic woman had emerged from moments ago. As the tendrils brushed against his senses, Satoru was nudged back to the reality of his purpose. Satoru refocused with a subtle shake of his head as if dispelling the tendrils of smoke that clung to his thoughts.

He was here for a different purpose other than being nosy.

Satoru's obscured, blue gaze drifted away from the scattering twists of tobacco smoke and found its origin on the veranda. There, reclining on the wooden planks like a figure at ease with the world, was his dearest and oldest friend, Suguru. The first light of dawn painted a gentle sheen on the loose men's kimono that draped casually over Suguru's frame. His long, unbundled dark hair swayed with the unseen pulses of the morning breeze.

Suguru cradled a pipe between coarsened fingers. The long-haired man was impervious to the morning chills as he inhaled deeply from the pipe, the ember within casting a warm, amber glow that flickered in the shadows. As Satoru approached, there was no surprise carved upon Suguru's impassioned face at the sight of his unexpected visitor this early in the morning. Dark eyes met the black frames that adorned the white-haired samurai's features. It was a silent exchange, a communion of familiarity that needed no words.

"For a second," Satoru began slyly, a mean-spirited smirk slowly etching upward on the corners of his mouth. "Actually, never mind."

The Gojo heir then said, "It's time for some practice."

The two tall youths stood far away from each other dressed from head to toe in bogu armor, getting into position for their sparring match. The tension was thick in the air as Satoru and Suguru faced one another in the dojo's training grounds, saying nothing to one another. There was not one lick of teasing between the two men as their solid wooden, bokken swords were gripped tightly in gloved hands with an unyielding manner, ready for the impending clash.

Nanami and Haibara stood at a safe distance with their eyes focused on every move. Their own youthful faces mirroring the intensity of the impending bout between their friends and future lords.

As Nanami signaled the commencement of the match with the drop of his hand, Suguru's agile body rushed forward, unleashing a blitz of aggression as his body lunged forward with his sword aimed at Satoru's neck. His sword sliced through the air with a deadly grace between the two swordsmen. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight – each stride covered a strategic distance, closing in on his opponent as the wooden tip zeroed in on its target, aiming unerringly at Satoru's covered collar.

The audacity of the opening move caught Satoru off guard, but he was no rookie. His instincts, finely tuned through battles past, surged to the forefront. His hands swiftly raised his wooden sword to intercept the oncoming assault, reacting with an experienced warrior's instinct. A broad smile crept onto his face hidden underneath the headgear, enjoying how serious Suguru was in this practice match. The thrill of the practice match enveloped him – this was what he was looking for after all!

Something to chase the edge of boredom away!

The thunderous clash of wood against wood rang through the dojo. Satoru's block absorbed the force of the impact, sending vibrations through his arms, but he stood firm, refusing to yield an inch of ground. Satoru seized the momentum of the collision, deftly redirecting the force. He pressed forward with a calculated shift of his weight, countering the aggression of Suguru's onslaught by sliding the bokken against Suguru's and pressing it down to the left. His bokken pushed against the heaviness that Suguru was trying to force on him. Suguru's hands were forced in a twisted submission, inducing a momentary relinquishment of his offensive stance.

Suguru, however, was undeterred by his initial unsuccessful strike as he stepped back and seamlessly transitioned into a series of fluid strikes that swung up and down, curving left and right. Tracing arcs through the air as the wooden sword in his hand swept against Satoru's padded upper arm.

Satoru anticipated the incoming strike, adapting to his friend as he parried the attack easily and deflected the oncoming force with his own sword. In the blink of an eye, the tides shifted. Having weathered Suguru's storm, Satoru seized the opportune moment as he knocked the dark-haired man off balance once more. His sword found its mark against Suguru's protected neck, taking the round in his favor.

Nanami stopped the round, and said, "One point to Captain Gojo."

"You're thinking too much, Suguru," advised Satoru boldly. "Is there something you wish to talk about?"

Suguru's dark, black eyes narrowed as he took his position in front of Satoru once more. The second round would begin shortly.

"I'm alright," replied Suguru darkly, holding the bokken with both hands in front of him once more. His dark eyes narrowed on Satoru intently.

"If you say so," Satoru said plainly. Satoru resumed his stance in front of Suguru.

Nanami watched the two samurais closely, making sure both of them were in the correct positions first.

"Start," commenced Nanami, dropping his raised hand.

Once again, Suguru opened the round impatiently, taking on the role of initiator like a declaration of relentless determination as his feet padded against the polished wooden floorboards. His dark hair fell around his face underneath the head gear as his instincts and hands guided the bokken. The relentless assault showed no signs of abating as Suguru swung the wooden sword down first. The downward swing was, but the beginning, a prelude to the sweeping ascent that saw the tip of the weapon graze the edge of Satoru's headgear.

Satoru nimbly tilted his head back, evading the wooden curve. He was unphased by the reach of Suguru's bokken.

Quickly seizing his chance, Suguru redirected the trajectory of his sword, aiming for the vulnerable expanse of Satoru's unprotected side. Even as Satoru's wooden sword came down to intercept the side strike, the momentum of the clash didn't deter Suguru. He pulled his sword back with a swift withdrawal, transforming his deflected slice into a powerful jab. The wooden blade aimed unerringly at the center of his best friend's upper chest. The intent was clear – to breach the defenses, to target the very core where Satoru's heart would have been.

Caught in the heat of the exchange, Satoru found himself forced to yield ground from the relentless force of Suguru's assault leaving him with little choice, but to take two steps backward. Suguru propelled himself forward, pressing on with a fusion of precision and aggression with an unwavering focus on the thrusting strike aimed squarely at Satoru's chest as he committed to the strike.

Satoru pivoted to minimize the impact with his own bokken becoming a shield against the impending blow as it missed its mark.

Suguru's strikes were calculated ferocity, each swing aimed with precision at exploiting the slightest opening in Satoru's defense. The long-haired boy advanced forward with unwavering determination with three, long strides. With every strike he delivered, Suguru was seeking to impose his will on Satoru – to deliver his frustrations and helplessness, but most of all, his blind anger. His movements were fueled by a desire to witness his best friend yield under the mounting pressure for once, an unbending force that propelled his every action – to see that Gojo Satoru was not as untouchable as he thought he was.

Every step he took toward Satoru, he sought to exploit the advantage gained by being the initiator as a relentless force drove his strikes. He was undeterred by his initial failures of being unable to connect his strikes. He prepared for his third strike with a resolve that bordered on rage as his wooden sword was poised intently to connect at any cost. This time, Suguru subtly altered his approach. He raised his sword above, ascending with calculated precision, tracing a deliberate bend aimed for Satoru's padded shoulder. It was a strategic ruse; a deliberate attempt to lure his best friend into breaking his stance and posture. And if Satoru fell for the feint, the swing would then transition into a sharp thrust directed at his neck instead.

Satoru executed a masterful dodge, seamlessly evading Suguru's feint through a strategic retreat. He read Suguru like a manual, knowing what the distracted man was going to do. The controlled surrender of ground was no concession but a deliberate choice by the white-haired samurai, setting the stage for the counterattack that awaited execution. His blue eyes were sharp and focused, dissecting the dark-haired boy's every move and unraveling him.

This was not satisfying at all. Not truly in the sense Satoru wanted. Suguru was unable to concentrate. He was disappointed.

Upon Satoru backing up as Suguru committed to the feint, a momentary vulnerability unveiled itself, leaving Suguru momentarily exposed. Satoru seized the opportunity with the swiftness of a striking serpent. His bokken rose in a sliding motion that seamlessly transitioned into a swift strike aimed at Suguru's unprotected right side. The execution was flawless due to impeccable timing and fluid technique displayed by Satoru. The wooden swords clashed, and the forceful impact left Suguru's hands visibly shaking as Satoru's bokken deftly knocked Suguru's weapon to the right. The successful parry left Suguru off-balance, a vulnerable moment that Satoru exploited with surgical precision. Closing in with calculated grace, Satoru's sword transformed into a forceful downward swing aimed at Suguru's already shaking, gloved hands. The contact rang through the training dojo as Suguru was forced to relinquish his grip on his sword. It clattered onto the ground.

With Suguru disarmed, Satoru's transition was seamless. The downward swing morphed effortlessly into the next move – a jab aimed precisely and directly at Suguru's chest. The wooden tip of the bokken found its mark, connecting with the area where the heart resided. In that moment, Satoru was victorious with his bokken poised at the connected point of contact.

"It's my win, Suguru," Satoru declared with casual ease easily. He took off his protective headgear, and his unimpressed blue eyes met Suguru's dark ones through the bamboo slants of his headgear. "How disappointing."

Suguru clicked his tongue in annoyance as he removed his headgear, and a simmering frustration evident in his expression. In a sudden fit of impulse, he marched right up to Satoru, his right arm swinging at him with unrestrained force.

However, Satoru was quick to respond. He blocked the punch effortlessly with his forearm with a fluid motion as his blocking hand seized Suguru's arm into a hold. What followed was a relentless barrage of punches, each striking against Suguru's chest with controlled precision. Then, a backhand landed against his best friend's scowling face as Satoru's leg swept Suguru's ankles, knocking him down onto the wood floor below.

Annoyance carved deep lines on Satoru's face as he found himself on the receiving end of Suguru's impulsive frustration. The sting of exasperation fueled a fiery irritation within him, a simmering anger that threatened to erupt.

Who did Suguru think he was, using him as a punching bag just because he was mad? The audacity of it all ignited a smoldering indignation within Satoru, and it was a sense of injustice that he was more than ready to address with his fists.

It was not just about the physical blows; this was a deeper frustration that gnawed at him. Suguru's actions implied a lack of respect, and a dismissal of Satoru's worth. Just because Suguru was upset, it didn't give him the right to unleash his anger on Satoru. A torrent of thoughts cascaded through the white-haired boy's mind, each one adding fuel to the growing inferno of his anger.

It wasn't just Suguru though; it was the collective weight of their behavior that fueled Satoru's fury. The frustration stemmed not only from the physical confrontation, but from the underlying issues that seemed to fester between the three of them. Suguru's cowardice and the refusal to engage in open communication (same with Shoko!), and the sense of being treated with disregard. They all coalesced into a potent concoction of rage that pulsed through Satoru's veins.

In that moment, Satoru was so damn pissed at both of them, Suguru and Shoko. The anger was a visceral force, a tempest that threatened to consume reason. Beneath the rage, there lingered a profound hurt – a hurt born out of the perceived betrayal by those he considered close.

He walked away from Suguru who stayed on the floor. The clatter of equipment being stowed away served as a percussion to the rhythm of his thoughts. As Satoru left the dojo with measured steps, he distanced himself from the training grounds, each footfall echoing his blistering rage that demanded his attention. The echoes of his footsteps rang in the quiet aftermath, punctuating the solitude that enveloped him.

Satoru made his way toward the wisteria tree by the river. Underneath the purple curtain, he couldn't help but feel alone despite being surrounded by those who admired him.

Beneath the tumultuous canopy of dark, grey skies, raindrops cascaded like a celestial lament. This wasn't a mere spring shower, but a declaration from the heavens – a proper rainstorm that descended with the weight of the afternoon. Suguru, with his eyes cast upward, found no solace in the downpour, no humor in the wet symphony playing upon him. The rain was unrelenting, dripping down from the heavens above as an indifferent cascade of droplets poured against his solitude.

Hiding in the open expanse of the Hakone Shrine's lakefront torii gates, Suguru sought refuge without the luxury of shelter. He wasn't hiding from the rain, but rather people. The torii gates stood like silent sentinels with their vermilion arches framing a scene of both beauty and melancholy. Beyond the shrine was the path to Lake Ashinoko – it was a series of steps ascending through the forest, flanked by lanterns that stood watch in the rain-soaked ambiance. Suguru was a stoic figure amongst the elements, and the long-haired youth welcomed the rain as if it were a balm for the tempest within. He who believed in the power held in his own hands couldn't help but find an unexpected kinship with the torrents that descended from the heavens.

As raindrops kissed his skin, Suguru's beliefs wavered. The curses he carried and thought about were burdens worn like a heavy cross. His curses on himself felt heavier than ever. As if wishing for an escape, he longed for the rain to sweep him into the lake's depth so the body of water could swallow him whole, to immerse him in the oblivion that lay beyond the veil of the storm.

The rain was relentless. Exhaustion engraved itself upon Suguru's weary frame. The weariness didn't stem from physical exertion alone, but from the burden of battles fought for the weak. The battles were a ceaseless cycle of bloodshed that left its mark on both his body and soul in these times of chaos. The droplets of the unyielding rain wove discomfort into his bones with every drop that landed on him, drenching his long hair in a cold embrace that clung to him like a shroud. His once-lustrous tresses were now weighed down by raindrops, framing his face in a way that accentuated the weariness drawn upon his features. The cascade of water mirrored the relentless waterfall of his internal struggles, rendering him gaunt and hollow against the backdrop of the storm.

As he questioned the necessity of fighting for the weak, a bitter frustration seeped into his thoughts. Why couldn't the weak simply find strength within themselves to fight their own battles? Why were the weak, weak? Why were the strong, strong? It was a sentiment that repeated in the hollows of his being, echoing with the weariness of a soul tired of shouldering the burdens of others.

He was so tired of fighting for the weak, so tired of killing for the weak.

Suguru pondered a hypothetical scenario.

If he were Gojo Satoru, his best friend, would the weight on his shoulders feel less burdensome?

Would the bitterness that clung to him like the rain-soaked strands of his hair find solace in the camaraderie of friendship?

The questions lingered in the air, unanswered, as the rain continued its relentless descent onto the earth below.

Would he feel less bitter about the fate he was dealt?

Would he covet less?

Suguru grappled with his own desires as the threads of envy and longing entangled him, ensnaring him in a devious trap. His gaze turned inward, questioning the extent of his own covetous nature. Gojo Satoru embodied an impossible height of skills and power that Suguru coveted as he couldn't help but wonder what he could do if he possessed all Satoru had. Amidst the tangled web of desires, a more troubling truth unfurled. Suguru knew he desired not only Satoru's abilities but also the woman destined to be his wife. The understanding brought with it a discordant note, a dissonance that echoed through the corridors of his conscience.

In acknowledging his own desires, a strained chuckle escaped Suguru's lips. What a bitter acknowledgment of the complexity that shadowed his intentions.

Wasn't he, in the depths of his yearning, a flawed and conflicted human? The irony of wanting what he couldn't have, coveting not just skills, but the affections of another who belonged to his best friend. The thoughts left a bitter taste in his mouth.

This was his curse.

Geto Suguru, who had never envisioned such desires before that summer, found himself grappling with the astonishing twists of human nature. He knew he was a flawed person – a "disgusting man" as Iori put it. The tangled threads of envy and longing hung heavy in the air around him as he looked up at the crying sky. Perhaps, he mused with a hint of self-deprecation, it was human nature to yearn for the unattainable, to crave things beyond one's reach.

Amidst the relentless rain, a sudden sanctuary unfolded above him – a red, oiled paper umbrella cocooned Suguru within its protective embrace. As he lowered his dark gaze, a soft realization swept over him – it was her. She was the harbinger of solace, standing beneath the vibrant canopy with him.

Her gentle hand radiated warmth in the cold deluge, and it rose to meet his face. With the softest of touches, her fingers brushed away the raindrops that lingered at the corners of his eyes like unshed tears. Her quiet and concerned expression held no trace of a smile. Instead, her dark brown eyes regarded him with an air of patient understanding as if he were a stupid person.

Her beauty mark was a delicate detail beneath her eye, drawing his attention like a magnetic force. During the rain-soaked atmosphere, it became a singular point of fascination, an ever-present allure that whispered of unspoken desires. Like pressing his lips against the mark.

Shoko spoke quietly, a weariness evident in the cadence of her voice, as if tired of the dramatics that unfolded between the two boys she knew. "Satoru told me you and him fought, and you disappeared soon after."

"Yeah," Suguru met her revelation with a small, rueful laugh, acknowledging the truth. "We did fight."

Her hand, which was once a source of comfort against the storm, withdrew almost halfheartedly, hanging at her side. Then her warm hand enveloped one of his larger, colder ones with professionalism and concern. The transfer of warmth felt like a subtle negotiation; it was a tentative bridge across the emotional gap that lingered between them.

Without a word, the girl handed him the red umbrella she had held. Suguru didn't mind holding it for her. As the umbrella changed hands, raindrops continued their descent upon them. Her gaze was now fixed on the trail behind them, betraying no emotion. She spoke with an almost detached tone, "I found him."

Immediately the young woman turned to leave the sanctuary of the umbrella. Before she could retreat into the rain-soaked open trail, Suguru's hand found hers – there was a desperate plea written in the tremor of his grasp. His eyes pleaded with her to stay, to linger in the fragile shelter they found beneath the red umbrella.

She offered no words in response, no verbal reassurance or acknowledgment of the silent plea that was present when his hand captured hers. Instead, Shoko wordlessly wrenched her hand from his grasp, severing the brief connection that had momentarily bridged the gap between them. The female physician stepped out from underneath the refuge of the umbrella without so much a glance back, leaving Suguru to watch in silence. As she traversed back up the trail, making her way toward where Satoru, Saki, and the familiarity of their dark-hued umbrellas waited, Suguru remained rooted in place. The rain continued its descent, and each drop was a cold and unrelenting reminder of the turmoil that existed in the heavens observing above.

Satoru, beneath the shelter of his dark blue umbrella, spoke words that cut through the rain-soaked silence. "You should stop running away."

The girl with the beauty mark's expression was a painting of subtle panic and discomfort, and she responded to her fiancé with a placid smile. Her eyes betrayed her with a different truth – there was a quiet unease in the face of Satoru's words.

"Running?" Shoko asserted, her voice a delicate balance of poise and boldness. "I'm not running away. I just think you two are too stupid for me to handle."

"Let's go, Saki," she said to her maid, and the two women began descending the forest path back to the shrine.

Her assertion echoed in the rhythmic patter of raindrops – the declaration that she wasn't running away, but rather, distancing herself from the impending fallout. It wasn't a retreat from the storm, but a conscious choice to avoid picking up the scattered pieces of the two boys she had grown up with. Shoko chose not to watch as Suguru seemed to be unraveling before her eyes. Satoru was enough to hold Suguru at bay. The emotional tempest that swirled between the three of them held a weight she was unwilling to carry. It wasn't a dismissal of their struggles, but a realization that sometimes, the proximity to chaos could be as detrimental as the chaos itself.

She had the most to lose out of the three of them.

Her retreat was an act of self-preservation. She wasn't running away. She needed the space to navigate the emotional storm without being consumed by it. The young woman didn't want to be swallowed whole by the storm that was Geto Suguru because she knew she was on the edge of taking the leap.

She couldn't do that to her clan.

Ieiri Shoko could only wrong Geto Suguru in the end.

Satoru's laughter echoed through the damp air as he ruffled the back of his hair, a casual observer to the inscrutable departure of their childhood friend. Shoko could be such an ice woman. The wind swept and ruffled Satoru's hair as he remarked with a tone that carried bemusement, "Ahh, you sure love a cold, cold woman."

"Heh," A chuckle escaped Suguru's lips. He really wanted a smoke right at that moment. His grip on the red umbrella tightened, and its vibrant hue was a stark contrast against the subdued tones of the rainy backdrop of the lake and forest.

"Just my type," he replied, no longer willing to deny what was so obvious. Suguru wanted to acknowledge Shoko despite her reservations.

Satoru slid his hand into his pant pocket, a habitual gesture when he was off kilter. His blue gaze wandered out to the lake where the rain was slowly beginning to wane. He asked, disturbing the silence between them, "What is going on? It's about time to be honest, don't cha think?"

Instead of offering a direct response, Suguru posed a question of his own.

"How long have you known?" he asked, his tone holding a quiet vulnerability beneath its surface. His trademark, easygoing smile was present in the face of honesty in this moment as his dark gaze landed on his best friend.

Satoru wasn't wearing his glasses currently.

"When I came back from quelling the uprising at Tokushima with my father," admitted Satoru. "I must have been fifteen."

Suguru could only respond with a joyful laughter that seemed to release the burden he had carried. A realization dawned upon him – he was a fool. Both he and Shoko. Satoru already known since the budding stages – a fact that rendered their attempts at concealment futile. A weight was suddenly lifted from his shoulders, making him feel lighter than he had in years since loving his best friend's fiancée.

Why did they think they could hide it from him? Was this what emotions did?

Blind and muddle your rationale?

The cessation of rain left a quiet aftermath. Though the raindrops had ceased their descent, the sun remained hidden behind a veil of grey clouds as the wind began picking up, ruffling through both Satoru's messy hair, and Suguru's long, unbound hair.

"You're not angry?" inquired the long-haired man, his quirked eyebrow a silent query directed at his best friend.

"I'm angry," replied Satoru coolly. The words were delivered with a measured calmness, hinting at a deeper frustration. "But not for reasons you think. You two should have just told me. I asked you both so many times."

Suguru didn't reply; choosing to stay silent. After a moment of thinking, Suguru then posed a question that cut through the lingering tension, "What are you going to do? Now that you know."

The white-haired man then said, a direct question that held the weight of decisions yet to be made, "It depends on you. Do you want her?"

Suguru's response was swift, simple, and unequivocal, "I want her."

It was an easy question to answer. He nodded and let out a laugh, though it carried a touch of melancholy and longing. "Satoru, what use are a pair of chopsticks if you cannot eat because one is missing? A pair of chopsticks cannot function without its remaining half."

In response, the white-haired man's broad smile illuminated the grey surroundings, and declared, "Buddy, if you wanted me to challenge the heavens to make her yours, I would have done so already. Since we are in understanding, do you wish to proceed?"

The question was heavy, hanging in the air like a temptation perfectly made for Suguru's desires and wants.

Upon hearing Satoru's confident and tempting words, a wicked and cunning gleam appeared in Suguru's dark eyes. His eyes grew intense the more he considered it. As the two friends exchanged glances, a calculating, wide-mouthed grin slowly emerged on the dark-haired man's face. To any other observers, the expression might have appeared terrifying.

"Hmm," Suguru mused, his voice carrying a hint of mischief, "We are going to make trouble and burn everything down…And I get Shoko? Sounds pleasant, partner."

Upon hearing Suguru agree, Satoru's own mouth curved upward into a terrifying, crazy grin. The air crackled with an electric energy as their expressions mirrored the turbulent storm that had passed, giving way to a different kind of tempest that promised to reshape their world in unforeseen ways.

As the two men found a semblance of reconciliation, an unspoken understanding sealed in grins and shared intentions, there lingered a poignant omission. Neither of the two men considered the third party of their trio – the one who ran from them.

Her feelings and thoughts on the matter were overshadowed by the exuberance of their brotherhood's reunion. In the trio's shared history and unspoken camaraderie, Satoru and Suguru had once again left Shoko behind. She was once more a casualty of their own selfish pursuits. Shoko herself was also selfish; however, she was never privy to the other two's thoughts. She was the red mark. The one that stood out as the odd man in their relationship.

The young woman known as Ieiri Shoko was relegated to the sidelines once more.

After eight days of traversing the rugged roads, the arrival in Kyoto brought a sense of relief and wonder for Satoru. The ancient city welcomed him and the traveling legion with open arms. An immediate sense of purpose guided him as he headed toward his ancestral home. His home was a grandeur among noblemen, a sprawling residence that held its own majesty in a city where such distinctions were uncommon among those who weren't of royal blood. As he entered the familiar abode, a feeling of familiarity and belonging enveloped him as the servants dotingly greeted him.

"Welcome home, young master," the teams of servants politely and warmly greeted him as he crossed the threshold of the Gojo manor gates.

"I'm back," he announced, heading straight to his quarters. He knew the servants would have the bath ready for his use right away. Eager to shed the weariness of the journey, the young master wasted no time. The white-haired young man stripped down, leaving behind the dust and fatigue of the road, and immersed himself in the luxurious embrace of a traditional bath after cleaning himself and rinsing off. The steaming water offered solace to his tired muscles, and it was a much-needed respite from the physical toll of the journey.

He lingered in the bath, allowing the warmth to seep into his bones, a moment of quietness before the imminent reunion with his father. In the cocoon of warm water, Satoru soaked in the respite until it was time to emerge, refreshed and ready to meet the expectations of his sire.

Adorned in a meticulously crafted kimono made of silk and cotton and embellished with the intricate symbols of his clan – pine trees – Satoru emerged ready to meet his father, wearing a haori coat over his clothing. The attire draped him in an aura of nobility as he prepared to report on the events that had unfolded during his journey and the training camp.

While embarking on the path to meet his father, the young man unexpectedly crossed paths with the retired general encountered in Miura. The familiar figure was now dressed in a demeanor befitting the capital.

In a display of respect, Satoru bowed gracefully and greeted the older man, "General Iori."

General Iori acknowledged the greeting with a nod, reciprocating the bow with a detached demeanor. He intoned with his words carrying a formality that hinted at the boundaries between retainer and master, "Welcome back, young master."

Yet, as Satoru felt the gaze of the retired general upon him, there was a nuanced shift in the atmosphere. The respect was evident between the two men, but there lingered a coldness in Iori's dark brown eyes. It was a subtle change from their initial encounter in Miura. The change did not go unnoticed by Satoru.

Satoru's father, Sakuya, emerged from the meeting room. He was head of the family and dressed in the clan's colors and symbols. The resemblance between father and son was undeniable, but both of them were marked by subtle differences.

"Come in, Satoru," his father beckoned, a gesture that invited his son into the sanctum of discussions. As they stood side by side, the similarities were apparent – the shape of the eyes, curve of the mouth, and the high cheekbones – all contributing to a striking familial resemblance. But Satoru possessed a taller stature than his father. His own hair was also whiter while his eyes were more a true brilliant blue while his father's own eyes were a dark blue.

Sakuya turned to his long-time friend and retainer. He said, the words carrying a sense of camaraderie that spoke of years spent together in service, "See you next time, buddy."

General Iori nodded respectfully and excused himself from the reunion of the father and son pair. The air settled into a moment of familial intimacy as the two remaining figures prepared to delve into the matters that awaited discussion within the meeting room. Satoru followed his father into the room and closed the shoji doors behind him. Satoru took a seat on the cushion before his father. From within the folds of his kimono, Satoru retrieved a ledger book, its appearance as unassuming as its contents. The plainness of the ledger belied the significance of the information it held.

Handing the ledger to his father, Satoru watched as Sakuya began to flip through its pages, each page turn was a step into the heart of the smuggler's affairs. The silence hung in the air, punctuated only by the rustle of paper as the patriarch examined the details within.

His father's question cut through the quiet, breaking the stillness with a direct inquiry, "Are there any other copies?"

Satoru answered boredly, "Not from what I could find and looked through Shigemo's things while he was in Hamamatsu. There is always a possibility that there could be another copy out there, but I don't see it as a problem."

A moment of levity broke through the solemnity of the room as Sakuya quipped in a joking manner, "It would be bad if it got out that the Son of Heaven and the Big Three funded the Warlord Fushiguro on his ascent."

Responding with a smile, Satoru propped his head in his hand and remarked, "It would be bad, wouldn't it? The names used in the ledger are shells anyways."

"If you look close enough," His father, with a knowing glance, countered. "There is always a trail that will lead back to its roots."

The exchange carried a sense of awareness, an acknowledgment that even the most carefully concealed secrets left subtle traces for those astute enough to follow.

Turning to the matter at hand, the Gojo patriarch asked his son a crucial question, "No one else knows, correct?"

Satoru nodded in affirmation.

"And now we must send and sacrifice many souls to deal with a monster we created," lamented his father, the amusement in his tone a curious juxtaposition to the weight of the revelation.

The weight of duty pressed upon Satoru's shoulders as he walked through the imperial corridors with the Gojo patriarch, flanked by the grandeur of the palace walls. Court attendance with his father was a duty that carried both honor and the terrible, terrible burden of responsibility. Amid the grand corridors, he crossed paths with his best friend, Suguru, and Suguru's father, Geto Subaru. The family resemblance between the two were striking – dark hair, easy smiles, and cunning eyes. Suguru, however, was just a tad taller than his own father.

"Young Satoru looks more and more like his father every passing day, you sure have grown a lot," commented Subaru, his words an acknowledgment of the passage of time. The Geto pair were dressed for court, mirroring the formal attire worn by Satoru and his father.

Before Satoru could reply, a voice rang out in complaint, disrupting the regal atmosphere. The casual complaint echoed loud enough through the corridor, adding a touch of youthful discontent to the otherwise formal setting.

"Teacher has me on knight duty. So boring," grumbled Captain Benimaru Asakusa. He was a young man a little older than Satoru and Suguru. Asakusa was a looker, and popular amongst the people for his vivacious personality. He had dark hair that fell a little below his chin and bored eyes. With a lean body, Asakusa was also a royal guard captain, responsible for guarding the emperor and his family.

As Asakusa complained aloud to his subordinate, he didn't notice the regal figure behind him looming like a beautiful specter with four handmaidens flanking her every movement. The four men nearby took note of the beautiful young woman that Asakusa and his subordinate had their backs to.

The young woman was a vision of spring incarnate. Layers of kimonos draped around her figure, each a canvas painted in shades of orange, yellow, pink, and light brown. Along with the various contrasting sashes and obi she wore, each kimono had a different scene of spring depicted. Beneath the layers of silk and color, cream-colored walking pants peeked through. Dainty embellished slippers completed the ensemble, glancing from beneath the hem in a subtle display of elegance.

Her dark, silky black hair, tinged with hints of purple and blue, was a canvas for an array of exquisite kanzashi hairpins. Each pin was a work of art. A jade pin was sculpted like a delicate feather, adding an element of natural grace. A crystal, plum flower pin with dangling links of falling petals, swayed with every movement, captured the ephemeral beauty of spring. Another pin was a silk orchid crafted from dark purple silk cords.

Her hair was pinned up and arranged with love and care. Straight-cut bangs laid in a blunt fringe, concealing her forehead while side bangs framed the sides of her very pretty face, cascading by the start of her jawline. A jade feather pin, crystal plum flowers, and a silk orchid formed a symphony of adornments, each contributing to the harmonious beauty of her appearance. At the back, her hair was tied with mint green silk cords, and they were arranged in loops of two bows stacked upon each other. The mint green added a refreshing contrast to the dark hues of her hair, creating a visual melody that complemented the kanzashis, and the intent of conveying spring itself.

The back of her kimono layers descended gracefully, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of a beautiful nape. The low back of the kimono layers was a subtle tease, framing the elegance of her form. It was a feature that drew the eyes with its understated allure. In contrast, the front layers ascended high, veiling all but the barest hint of her collarbone and skin. Her nails were dyed a beautiful flush pink reminiscent of cherry blossoms in full bloom. The hues scattered across her nails echoed the seasonal imagery, a touch of nature's beauty at her fingertips.

In those delicate beautiful hands, she carried a circular fan made of thin silk and its long, thin handle was made of dark oak. The circular fan was painted with a scene of lotuses on top of a koi pond. She held the fan with both hands, and her wrists wore a multitude of jade and gold bangles. Held with both hands, the circular fan became a captivating veil, concealing the lower half of her beautiful face. Only her painted eyes were visible to bystanders. The golden amber eyes were painted with soft diffuses of red and light pink pigment, luring those who dared to meet her eyes. The eyes were framed with precision, lined with black and dark brown kohl that extended in an upward tilt.

The princess' authoritative tone cut through the air, an attitude that left no room for ambiguity. Asakusa turned his gaze towards her, and his posture adjusted to acknowledging her presence. The fan in her delicate hands remained constant, veiling the lower half of her face.

"A knight?" she quipped; her words laden with an air of authority that befitted her station. Her amber eyes were keen and observant, sweeping over the men in the corridor. There was a blink, a momentary pause, and then her attention returned to Asakusa. Her fan never dropped as she spoke the words, keeping her face partially obscured.

"Benimaru," she addressed him with a tone bereft of amusement. A rhetorical question hung in the air. "What do knights do in the presence of princesses?"

She then answered for him.

"Knights kneel," she declared, providing the answer to her own question. The command was explicit, leaving no room for negotiation. "If you are my knight, then go down on your knees before me."

Asakusa knelt before her. The corridor witnessed the silent obedience of the self-proclaimed knight, and his posture was a manifestation of loyalty to the princess' station. Following the lead of his superior, Asakusa's subordinate mirrored the act.

A clear and authoritative voice cut through the corridor, reclaiming the attention of the princess. It was General Iori, her father, whose arrival signaled a shift in the scene. Dressed for court, he approached with his young son in tow.

"Uta," he addressed her, the tone brooking no nonsense. It was a command that resonated with paternal authority. "Stop teasing Benimaru."

The princess, in response, nodded her head in acknowledgment, relinquishing the demeanor she had adopted. Utahime declared, her words echoing the compliance with her father's directive. "You may get up now, Captain Asakusa."

The two men on the floor rose to their feet.

"Your mother expects you in the garden," explained her father.

"Of course."

Asakusa and his subordinate trailed the princess and her handmaidens from behind as the princess led the way to the garden. General Iori and Hoshi, her younger brother, along with the four other men, made way and space for the princess to pass in the corridor. As she passed them, maintaining the delicate veil of her fan, the princess politely acknowledged the lords in her path. Her words were a blend of formality and respect, ringing through the air.

"Good morning, Lord Gojo, Lord Geto, and young masters," she greeted, the sweetness of her tone resonating despite the partial obscurity of her face. She was genteel, delicate and oh so lovely.

Hoshi wanted to run up to her, but their father kept him in check, restraining him as she passed them.

The lords, in turn, replied with due reverence, bowing to the princess as a gesture of deference to her royal status. Lord Gojo and Lord Geto both uttered, "Princess."

Suguru bowed and murmured a greeting to her.

During the courtly procession, Satoru found himself captivated by the princess' transformed presence. Mesmerized, he failed to extend the customary greeting to the princess, but Utahime didn't make a big deal out of it. She knew better. The passage of twelve days worked a subtle alchemy on her, and the Gojo young master marveled at the enchanting result.

This version of Utahime, with her layered kimonos, ornate hairpins, and the veil of the fan obscuring her face, was nothing short of breathtaking too. The subtle details of her attire and the regal poise with which she carried herself painted a portrait of elegance, grace, and refinement. Lost in the moment, Satoru savored the visual feast before him, appreciating the metamorphosis that the time separated wrought upon the princess.

As the procession continued, a fleeting moment occurred – an exchange between hidden blue eyes and amber eyes. In that brief meeting, there was an absence of recognition in the princess' gaze. The depth of the gaze that was once shared in acknowledgement now held an air of aloof detachment, leaving Satoru to grapple with the realization that the dynamics between them shifted in these twelve days of separation.

Satoru's smile widened as his gaze lingered on and followed the retreating figure of the princess. A sense of excitement pulsed through him as the thought and the thrill of unraveling her layers filled him with glee. The challenge lay before him: Gojo Satoru would make Iori Utahime recognize him. He was undeterred by the princess' brief glance and averted eyes as if they were strangers. His determination was burning bright. The intricate layers of her defenses, be they the layers of her kimonos or the veil of her fan, were waiting to be peeled away bit by bit.

Just his type.

"She looks just like her mother," commented Subaru to Haruto who was frowning.

A deep frown cut across General Iori's face when his discerning gaze settled upon the Gojo heir earlier. The air of suspicion was unspoken as the men continued their way to court, and the brief look of excitement on the Gojo boy's face lingered on General Iori's mind. The older man observed the boy who seemed to believe he was too clever for everyone else. The general was not one to be easily swayed or fooled, scrutinizing the Gojo heir's actions with a critical eye, noting to never let the boy get anywhere close to his daughter without his permission or supervision.

Notes:

And welcome to Kyoto!

I hope you enjoy your stay! There will be more politics involved, court drama, political sphere! We meet Gojo daddy and Geto daddy. I had to give them names that started with Sa- and Su-!

I feel rather bad for Shoko because I feel like in canon and in here both of the boys disregard her, but she also runs away from them too. I wanted to play with that dynamic a bit. Shoko found Suguru in Shibuya, so Shoko found him at the Hakone Lakefront! What are those devious boys planning?

And now we are in Kyoto! We also find out what is in the ledger! We found out the imperial family and the big three families were funding Fushiguro, and he is no longer under their control!

But most of all, we get Princess Utahime! She got beautified (which she loves being pampered!), but most of all, she is acting as if she doesn't recognize Gojo! What's up with that? Well, Gojo likes it anyways.

What did you think of this chapter? Did you have a favorite scene? XD I personally really like the scene with Gojo and Suguru talking it out, and the last scene where Utahime appears.

Chapter 16: Nonsense

Notes:

Hello, another update! We get to find out what happened to Utahime! Thanks for always reading, and enjoy!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

16

Nonsense

Having traversed the seas of Japan and the dusty roads to Kyoto, the arduous weight of the journey was lifted as Utahime was delivered straight to the imperial palace.

The heavy doors of the imperial family's chambers closed behind the meticulously made-up Utahime with a muted thud, sealing her fate within the opulent confines of the spacious room. In the heart of the room stood her mother, father, and brother. Her uncle was nowhere in sight. Her mother's face bore a stern façade, and beside her, her father's expression mirrored his wife – they both wore stoic masks concealing whatever emotions roiling beneath the surface. Hoshi, her younger brother, paid little heed to the decorum demanded by the circumstances. With an exuberance only the youth possessed, he disregarded the somber atmosphere and charged toward his older sister. The formality that cloaked the room seemed to melt away in the wake of his impulsive joy.

He had grown a little bit since she last saw him – he was now at her elbow length. The princess felt the impact of his smaller body colliding with hers as his arms wrapped around her securely. In that embrace, the young woman's lips trembled just the slightest as his familiar warmth flooded her system. A tremor shook through her as her arms lifted just the slightest to return the enthusiastic greeting. Summoning the rest of her courage, she reciprocated the embrace, her arms enfolding her younger brother with a protective tenderness. Her eyes shut for the briefest of moments as she cherished the moment.

The sight of their two children locked in a heartfelt embrace elicited a subtle fracture in the stoic masks that adorned Urara and Haruto's faces. In that fleeting moment, parental concern and relief mingled, breaking through the veneer of sternness they had worn since Utahime's return. Gladness washed over them, tangible in the softening of their gazes and the release of tension in their shoulders. Utahime had come back in one piece – unbroken as they had hoped, rather than shattered as their fears had imagined. The weight of worry began to lift, replaced by a quiet gratitude that she stood before them unharmed.

A glance exchanged between Urara and Haruto spoke volumes – an unspoken agreement to momentarily set aside the anger that had brewed in their hearts. The parental instinct to protect and nurture triumphed over the desire for retribution at the moment. The forgiveness extended to Utahime in that moment didn't erase the transgressions or the consequences that awaited her. The memory of her actions lingered; the wounds inflicted would not be easily forgotten.

The young woman eventually got the opportunity to greet her uncle and her cousins.

Emperor Gen's approach to succession was a meticulous one, focusing on a streamlined lineage to avert the chaos that often accompanied disputes over the throne. His empress bore him three sons, and though there were two side concubines in the imperial court, they existed more as ornate embellishments rather than wielders of genuine power. The emperor's calculated reasoning stemmed from a desire to avoid the potential discord that could arise from multiple branches vying for the throne. Having no daughter of his own, he extended a lenient hand towards his niece, softening the edges of the strict expectations that surrounded her.

It was not his place to discipline her – the emperor would leave that to his sister.

Later, as the family of four prepared to depart the imperial palace for the imperial princess' manor in Kyoto, Utahime took a moment to express her gratitude to her uncle, acknowledging his help and leniency, but most of all, his benevolence. Before they left the palace, her uncle bestowed upon the siblings a tangible token of affection.

Konpeito candies, sweet and colorful.

The short carriage ride from the imperial palace to Urara's own imperial manor within the city marked the shift from the external trappings of courtly life to the intimate confines of familial scrutiny. With Hoshi placed in another corner of the residence and attended to closely, the stage was set for the real interrogation to commence. The spacious ancestral hall was a repository of centuries of family history, both the royal family and the Ioris, and all the ancestors that came before the three were about to become the silent witnesses to the impending confrontation. The servants were attuned to the unspoken signals, discreetly withdrawing from the room and the vicinity of the area. They left the trio alone in the hallowed space. The windows and doors were sealed and locked, creating an insular enclave for the impending exchange.

Tendrils of fragrant incense smoke curled through the air, filling the room with its heady scent. The burning aromatic offering was customary ritual, cocooning the family within the solemnity of the moment. The flickering candle lights cast dancing shadows on the intricate tapestries that adorned the walls, adding a ghostly quality to the scene. Amidst this orchestrated ambiance, Utahime assumed a posture of submission. Kneeling on the floor with hands resting in her lap, and eyes lowered to the intricacies of the wooden floorboards, she embodied contrition and vulnerability.

The silence was punctuated only by the crackling incense heavy in the air. The unspoken questions and unsaid accusations formed an invisible barrier between parents and daughter. The coming moments would unravel the layers of secrecy and reveal the true nature of Utahime's journey. The absence of onlookers allowed for an unbridled honesty as the ancestral hall resonated with the weight of Urara's words. She launched into the stern rebuke that had been building within her. The barest hint of anger colored her voice, a controlled intensity that matched the gravity of the situation.

"What were you thinking?" Urara's words cut through the air, each syllable laced with a mother's disappointment and concern. The question hung heavily, demanding an answer. She continued, the sternness in her tone unrelenting. "In fact, you weren't thinking."

"I didn't raise you to be stupid, Utahime." The accusation lingered, showing off how deep the breach of trust ran. Urara pressed on, listing the potential consequences like a litany of admonitions. "You endangered yourself, you risked your father's position, you risked humiliation. You risked your reputation!"

Before Utahime could offer a defense, a plea, or even a justification, Urara snapped, cutting through the one-sided conversation. "I didn't give you permission to speak. I'm not done yet."

The authority in her mother's voice brooked no dissent, emphasizing the severity of the transgressions laid bare.

"You had two months of doing who knows what. It's my turn." Urara declared, reclaiming the narrative with sternness and exasperation. "You clearly don't understand that things could have gone so bad if I hadn't intervened and begged your uncle for benevolence."

The series of potential perils continued, each word striking at the heart of a mother's fears. "You could have been injured. You could have been compromised, taken advantage of – you could have been killed!"

Urara's frustration simmered as she confronted her daughter, the air thick with disappointment and a mother's exasperation. "If you were any other woman trying to do what you just did-"

Utahime calmly interjected as her voice was a quiet counterpoint to the mounting tension. "I'm not any other woman though. I am Iori Utahime. I am the daughter of Urara the Imperial Princess of this nation, the former Grand Priestess of Ise Grand. I am the daughter of Haruto the Hero, the man who saved the imperial family."

The words were delivered with a quiet confidence, and they weren't just a declaration of lineage but a proclamation of identity. Pride was undeniably laced within her tone, and it hinted at a self-awareness that bordered on defiance. Utahime wielded her heritage as both armor and weapon, and this was a realization that stoked the flames of her mother's ire.

Urara was now visibly angered as a terribly mean and vengeful scowl crawled onto her beautiful face as she peered at the girl who looked down at her hands on her lap. For the first time in Urara's life, her hand itched to slap her daughter for her insolence as Urara felt the sting of her daughter's words. The pride that Urara instilled as a mantra in her daughter as a source of strength was now manifesting as a rebellious streak that challenged the boundaries of decorum. Utahime's smart-mouthed defiance was an unexpected turn, a twist that both surprised and irked her mother.

Was her daughter always like this, and Urara never knew?

The maternal scream of frustration echoed through the ancestral hall. "How are you so childish? How are you so proud and arrogant? I did not teach you to be like this."

Haruto chose the path of intervention. Holding his wife's hand, he sought to temper the rising storm of emotions with a touch that spoke of understanding and shared concern. His thumb traced soothing circles on the back of her hand. His gaze shifted to the kneeling figure of his daughter, and a sigh escaped his lips. He was just glad his daughter was back safely, but he had questions of his own. With measured calm, he posed a question, "Did anything happen while you were there?"

"No," she replied, omitting details easily. "Not really. It was just training – similar to what you put me through back in Miura."

Haruto's scrutiny deepened, settling discernment upon his daughter. He urged her with a simple directive, "Look at me, Utahime."

The command was delivered with quiet authority, prompting quick compliance. The young woman raised her eyes, meeting her father's gaze.

"Do not lie to me," he instructed demanding honesty. He read the burned and buried reports that included all mentions of an Iori Hiko. All records of an Iori Hiko were made to disappear with a trace like it never happened in the first place. Haruto wanted to hear the details of the incomplete reports from his daughter's mouth. "I won't get mad."

The young woman was conflicted, and then decided it was best to tell her parents mostly everything. Without stopping for breath, she explained it completely, "Ieiri Shoko found out that I am a woman then the Gojo heir found out that I am a woman and after he found out that I am a woman we got into a scuffle where I may or may not have tried to kill him but that's all in the past now because he didn't tell on me and soon after that the Gojo heir took me out on a boat and gave me a mission to a smuggler's den where I ended up killing four people and broke the katana you made for me when you thought I was going to be a boy."

Upon hearing the words she said, Haruto went pale first. The revelation sent a shock through his system. As color slowly returned to his cheeks, it brought with it a storm of conflicting emotions. His once relaxed hands balled into fists after he let go of his wife's hand.

The weight of consequences descended upon Utahime like a heavy cloak. Each restriction was an iron chain binding her once-free spirit. The severity of her punishment echoed and made known through the imperial manor, ensuring the princess of the manor could not escape her punishment. No longer afforded the luxury of solitude, Utahime found herself constantly shadowed by a minimum of two attendants. The freedom to wander the corridors of the manor alone was now a distant memory as she was monitored under the watchful eyes of her parents and the servants.

The gilded cage that enclosed the princess took on an additional layer of complexity as her parents implemented a meticulous rewards system. A clandestine network of servants became the eyes and ears of her parents, and they were rewarded handsomely for their loyalty. The prospect of a gold coin hung in the air like a tantalizing lure. Utahime's every move, every whisper of defiance became a potential windfall for those who served her family. The manor's servants who were entrusted with the day-to-day affairs of the household found themselves thrust into the role of spies. The very walls of the gilded cage pulsed with the silent whispers of those who now had a vested interest in her every misstep.

The omnipresent eyes of her father's student also monitored her every step within the palace walls. The gilded halls that once whispered tales of imperial grandeur became a cage, each opulent detail now a silent witness to Utahime's constrained existence. The imperial palace transformed into a confined space where every move was scrutinized even more. She was always very aware of the place and time, acting accordingly to the situation, but she couldn't help but feel suffocated underneath the trappings of her own demise. The echoes of her footsteps as she followed her mother or father in the palace mirrored the monotony of her controlled reality, a rhythmic reminder of the price paid for her indiscretions.

The world beyond the palace gates and the imperial manor became an unreachable realm. She could not leave anywhere by herself, receive visitors, or extend invitations. The very essence of social interaction was stripped away under the watchful gaze of her family.

Her ornate and confining gilded cage now encapsulated Utahime's world. The lustrous exterior belied the stifling reality within. Her once spread wide wings of freedom were now clipped, rendering her a locked bird yearning for the autonomy that had slipped through her fingers. The promise of revisiting privileges lingered like a distant mirage, a beacon of hope in the otherwise confined landscape of her current existence.

Every corridor echoed with the soft but insistent steps of her ever-present shadows. The simplest acts like using the restroom became a maddening ordeal. No longer could the princess retreat to the solace of privacy; every moment of solitude was an illusion shattered by the presence of vigilant attendants. The walls closed in, and the echo of footsteps resonated like a persistent reminder of her confinement and restraint. The weight of their watchful eyes bore down on her, eroding the edges of her sanity. The very essence of being, the quiet moments of introspection were now a luxury stripped away in the name of discipline and control.

This already confining cage she was in pressed against the edges of her consciousness. Utahime found herself ensnared in a web of constant surveillance like never before. Everywhere she went now felt like a labyrinth of scrutiny where even the most mundane activities became a spectacle observed by unseen eyes. The descent into the maddening monotony of her confined existence was marked by the persistent presence of those who trailed her every step!

The open-air and opulent platform adorned with a bamboo roof and draped in billowing curtains of white and blush made possible by the gentle caress of the breeze was a sanctuary of beauty and elegance. From this elevated vantage point, the grandeur of the meticulously maintained garden and the winding stone creek that flowed throughout the manor unfolded like a living painting. Urara held her private court on this elevated platform, attended to by a retinue of servants and her only daughter. The scent of cherry blossoms lingered in the air, its sweet and subtle scent clashing with the discontent echoing through the space.

Urara was adorned in the regal trappings befitting her status, engaged in a conversation displeased her greatly. Attending to her mother on this particular day, the daughter found herself immersed in Urara's discontent. The matriarch vented her frustration about the matchmaker's discreet endeavors under a pseudonym. Each offer discreetly procured was met with rejection, and the curtains of the stage fluttered in tandem with the weight of unmet expectations.

Urara's discontent was a storm brewing beneath the elegant facade, erupting with a ferocity that surpassed even the previous admonishments directed at her daughter.

"She will not be a concubine," Urara's voice carried anger surpassing the previous days of reprimand.

The mere suggestion that her daughter become a concubine was simply mad.

The rejection of these potential matches was not merely a matter of familial discretion; it was a proclamation of the princess' elevated status. In her eyes, Utahime was destined for a match befitting her regal lineage, a hero, or the position that granted her a seat with the Gods.

The list of reasons for dismissal flowed like a cascade of indignation. The talents of these low noble families were deemed middling, unworthy of the daughter who bore the weight of imperial expectations. The geographical distance of some matches incurred even greater wrath.

"Hokkaido? What backwater count is she bringing me next?"

The disdain dripped from each word was venomous; a rejection of alliances deemed beneath the esteemed lineage of the imperial household.

In a dramatic gesture, Urara seized the list of candidates and set it ablaze in a bronze burner, adding it to the warming charcoal. The flames licked and devoured the names that failed to meet her exacting standards. The crackling of burning paper was like music to Urara's ears as her displeasure unfolded. Her displeasure extended beyond the ceremonial burning as Urara was now seated amidst the regality of her surroundings, turning her attention to a platter of peeled fruits. Each bite was laced with the bitterness of unmet expectations. The imperial matriarch was incredibly dissatisfied with every aspect of the matchmaking process, finding no comfort in the consumption of fruits that failed to sweeten the taste of her discontent.

The princess couldn't help but cast her amber gaze upon the matriarch. During the fiery rejection of potential matches and the burning remnants of lists, a silent thought echoed within the confines of Utahime's mind: "And she wonders why I have so much pride."

"Your guests have arrived."

The announcement cut through the air, shifting the atmosphere on the opulent stage.

"Your Highness," the maid servant's respectful address pierced the lingering tension, reminding the matriarch of the impending arrival of guests. In an instant, Urara's displeasure vanished. The regal veneer that Urara was famous for reasserted itself, and she straightened herself like a swift transformation from the turbulent tempest to the composed imperial figure. The genteel mask fell into place effortlessly. Urara seamlessly collected herself with an air of grace that betrayed no trace of the earlier commotion. As if the grievances of the matches presented were neatly tucked away, she issued an order with composed elegance.

"Please show them the way here and get ready to serve tea and snacks."

She then acknowledged the servant with a gracious nod, her tone carrying a regal warmth, "Thank you."

The shift from maternal discontent to the role of a poised hostess was executed with a precision that bespoke a lifetime of navigating the delicate nuances of imperial and courtly life.

The maid servant bowed in acknowledgment and swiftly departed to fulfill the command.

The hushed exchange between mother and daughter unfolded with Urara reminding her daughter about the guests once more.

Urara's tone was quiet and serious, directing her daughter with a weighty responsibility.

"Utahime," she uttered, the syllables carrying the weight and reminder of expectations. "The women you are about to meet are famous and dangerous. They can shake and move society. Be perfection."

Utahime swallowed nervously. She nodded in acknowledgment despite her eyes reflecting apprehension. Her mother's words for impeccable conduct made the young woman even more nervous.

The daughter sought more information – the more information she possessed, the more prepared she would be in the face of this standoff. Utahime wished she had more time to learn about the nuances, but running at 80 percent more empowered was better than nothing.

"Names and trademarks?" Utahime inquired, a practical edge to her curiosity. She was preparing herself for the battlefield of societal expectations where words were arrows and hidden blades.

Urara's face took on a slightly scrunched expression as if donning a battle mask. Her response was delivered with a matter-of-fact demeanor, hinting at the complexities of the social landscape. "I've been gone from the capital for a decade, but I doubt these women have gotten fragile. If anything, they have gotten more vicious, and I've gotten weaker."

The revelation that her strong-willed mother was openly acknowledging the changes within the influential families took Utahime by surprise. The admission hinted at a strategic motive with a keen interest in the shifting allegiances within the upper echelons of imperial society. It seemed Urara was not merely putting together a social gathering, but meticulously gauging potential allies during their stay in the dangerous capital.

The Imperial Princess Urara then began giving a short explanation of the information she gathered during her stay here.

Urara mused, her tone carrying a hint of uncertainty, "I don't know which version of the Zenin and Kamo matriarchs I will get as those two clans seem to get a new one every few years. I'm not even sure if those two will come since I heard the new wives are rather young and impetuous."

Her mother began introducing the key players of the complex social terrain.

"The four I know will be coming for sure are important," she continued, the weight of the revelation hanging in the air. "The first woman is Senior Seventh Rank Lady Akane Ieiri. She is a lower ranked noble, but the Ieiris are long-time loyalists."

Utahime's ears perked up once more at the mention of the Ieiri family once more. Being reminded that Lady Shoko's aunt was among the esteemed guests added a layer of personal interest. The desire to impress was not just for familial pride but to stand out among those who held influence. The young woman's craving for recognition and respect began blazing bright.

Urara continued her explanations with a blend of measured respect and subtle reservation.

"One of the few women allowed in court is Senior Fourth Rank Lady Tsukumo Yuki," her mother revealed, a name that carried weight within the imperial circles. The description of Lady Yuki as a widow living by her own rules not bound by traditional constraints made Utahime's eyes glow with admiration. The strain in her mother's voice at the mention of Lady Yuki, though subtle, didn't escape Utahime's discerning ears. She knew her mother had opinions about the woman. It was a nuanced acknowledgment of the complexities that surrounded this influential figure.

"She does not care for the throne's best interests," Urara added, a note of concern lacing her words. "She likes to joke that she is looking for her third husband."

The layers of Lady Yuki's character unfolded, and each nuance contributed to the intricate tapestry of imperial intrigue Utahime couldn't help but imagine about the court lady. However, the young woman, privy to the subtleties of her mother's expressions, sensed the unspoken tensions that lurked beneath the surface.

The procession of introductions continued with the mention of Senior Fourth Rank Lady Fujie Geto. Urara explained, highlighting the significance of the Geto clan in the intricate hierarchy of power. "Senior Fourth Rank Lady Fujie Geto is the matriarch of the Geto clan who are just right under the Big Three in terms of influence."

The mention of Senior First Rank Lady Murasaki Gojo marked a shift in Urara's demeanor. It was a subtle tightening of the figurative reins. Her mother's tone was more rigid than before, hinting at the gravity of introducing the Gojo matriarch. She explained, "And the biggest mover amongst the nobles is Senior First Rank Lady Murasaki Gojo. Her only weakness would have to be her love for her son who is-"

Utahime completed the thought with a name that carried a weight of its own.

"Gojo Satoru," the young woman stated, a flicker of recognition and perhaps a touch of personal discomfort evident in her expression.

The mention of his name triggered a visceral reaction in Utahime as she grimaced at the thought of him. A sudden headache threatened to assert itself as an unwelcome companion in the face of the impending encounter with Lady Murasaki. The subtle discomfort lingered in the air as she thought more about the Gojo brat.

The accessory trunk held the white ribbon he had returned to her. The white corded ribbon lay dormant, nestled at the bottom as a physical reminder of an encounter she was reluctant to revisit. Utahime would avert her gaze actively from the trunk whenever she visited her room. An intentional avoidance of the offending accessory that had become a silent witness to an unsavory entanglement.

The mere thought of the ribbon stirred echoes of a touch that lingered in the recesses of her mind. His fingers were distinct from her own, and that could be the only reason why she remembered, and why the memory and his fingers became vivid in her imagination. Gojo's fingers were long, coarse, and undeniably strong. They also held the potential for allure and trouble if the owner wasn't such an annoying brat, but not that she cared anyways. The recollection of their hands intertwining prompted a cascade of sensations. At that time, their hands were a mingling of textures and temperatures, skin on skin. And that incredulous, irritating brat of a flirt wanted to mess and leave an indelible impression on a naïve maiden, and that naïve maiden he happened to choose was her.

Utahime knew that.

Well, too bad for him that Iori Utahime was not a naïve maiden like he might have thought she was! She knew it with the way she thought about things – and that was why she was even more determined not to feel anything beyond polite pleasantry. That was why the next time they met; she would ignore him!

If that Gojo Satoru brat wanted to flirt with any girl, he could choose so, but Utahime would not participate in his frivolous actions.

She was a smart girl – Utahime knew she had the capability to choose what she felt and how she felt. She was in control! And she had power over her own thoughts, mind, and emotions!

Even though sometimes when the princess thought about the touch, there were shivers of a subtle undulation that swung between pleasure and uncertainty, accompanying the memory like a ghostly echo. The young woman grappled with the contradictions that lingered in the aftermath of that lingering touch. His stupid, long coarse fingers had left an enduring mark on her consciousness, and that was a trace of connection that eluded easy categorization. The thoughts were like wisps of memory, daring her to revisit the sensations and the turmoil that accompanied his touch, leaving her caught in a delicate balance of uncertainty and introspection.

No, no, no.

It was because she was forced to be under the scrutiny of so many eyes that her mind was making her think about anything to escape the gilded cage she was in. Yes, that was it. Her mind was trying to trick her into believing she felt something beyond mild friendship (could she even call it that?) with the brat to deal with the situation she was in. The moment she was free from her parents' tight shackles of iron, Utahime would no longer linger on the subject.

The young woman needed to focus if she wanted her freedom.

Lady Akane was a woman of quiet elegance and gentle demeanor. She listened attentively, a composed presence in the gathering, but when a topic piqued her interest, her voice added a thoughtful dimension to the conversation.

"I have been observing a more Zen diet in preparation for my niece's wedding come July," Lady Akane shared. The quiet revelation unfolded with a grace that mirrored her composed presence. Her well-wishes for her niece's happiness added a touch of warmth to the conversation. "I hope Shoko finds happiness."

Lady Fujie, in contrast, presented a different facet of femininity. Soft and adoring, she brought her two young twin daughters, Mimiko and Nanako, into the social tableau. The seven-year-olds, dressed in almost matching outfits of purple and yellow with inverted colors. There was, however, a shrewd quality in Lady Fujie's dark eyes, reminiscent of a fox's gleam. Behind the softness and adoration, there lingered a discerning gaze, waiting to close in on something delicious.

The conversation flowed seamlessly among the women with Lady Fujie responding to Lady Akane's comment with a kind acknowledgment.

"That is very true, isn't it," she mused, her gaze turning towards Lady Akane as she took a sip of the meticulously prepared green tea. Utahime whipped the beverage with a skillful touch, stirring it into a froth-like consistency. As Lady Fujie's lips touched the tea, her eyes lit up at the subtle sweetness, and she expressed her appreciation.

"This is delicious. You're very talented, Princess," she complimented with a genuine note of admiration in her words.

In response, Utahime nodded with a humble acceptance of the praise, making sure her demeanor reflected a blend of skill and modesty, but she couldn't be too humble since she was a princess.

Seizing the opportunity to continue the conversation, Lady Fujie turned her attention to Lady Murasaki. A side glance accompanied her words, adding a layer of subtle inquiry to her comment. Fujie then continued and gave a side glance at Lady Murasaki.

"Your boy is going to become a husband. You must be so proud," she remarked, acknowledging the significant life event that awaited Lady Murasaki's son. Fujie slyly threw a sideways glimpse at Imperial Princess Urara, and added softly, "Ah, my own Suguru needs to get married soon so I can have grandbabies to play with. I'm not sure why he has been rejecting all the proposals we come up with."

Lady Murasaki, savoring the frothy tea with a graceful smile, shifted her attention between Utahime and Lady Fujie. Her demeanor was a blend of elegance and warmth. Taking a moment to collect her thoughts, the beautiful woman turned to Lady Fujie and shared a sentiment that held both hope and acceptance.

"This marriage will finally take place. That is all I can ask for," she stated, her words carrying a certain tranquility that bespoke a journey of patience and anticipation and adoration. "Perhaps he will finally settle down."

Dabbing her lips on a silk handkerchief with a refined gesture, Lady Murasaki continued with a touch of fond affection. She shared amusedly, "Oh, I must wrangle him to write me more. I got a letter from him three weeks ago – and this is his first letter to me since he left for training – I almost couldn't believe the contents of the letter!"

The loving adoration was evident in Lady Murasaki's voice. "He told me he was interested in religion recently. He requested that when he came back, perhaps, he and I could visit Kinkaku-ji or Kiyomizudera to pray for compassion for the upcoming marriage with Young Lady Ieiri."

Utahime, on the other hand, fought back a snort at the revelation. The idea of Gojo Satoru, the oh-so-honorable and seemingly irreverent young man, expressing interest in religion struck her as nothing short of absurd. That brat religious? The mental image of him being religious was as unlikely as the world plunging into chaos with Miroku Buddha descending to save the remnants.

Lady Murasaki shifted the focus to Lady Akane with a thoughtful question, "Young Lady Ieiri's parents are enshrined at Kiyomizudera?"

A shadow of sadness crossed Lady Akane's expression. With a nod, she confirmed the resting place of Shoko's parents at Kiyomizudera where their wooden placards were hallowed.

"Then it is best we go and pray for them," Lady Murasaki suggested, her words carrying a note of compassion. The idea of collective prayer unfolded as a gesture of solidarity and support for the orphaned Young Lady Ieiri amid her upcoming marriage to her son.

"Perhaps we can all go and pray," Lady Murasaki continued, extending the invitation to the gathered ladies. The consensus among them expressed through nods of agreement. Even the Imperial Princess Urara agreed. However, Lady Yuki was not interested in playing polite games. The court lady was interested in the new face amongst themselves.

The well-wishes for Utahime's supposed recovery unfolded with a mix of sincerity and scrutiny. Lady Yuki, with a coquettish demeanor, acknowledged the princess' resilience.

"Congratulations on recovering from your illness, Princess Utahime. To think you had to suffer for two months," she expressed, her words carrying a blend of acknowledgment and a subtle undercurrent of assessment.

Utahime bowed her head and smiled, "Thank you, Lady Yuki."

Seeing the princess so composed, Lady Yuki's scrutinizing gaze turned towards Imperial Princess Urara. Her inquiry was laced with a hint of playful curiosity.

"Imperial Princess Urara, have you found a suitable candidate for the princess yet?" she asked, her eyes revealing a shrewdness that opposed the surface pleasantries.

Urara's regal facade never wavered as she smiled and met Lady Yuki's gaze with a gentle look. Her response carried a genteel tone, befitting the composed demeanor of an imperial figure, looking the woman with thin brows and wide brown eyes in the eyes. "You know me, some things never change… I could not bear letting my only daughter go. Once children leave, they don't come back the same."

The court lady's smile was accompanied by the playful wrinkle of her nose, carrying a hint of mischief as she turned her attention to the quiet young woman responsible for their tea. With a directness that cut through the niceties, she posed a question that hung in the air like a challenge.

"What kind of man is your type?" she inquired; her gaze fixed on Utahime.

Utahime, caught off guard while sipping her tea, nearly choked on the refreshing beverage at the unexpected question. Her amber eyes were wide with surprise, darting around the gathering. The matriarchs, with clear evident interest, directed their attention towards the young princess. In the periphery of her vision, Utahime noticed her mother with a subtle expression full of concern and a desire to intervene.

Sensing the potential discomfort, Urara with a firm protest, stepped in to navigate the delicate boundaries of appropriateness within conversation. She interjected, her genteel tone carrying a subtle reminder of the proprieties expected amongst royalty, "Lady Yuki, that's not an appropriate question to ask a young lady such as Utahime."

Lady Yuki smiled with playfulness in her eyes, and the court lady persisted as she defended the nature of her inquiry. "It is only light banter, Urara. And your daughter is not so young anymore. Perhaps she might look for different options if marriage does not work out."

The notion of different options that transcended the conventional path of marriage stirred Utahime's curiosity. The statement prompted Utahime to consider the weight of Lady Yuki's words. Caught between the potential seriousness of the question and the playful banter that Lady Yuki insisted upon, the young woman found herself in a quandary. The prospect of exploring alternative paths coupled with the uncertainty of how to respond added a layer of complexity to the situation. Lady Yuki's words could have been veiled in light banter, hinting at an exploration of her preferences and aspirations.

Or maybe the question wasn't so serious after.

As Utahime grappled with the dilemma, the challenge became clear – how to navigate the scene without appearing foolish or giving away too much. But didn't that depend on perspective? At the end of the day, would it really matter since if they liked her answer or not depended on their view?

As the matriarchs engaged in a silent exchange, smiles masking a subtle tension, Utahime took a moment to craft her response. Her words emerged slowly, a deliberate contemplation unfolding as she considered the weight of Lady Yuki's question.

"I would choose…" Utahime began, her words measured and thoughtful. The pause held a sense of anticipation where the air brimmed with curiosity. "An enlightened man."

The choice of words resonated with a depth that surpassed the conventional expectations of an unlearned maiden like Utahime. Lady Yuki was intrigued by the response, quirked one of her thin brows, sitting up straighter as she leaned into the conversation.

"Oh?" she prompted; her interest evident in the subtle nuances of her expression. "What do you mean?"

Utahime's response was delivered with a newfound confidence, carrying a luminosity that mirrored the glow in her amber eyes. She articulated her desire with clarity and purpose, and the young woman was a radiant intensity.

"I want the choice," Utahime declared fearlessly with a sense of liberation. The yearning in her voice was evident as well as her bold desire to have control over her own decisions and the trajectory of her life.

"An enlightened man would let me choose – rather than him deciding my every move, thought, the way I see things," she continued, the words echoing with conviction. Utahime truly believed in the vision she imagined for herself as she spouted her beliefs. Then she added a layer of romantic idealism to her vision to soften herself in the eyes of these scrutinizing older women.

"If I am choosing him, this learned man must surely be powerful enough to give me the moon if I chose the moon in the sky. If I tell him I want a star, he must be able to pluck it out from the sky. If I wanted the most luminous pearl from the deepest part of the seas, this man must be able to dive into the depths and retrieve it for me."

Lady Yuki's amusement was tinged with a certain intrigue. The other matriarchs, while touched by the whimsy of Utahime's vision, observed the unfolding conversation with a blend of curiosity and amusement.

Perhaps seeking to distill the essence of the young girl's aspirations, Lady Murasaki posed a question that cut to the heart of the matter. "You want the impossible to become possible?"

However, the princess chose not to directly address the notion of impossibility. Instead, she steered the conversation with simplicity.

"I want respect," Utahime declared with clarity and conviction. An enlightened man would surely respect her need for recognition and regard. She then quietly sipped her tea once more, lowering her gaze.

As days unfolded with Utahime's impeccable behavior, her mother was gradually relenting and succumbing to a softened demeanor. The promise of increased freedom lingered tantalizingly on the horizon, fueling Utahime's determination to endure the scrutiny. Today was a particularly auspicious day for it granted her a reprieve from the constant attentiveness demanded by her parents, although the obligatory presence at the palace persisted.

Even amidst the routine of having four devoted attendants following her, Utahime could discerned the subtle cracks in her mother's resolve. The pendulum of influence swung in the princess' favor, and she harbored a conviction that her persistence would soon bear fruit. To stay out of trouble, the young woman went to the quietest place she could think of. The Imperial Library beckoned her with its towering shelves and the musty fragrance of ancient tomes.

The diaries of the feared and revered Yachiru Gozen held her captive. The narrative of this formidable female samurai, who made her name throughout history as a ruthless murderess, unfolded before Utahime's discerning eyes. Oh, the girl couldn't wait to make her name amongst the famous women in history. Yachiru Gozen also bore the distinction of being the inaugural female palace captain.

As the princess delved into the intricacies of Yachiru Gozen's life, she couldn't help but find the murderess' story so fascinating as entries of strength, resilience, and audacity emerged. The tales of this pioneering woman resonated deeply with the young woman who saw in her as a kindred spirit among the pantheon of remarkable women. Each turned page fueled Utahime's determination, solidifying her resolve to carve her path toward eternity. She couldn't remember the numerous amounts of times her eyes read the following recorded passage:

All you need is battle. Battle is everything.

The princess' initial enchantment with Yachiru Gozen's diaries gradually waned as she delved deeper into the pages. A subtle transformation occurred in sync with her reading, the radiant smile that adorned her face diminishing with each passing revelation. What had started as an exploration of an inspiring narrative took an unexpected turn, and the princess found herself frowning in perplexity.

The corners of her mouth, once upturned in joy, now frowned in downturned disbelief. Her royal brows furrowed together as confusion gripped her. The once sparkling eyes now squinted, grappling with the unexpected twists woven into Yachiru Gozen's tale. The turning pages of unforeseen challenges and revelations that tested the princess' reading comprehension.

Was this still really the same woman she started reading about hours ago?

As she reached the climactic last diary entry, a surge of emotion overcame her. The princess was unable to contain herself, erupting in a cry of frustration that reverberated through the hallowed halls of the Imperial Library.

"Don't mess with me!" she exclaimed, a declaration that echoed with disbelief, indignation, and perhaps a hint of fiery hatred. The diaries presented a reality far removed from the image she had envisioned, and the princess found herself at a crossroads, grappling with the dissonance between expectation and reality.

The unexpected outburst from the princess sent a palpable shock through the tranquility of the Imperial Library. Her female attendants were startled by the sudden eruption of emotion, exchanging uneasy glances as the princess rose from her seat, layers of regal attire rustling.

The princess, still cradling the now-infuriating diary in her hands, rose to her full stature. A symphony of fabric and jewels adorned her. With a swift, almost theatrical motion, her hands converged, bringing the diary together in a resounding slam that echoed through the hallowed halls. The imperial librarian was caught off guard and wearing a fearful expression, met her gaze briefly before averting his eyes. Undeterred by the concerned gaze of the librarian, the princess marched back to him. With measured grace, she returned the diary to its designated place on the librarian's desk, handling the ancient volume with an unexpected gentleness.

Her bewildered attendants scrambled to keep pace with the princess as she stormed down the corridor. The rhythmic tapping of her ornate shoes on the polished floor rang with the intensity of her emotions. The princess wielded a round fan with practiced elegance as its gentle flutter attempted to dispel the heat of her simmering temper.

Relieved to be free from the clutches of what she deemed a worthless, vexing diary, the princess couldn't contain her disdain. As she processed the absurdity of the murderess' life story, her delicate facade crumbled, replaced by sheer bewilderment. The very idea that Yachiru Gozen chose death to strengthen a man left Utahime utterly flabbergasted.

But what on earth had she just read?

He was so weak that a beautiful and strong and perfect woman like Yachiru had to die? Her eyes narrowed at the thought. In her eyes, he was feeble from the start. Utahime scoffed at the notion, her eyes rolling at the absurdity of a beautiful and strong woman succumbing to such a misguided cause.

The pinnacle of absurdity, however, was the audacity of a certain ruffian who dared to name his adoptive daughter after the very woman he admired. The only individual who had earned his admiration.

Her eyes rolled once more, this time with a touch of contempt. The curses that danced on her tongue were poised to lash out in a vehement tirade against the preposterousness of Yachiru Gozen's life and the man who dared to memorialize her in such a manner.

What a load of nonsense.

As if fate conspired against her, the princess' day took a turn for the worse when she crossed paths with her father's glib student. There Benimaru was, running his mouth in the company of other men, oblivious to the regal presence behind him. Utahime couldn't simply let this transgression slide. To command respect and assert her rightful position, she knew she needed to address the situation head-on. Determined and fueled by the lingering frustration from the confounding diary, Utahime squared her shoulders and approached the man.

The middle of May brought a subtle shift in the winds of freedom for Utahime. Her parents relented in their punishment, and the reprieve she had patiently awaited finally materialized, allowing her to reclaim a measure of autonomy. No longer bound by the constraints of constant supervision, the princess found herself with the liberty to visit others and extend invitations to the manor. The oppressive rewards system which had loomed over the manor like a shadow was now lifted. The girl could also navigate the halls and chambers without the weight of imposed expectations. The solitude of the manor became a newfound privilege. No longer tethered to the whims of a reward-based regimen, she reveled in the luxury of solitude, free to indulge in her pursuits without the watchful eyes of attendants.

Venturing outside came with its own set of constraints. While the need for constant attendance diminished, a decree stipulated that a minimum of two handmaidens must accompany her, which was not terrible.

The morning sun cast a soft glow over the manor's dojo as Utahime made her way there, intending to indulge in some solitary practice. However, her plans took an unexpected turn as her keen eyes spotted her brother in the company of an imposing figure. The stranger exuded an air of strength, standing tall with broad shoulders, and a shock of white hair crowned their silhouette. The likelihood of possessing piercing blue eyes only added to the disconcerting picture.

Caught off guard, Utahime's initial instinct was to retreat discreetly, hoping to avoid whatever peculiar setup was unfolding. But her brother intercepted her intentions.

"Uta! Sister!" Hoshi called out, his voice cutting through the air.

Utahime almost choked as she froze in place with her back towards them. Resigned to her fate, the princess slowly turned to face them. As her gaze met that head full of white hair while signature black bifocals perched on his noble nose, a sense of impending trouble lingered in the air. The sly, nasty grin scraped across his face only confirmed her suspicions – oh no, trouble indeed. A burgeoning headache threatened to manifest as the young woman braced herself for whatever mischief this unexpected encounter might unleash.

Was it worth continuing the act of not knowing the Gojo brat?

"Young Master Gojo," Hoshi exclaimed with genuine excitement, unaware of the brewing tension between his sister and the samurai in question. "Told me that you two are friends."

The news struck Utahime like an unexpected blow. Her chin snapped towards Gojo, and a glare sharp enough to cut through steel was thrown at him accusingly, but he responded in kind by sticking out his tongue at her, a juvenile and taunting gesture that only fueled her irritation, from behind her brother.

"Sister?" Hoshi's confusion echoed in his voice. His refined and elegant sister, known for her regal demeanor, was now acting entirely out of character. The samurai before her was someone he admired, and the reason for Utahime's displeasure remained a mystery to him.

"Why are you mad at Young Master Gojo?" he asked, perplexed by the apparent discord between his sister and the esteemed samurai.

Her words were carefully measured, a facade of nonchalance concealing the tumultuous undercurrents beneath. Gritting her teeth behind a strained smile, Utahime looked down pointedly at Hoshi and replied, "Silly. I'm not mad. I'm just caught off guard. Young Master Gojo and I met in passing."

Seizing the opportunity to address the situation, Utahime posed deliberate questions, "Why is Young Master Gojo here so early? Why are you with him without any supervision? You know the rules."

"He's actually here with Lord Gojo and father," replied Hoshi honestly. "We are getting ready to leave for court."

"Hoshi can you please show Young Master Gojo your forms?" the princess asked sweetly, prompting him to practice under the shade of the large gingko tree. Watching her brother follow her command was nice as he began enthusiastically going through his routine.

Turning her attention to the young man beside her, Utahime spoke in a hushed tone, "I don't know what you're doing here, but Iori Utahime is not supposed to know you. Gojo Satoru is not supposed to know Iori Utahime."

In response, he offered a confident reply, "Hmm…Did you not just say we met in passing? That means we do know each other."

Maintaining her pleasant smile and feigned composure, the young woman fixed her gaze on her practicing brother.

She clarified, "Passing. Keyword is passing."

The young man was undeterred, and he adopted a serious tone with his hands tucked behind his back. "Then let's get to know each other, Utahime."

As the young man uttered her name, a delicate tremor coursed through Utahime. A subtle flutter in the rhythm of her heart began blooming beautifully like a delicate flower. His pronunciation was a nuanced tempo of soft and heavy, a melodic rendering that echoed within the confines of her thoughts. This was a peculiar sensation, a symphony of contradictory emotions that left her momentarily adrift in a sea of confusion.

Her hands, previously at ease, sought solace in each other, coming together and clasping in front of her. Her pink blush dyed fingers interlaced in a subconscious gesture of seeking stability. The tempo of her heartbeat sped up just a bit before dying down once more when she got ahold of herself. Her amber eyes betrayed the internal turmoil within her – her long lashes fluttered like the flap of a butterfly's wings.

Utahime redirected her focus with an effort to regain her composure, finding refuge in her brother's practicing steps. The measured counting served as an anchor, a familiar and grounding rhythm that helped quell the disquiet within.

Once the storm within her subsided, the princess was now composed in a facade of neutrality, addressing him in an even voice, "How was the march here?"

"Utahime," Gojo's pleased grin played upon his lips; a silent victory reflected in the knowledge that she chose to ask him about something Iori Utahime – a woman he supposedly never met before – was not supposed to know or care about. He inched a bit closer to her, an air of triumph lingering in his demeanor as he responded, "The march was decent, Utahime."

Surprisingly, Utahime's lips curved ever so slightly in response to his words. The little smile that graced her features was a departure from the usual scowl he had grown accustomed to. Caught off guard by this unexpected warmth, Gojo found himself momentarily taken aback, his gaze shifting away as if seeking refuge in the familiarity of her brother's practice.

"How are you, Gojo? You're doing well, Gojo?" she inquired, her voice was a curious blend of sincerity and detachment.

The young man turned to face her. The young woman who sometimes treated him as her greatest adversary and, at other times, as a confounding friend. His reply escaped a little choked up, tinged with a hint of dryness and an undercurrent of emotion, "I am doing well. Are you doing well?"

Utahime's nose wrinkled in response with her smile reaching her eyes – a rare occurrence that left Gojo momentarily taken aback. She answered with an unexpected openness, "When I first arrived, I thought I could not adjust. I began wishing I was running at training camp instead of here. But right now, I think I am okay. I am doing alright."

His mind swirled with confusion and intrigue. Why would she prefer running at a training camp over whatever transpired within the imperial manor? The question lingered, unspoken. Was it so terrible to live in the imperial manor, he wondered.

"Congratulations on your upcoming wedding, Gojo," she said truly, looking at him despite the veil of black frames concealing his eyes. Her amber gaze was unwavering and pure as she sincerely meant her words. The weight of her words, congratulating him on his wedding, hung in the air.

A swift frown carved across his features. Frowning in response, he felt a surge of discomfort at her words, perhaps not anticipating such good wishes from someone who... He didn't know. Gojo didn't want to hear those words from her.

The white-haired youth didn't know sincere wishes could sound so akin to a deadly curse.

Before he could voice his thoughts, a low, authoritative voice cut through the tension, addressing Utahime by name.

"Uta, come here."

It was her father.

The abrupt interruption redirected the currents of the conversation, and Gojo's expression shifted from contemplation to curiosity, wondering what prompted her father's summoning.

She acknowledged her father's call, gracefully walking over with a demeanor of regality in every step. As she approached, Utahime executed a respectful bow with her greeting extending to Lord Gojo.

Lord Gojo, looking upon her with a trace of nostalgia, remarked, "You're so grown up now. I remember when you were a little girl."

Satoru was positioned nearby in the courtyard with his ears straining to catch the rest of the conversation, but the murmur of words eluded him. And as Lord Gojo approached him, a shift occurred. General Iori, with a subtle yet protective maneuver, positioned himself in front of Utahime, effectively blocking Satoru's view of the princess. The sudden barrier, intentional or not, left Satoru with a sense of curiosity.

"I don't remember meeting the princess when she was a little girl," he commented, a genuine note of confusion in his tone. The young man was unable to recall any memories of meeting the princess as a little girl.

His father chuckled lightly, a paternal warmth in his gaze. "That's because every time she came over, or your mother and I went to visit, you were always sick, gone somewhere, or playing with Suguru and Shoko. Of course, you wouldn't know her."

As the realization dawned upon Gojo Satoru, a wave of regret washed over him. The missed opportunities, the moments lost in the whirlwind of youthful pursuits and distractions, now crystallized into a poignant understanding. For the first time in his life, a longing to turn back time and offer his younger self a piece of sagely advice took root. If only he could go back, he might have urged himself to cease being a brat and meet the princess at least once.

Notes:

Yay! They get to meet! And they aren't fighting! Not really anyways! We get to find out her type of man! And Utahime is really rationalizing her thought process isn't she? She finds a reason as to why she feels a certain way always!

A couple of questions here:

Is the reason why Utahime is unmarried because her mother is too demanding?

Is Gojo serious when he says he became religious?

Are you interested in a Shoko and Suguru chapter? I wish I could poll here. Does anyone have a suggestion that is not twitter because he is charging a $1 for tweets soon?

As always, let know your thoughts if you want to share! I welcome everything!

Thanks for reading like always and here are some cool links to the female samurais.

Yachiru Gozen was lifted from Tite Kubo.

Hangaku Gozen

Tomoe Gozen

Retsu Unohana

Chapter 17: Teardrops and Cruelty Ensnares

Notes:

Hello all,

Thank you for supporting and reading like always.

Thank you ProcrastinationHours - I borrowed your description of the trio.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

17

Teardrops and Cruelty Ensnares

In the embrace of Utahime's capable arms rested a Dutch flintlock rifle, a unique acquisition courtesy of her cherished and longtime companion, Mei Mei. The rifle was heavy and cumbersome. The young woman pointed the muzzle to the earth, tipping gun powder down the barrel filled with the metal ball. Her dexterous fingers then used the ramrod, ensuring the powder and ball was properly pushed down before she fixed the muzzle into place. Among the remaining array of items shown to the imperial family, a pair of British dueling pistols was among the fascinating inventions emerging from the West.

"You need to hold it like this," Mei Mei instructed gently. Mei Mei was ever attentive to detail, taking it upon herself to refine Utahime's posture and grip on the rifle, ensuring that no harm befell her friend within the grounds of the imperial estate. She then adjusted a pair of makeshift earmuffs over her friend's ears, ensuring the noise wouldn't be too loud once the latch was released. The watchful eyes of Utahime's family – her father, mother, uncle, and cousins – closely followed the interaction between the two women with curiosity outlined on their faces.

The black-haired woman nodded in acknowledgement, directing the rifle towards a straw dummy in the distance. Her index finger was delicately poised over the trigger of the firearm. Her finger squeezed the trigger tightly as a burst of energy resonated through the firearm's mechanisms, and the butt of the rifle recoiled against her shoulder. Even with mental preparation for the anticipated kickback, the sheer force and loudness of the shot took Utahime by surprise.

"Interesting," the young woman remarked nonchalantly with a hint of intrigue. Her ears were ringing in the aftermath of the bang, trying to reorientate herself from the recoil. She returned the rifle to the pirate, careful not to betray too much enthusiasm for the potent weapon. Just a little afraid her shoulder would bruise purple from the impact, her fingers gently pressed against sore spot, checking the muscles beneath.

The lingering scent of gunpowder, iron, and rotten eggs in the air tantalized her senses in a rather terrible way, grimacing at the smell. Her eyes glanced over at the rifle box again. She could not help but muse over the single use aspect of the powerful weapon. The woman figured it was going to be an issue if the shot missed the target.

The idea of firearms was still an interesting contraption, however.

The morning sun was hidden behind wandering clouds as irregular shadows were cast onto the ground like a strange puppet show.

As the last remaining days of May arrived, Urara and Utahime embarked on their journey to Kiyomizudera, honoring the commitment made to meet with the other fellow noblewomen. Draped in the customary long uchikatsugi veiled headdresses ending at their ankles, the mother and daughter pair lived in quiet harmony together. Although there were invitations for Utahime to join polite society, Urara rejected them before the letters reached her.

When the Iori pair reached the entrance of the temple grounds, a group of veiled noblewomen with their handmaids present in the different uniforms of each clan present. Shoko was nestled between her prospective mother-in-law, the elegant Lady Murasaki, and her aunt, Lady Akane. On the other hand, Lady Fujie was a spectator who opted not to bring her daughters along, observing the scene with a benevolent smile. Pleasantries exchanged as the women commenced their ascent up the stone stairs, climbing in pairs.

Amidst the ceremonial chatter, Utahime wound her arm around Shoko's as Lady Akane and Lady Murasaki delved into the intricate intricacies of the remaining wedding arrangements. Meanwhile the two remaining matriarchs were left together, making small talk.

As the princess strolled past Urara and Lady Fujie, the whispers of their hushed conversation grazed her ears. Lady Fujie's voice was tinged with a hint of parental ache, saying the words, "…I wish I could find a bride for my son."

Undeterred by the subtleties of the exchange, Utahime and Shoko continued their path toward the main Buddhist temple where the Goddess of Mercy, Kannon, awaited them. Upon entering the temple hall, their veils were delicately removed, revealing the faces of the princess and Shoko. They settled onto the cushioned seats in a cross-legged position in the main hall as the cool breeze played with the edges of their unveiled attire. With the other noblewomen assembling behind them, the temple service for Shoko's parents commenced promptly.

Today was going to be a good day, Gojo just knew it. The young captain exuded absolute confidence with his fingers hovering over the wooden chess pieces on the board. A proud smile settled over his lips as he fought himself on the board, trying to best himself. Gojo was placed in charge of overseeing the training today in the makeshift hunting grounds that were converted for military usage. His sharp and calculating eyes surveyed the unfolding maneuvers on the board, enjoying the echoes of drills and footsteps that were ongoing. The rhythmic clatter of pieces echoed against the backdrop. Hearing footsteps approach him, a subtle smile graced Gojo's lips instead in preparation of hearing what would be said or asked.

He didn't look up, but the recruit didn't linger or approach him either. Seeing that nothing awaited his immediate attention, the captain went back to his game.

There were many things to be pleased about as his satisfaction was derived from the chessboard in front of him and the drills below, and of course, the flow of his life. Although he was not on the battlefield, there was a battle to be won today and his champion would either come back victorious, or there would be more direct measures that would have to take place.

His champion, Suguru, was more than willing to swallow all the dirty work that was required of him. His weekly pilgrimage to a temple was a ritual observed with the precision of clockwork. Gojo couldn't help but be pleased with Suguru's unwavering commitment to his personal beliefs. Although he could not relate to Suguru's religious pursuits, it would be the most important factor to win in this war of attrition.

The dual nature of his friend's character was an asset to the shadowy realms of strategy, fully aware that Suguru harbored a willingness to employ underhanded tactics if the situation demanded. As the white-haired samurai anticipated the unfolding events in a battleground far from him, his plan also rested on the delicate balance of luck and fate. Believing in the necessity of seizing opportunities and utilizing every available resource, the captain also had to acknowledge the unpredictable role luck often played in the grand schemes of most plans.

Gojo Satoru demanded that the forces of luck and strategy would align, ensuring that the pieces on the board unfolded according to the play he had so carefully written.

The air was imbued with a tranquil serenity as the prayer service for Shoko's parents concluded, leaving a reverent ambiance in its wake. The two young women ventured ahead of the matriarchs on a contemplative walk around the temple grounds, followed closely by their handmaidens. As the two women strolled through the sacred space, their steps brought them to Jishu Shrine, a sanctuary dedicated to Okuninushi, a God of Love and Good Matches.

Before the shrine was a pair of legendary love stones that were positioned thirty feet apart. An age-old belief whispered that those who dared to walk between the stones with closed eyes would unveil the mysteries of love. Success in traversing the distance without aid foretold the discovery of true love while assistance hinted at the intervention of a go-between in matters of the heart.

"This seems interesting," mused Utahime, her eyes alight with curiosity, approaching the nearest rock to her with intrigue. Glancing over her shoulder, she asked Shoko, "Should I try?"

Shoko's laughter was like a gentle melody, gracing the atmosphere as she nodded encouragingly. "You should try."

The princess committed the distance and orientation of the two love stones to memory with a confident smile. The challenge was straightforward – an unbroken, straight line awaiting conquest from start to finish. Positioning herself near the first stone, she fixed her gaze on the counterpart. Determination was drawn across her features as she concentrated on the goal, visualizing the path she would traverse. The world around Utahime faded into darkness as her eyes shut out the world. Undeterred by doubt, her feet carefully walked forward between the stones, guided solely by the mental map she etched in her mind. Each slow and careful step was completed with unwavering confidence.

As Utahime faced the challenge of the legendary love stones, the female physician observed with a bittersweet smile playing on her lips. Memories of a time not long ago flooded her thoughts – the last visit to this sacred place was with Suguru by her side. A subtle pang of nostalgia tugged at her heart as his sly and mischievous smile flashed at the forefront of her mind, remembering how his callous hand guided her through the simple and silly ritual.

Recalling the sensations of the moment, the female doctor couldn't help but bite the inside of her cheek. Averting her gaze from Utahime's determined strides, her brown eyes caught sight of a dark and familiar figure's imposing back, descending the stone staircase nearby. A silent sigh escaped her lips, carrying with it the weight of unspoken sentiments.

"I will be right back," Shoko declared, her voice carrying a trace of anticipation and uncertainty as she moved toward the escaping figure, the soft rustle of her garments softly echoing every time she moved. With a beckoning gesture to her maid servant, Saki, the maid followed her quickly.

"Okay," acknowledged Utahime, her eyes still sealed in concentration as she continued her journey between the love stones. Her two maids stood off by side, watching their young princess.

As the few minutes passed, the princess navigated between the love stones with easy precision, coming to the end successfully. A triumphant smile adorned her mouth as her eyes fluttered open, looking down at the other love rock with glee. Stepping aside with grace to yield space for the next seeker of love's oracle, Utahime scanned the vicinity for Shoko.

Yet Shoko was nowhere in sight despite her words. A flicker of concern creased the woman's brows as she cast her gaze around the Jishu Shrine, searching for the familiar figure of her friend. Time passed in silent increments, and twenty minutes later, a gnawing worry began to take root in Utahime's heart. Her mind wrestled with the unknown.

Had something transpired against Shoko?

Where was Shoko?

Was she in trouble?

Sinking anxiety filled her as the minutes stretched on, each passing second amplifying the worry that had taken residence within her. As she stood in the sacred space of Jishu Shrine, Utahime grappled with the growing fear that something untoward might have befallen her friend.

In the labyrinth of bustling bodies, every step Shoko took was resolute, cutting through the crowd as her feet chased after him. Saki struggled to keep pace as she was momentarily swallowed by the ebb and flow of the surrounding multitude of worshippers. Shoko's gaze remained steadfast, fixed upon the elusive Suguru.

Questions swirled within her.

Why was he here? What was he doing here? He preferred the smaller temples and shrines with less people.

The throb of curiosity mingled with the apprehension that pulsed through her veins, unfurling within her a thought that she was heading straight for danger.

As the pursuit led them away from the crowds to the beaten paths of the temple grounds, Shoko and Suguru descended into a small haven of seclusion, a quiet alcove veiled by the rustling whispers of a small brook and stone walls. It was a place where shared confidences had echoed through the ages.

"Please stay and watch out for people," Shoko entreated Saki, her voice a soft plea. Saki nodded in compliance, her gaze full of concern and obedience, as she guarded the beginning of the path.

When Suguru first turned, his gaze settled upon the babbling brook first. Then his dark eyes faced her as his head tilted towards her just the slightest, showing off a glimpse of chaos in them. The calmness emanating from him, however, mimicked the deceptive serenity preceding an incoming tempest. His sincere and tranquil smile held the echo of wistfulness. She wondered if he thought of that day when they found themselves caught in the rain in the same exact spot.

This secluded spot bore witness to where their lips had met in a first kiss – a memory that lingered with the fragrance of rain-soaked earth. Her back had been pressed against the cool stone wall, experiencing the embrace of his arms encircling her head along with the warmth of his slightly chapped lips. His nose rubbing the side of her nose – the thought made her lips quirk upwards in a smile-frown.

"Why are you here?"

Her voice that once directed warmth and laughter towards him now carried an accusatory edge as the young woman looked at the calm and smiling man before her. The weariness in her words copied the fatigue that weighed on her body and mind. How could he still smile like there was nothing wrong with this situation?

Suguru extended his hand in silent invitation. Compelled by the man before her, Shoko didn't hesitate to clasp his hand. The connection was fleeting, however. As she let go, the woman turned, positioning her back to the babbling brook. Her dark brown eyes met his dark ones as they studied one and another.

With his back to the stonewall, Suguru spoke in that gentle, deceptive, and mild manner of his. "Today is my usual routine visit to a temple in hopes of balancing out my karma, but I specifically came today to pray for forgiveness from your parents."

"I'm not following," she admitted, confusion coloring her voice. A heavy sigh escaped her lips as myriads of thoughts and emotions swirled within her.

The tall, dark-haired man closed the distance between them, extending his hand once more. The woman couldn't help but feel the magnetic pull of the moment as she didn't hesitate to accept his outstretched hand once more. However, this time, when their fingers entwined, his grip was assertive and firm as though he sought solace in the familiar connection.

As Shoko looked up at him, in the silent exchange, she couldn't help but wonder about the intricate workings of his mind.

"Not going to speak your mind?" she inquired, her voice was achingly gentle as she peered down at their linked hands. His hand was so warm, so comfortable to hold in hers.

"Sometimes I think you don't want me to speak my mind," Suguru confessed, a subtle crinkle forming in the corners of his eyes as he observed her now-frowning expression. "Sometimes I think you don't like what I have to say."

"I don't," she replied honestly. Her words were laced with ribbons of frustration and familiarity, hanging in the air like the delicate threads of a complex spiderweb, each word a nuanced brushstroke in the portrait of their complicated connection. "I heard it once, twice. I have heard it all. At times, the things you say are ridiculous – they're a little mad."

"And yet, you still hang around someone like me."

In a tender gesture, he turned her palm to face him, and his touch was deliberate, gentle and seductive. A soft kiss graced the center of her hand. A caress so yielding that the touch sent a flush of warmth rippling through her cheeks. The unexpected tenderness left Shoko momentarily unsure and frozen, yet she didn't shy away from the man who kissed her. Instead, her free arm pulled him into an embrace, enfolding him in the shelter of her arm, cradling his head against her shoulder with a hand that was gentle in its strength.

Her fingers wrapped themselves into his loose tresses that fell around his shoulders before letting go and gripping the back of his head as she held him to her. Even though she knew her heart would break even more, she would do it again. If she could hold him for a minute, she would suffer and walk all over the glass shards of her heart.

With his face nestled in the crook of her neck, Suguru's whispered words filled their little stolen bubble of a world with a wishful longing. "I think it would be nice if this moment could last forever."

The quiet plea echoed in the tiny cracks between them, and she wished the same, but she didn't dare utter such words. Tears welled in Shoko's eyes before going down on their journey tracing the delicate curves of her flushed cheeks, glistening on the edge of her jawline. Each drop evidence of the depths stirring within her. A soft sob caught in her throat, matching the rawness of the festering wound that existed in her. She murmured her words with a sense of truth and resignation, "Forever? Nothing is forever."

"Then until we are old with sagging skin, grey hair, and brittle bones," he suggested, his words an earnest plea, delivered gently whenever he wanted something. "Until we turn into dust and void."

The quiet declaration was a promise to weather the sands of time together.

Tears continued to cascade from Shoko's pretty, round eyes. She struggled to find words that could articulate the tumultuous storm raging in her heart. The warmth of his smile was felt against the tenderness of her neck served was bittersweet.

A shuddering breath escaped her lips, and through the tears, she managed to voice the fragile question that was at the forefront of her mind. "Why are you being so cruel?"

In response, he emitted a small, hopeless, and tender laugh.

"Please forgive me," he implored against her neck. His breath was hot and scalding, searing his words onto her skin. His next words were a delicate admission of guilt, and the acknowledgment of the wounds inflicted in the name of devotion. "I have wronged you. I will use the rest of my life to make up for this."

The stolen moment was abruptly shattered by the intrusive symphony of approaching footsteps. A chorus of gasps and familiar voices echoed loudly from behind them, slicing through the sacred stillness of the moment. Suguru's mother pleaded for her son's attention while Shoko's aunt urged her to break away quickly from the young man embraced in her arms.

But she did not release him. She did not let go this time.

Lady Murasaki's painted lips voiced her displeasure at the sight of her future daughter-in-law embracing another man. The other man was a boy she knew too well.

"How interesting…" she remarked, a subtle undertone of disdain coloring her words.

The emperor was not pleased with his noble subjects. The weight of unforeseen developments pressed upon him, leaving lines of stress etched across his brow. Advisor Tanaka, the bearer of disquieting news, spoke with measured urgency.

"The Gojos want the marriage agreement dissolved and retracted like it never happened. They are also seeking compensation for six years of time lost," Tanaka relayed, his words hanging in the air like a cloud of uncertainty.

"The Ieiri manor is on lockdown, no one can get in and out. The Getos are quiet. It seems no one outside of the people involved knows about the situation yet," he continued, each sentence adding another layer to the unfolding crisis.

In response to this revelation, the emperor cut through the tension with a cold decree, "Tell the Ieiris to put her to death. This marriage between the Ieiris and Gojos was supposed to elevate the Ieiris while making sure the Gojos couldn't procure a more advantageous alliance. They're already powerful enough."

Advisor Yamada interjected, injecting a note of pragmatism into the conversation, "Taking back the mandate is admitting fault on the imperial family's end. The imperial family does not make mistakes. That is not feasible."

"Are they seeking compensation from the Getos?" the emperor inquired with steady gaze, betraying none of the turmoil that lurked beneath the surface.

"Yes, the Gojos are going after the Getos for financial losses. There were significant financial arrangements and preparations made for the wedding, engagement, and dowry prepared," Tanaka detailed. "They are also asking for compensation from the royal family."

Advisor Tanaka's revelation cast a shadow of incredulity over the imperial chamber. The emperor was caught off guard by the unexpected turn of events, listening with disbelief and frustration. The flabbergasted emperor voiced his bewilderment, "Why? It's not our fault the Ieiris couldn't control one of their women."

Tanaka then said, "The Gojos have cited the following losses must be compensated from the royal family as it was partially the empire's arrangement that they are facing humiliation. The Gojos argue that compensation is needed to restore their honor and standing in the empire. They argue that their relationship with the royal family has been strained due to the decree, impacting potential future alliances and marriages. They want a gesture of goodwill to mend these relations. They fear that the dissolution without compensation sets a precedent that undermines the authority and credibility of imperial decrees. The Gojos also would like to urge the royal family to remember that the royal family is responsible for rectifying a situation that arose from the initial decree."

"They're blaming us for this failed arrangement," the emperor laughed in disbelief and stress. "They are trying to spin gold out of straw. Those swindlers. Killing is off the table. We can still use the Ieiris."

The emperor was resolute in his stance, directing the next course of action. "Begin drafting an amendment clause to the mandate. We are not taking back the mandate. We do not submit to these people. Gather the involved clan heads and we will mediate."

As plans for resolution took shape, the emperor decided to leverage another piece on the imperial chessboard.

"Let's bring Amanai's daughter to the table. She's the current head priestess at Ise. We can switch her out for someone else. We can move my niece into the position instead," he commanded.

Yamada sought clarification, "And if the Gojos don't want another bride?"

"That is the point of the mediation. We will find a working middle ground."

"Any news?" Utahime asked Mei Mei, taking the older girl by hand to sit in her boudoir. The princess' worry was evident with the way she nervously paced around the floor of her room. "Good news?"

The silver-haired pirate shook her head, and said, "Not good. Her maid that was with her that day was almost beaten to death, but rumor is that the young lady blocked the last couple of remaining blows."

"And the Getos? Gojos? What of them?" Utahime pressed for more information. She felt utterly useless.

A light smile graced Mei Mei's lips as she answered, "All three clans are going to meet with the emperor and his aides to work out a solution. The rumor is that the Gojos are asking for compensation from the royal family since using examples of broken arrangements mandated by the royal family that were then reversed and compensated."

"The Gojos really are making the most out of this situation," she observed as the weight of the unfolding drama etched in the lines of her thoughtful expression. Utahime then questioned as uncertainty clouded her mind. She hoped it was not the obvious answer. "Does this mean Shoko has no choice but to marry Geto?"

"Her reputation is shot," Mei Mei responded with a stark admission. "There is a growing rumor around the city already that a noble boy and girl were caught saying a lovers' farewell at a temple."

The princess was ready to take a stand as much as possible, ready to defy the currents of rumors and judgment to shield her friend from the storm that threatened to engulf her.

"I will pay you to kill the rumor," she declared, her words laden with unwavering resolve. She clutched the edge of her short jacket tightly. "I want to help her. She needs help. She shouldn't be punished because she was just trying to say goodbye."

Day Three of Mediation

The imperial palace beckoned her parents with an urgent summons, a call to expedite the mediation process destined to reshape the fates of the noble families involved.

The young woman was restless with all the waiting. She needed to do something. Two maids followed her outside of the manor. Her first stop led her to the gates of the Ieiri manor. However, to her dismay, the imposing gates denied her entry, barring her from where Shoko was currently being watched like a criminal. The weight of uncertainty settled upon Utahime's shoulders as she lingered outside the manor unsure of what to do.

Undeterred, Utahime seized the opportunity to traverse the high-end restaurants and tea houses where rumors and truths often intermingled like the fragrances of exotic teas. Out the corner of her eye, she spotted a servant wearing the uniform of the Gojo manor. They must have been out trying to gather information too.

"Did you hear? There was a mix-up at the royal palace. Six years ago, when the emperor's mandate was read, it was supposed to the Geto clan who marries the Ieiri daughter."

Snippets of conversation floated through the air, carrying tales of deception and misplaced destinies.

"How did they find out it was wrong?" a voice inquired, eager for the unraveling of a mystery that appeared to have laid dormant for years.

"A scroll was found with the correct names. It seems like some evil doer switched out the scrolls to create chaos."

Day Four of Mediation

Satoru met with his parents who had not returned home since the mediation process began in a private chamber inside of the imperial palace. Satoru was growing bored of the situation, and quite frankly, losing some of his patience as he waited to hear what news he could.

He and Geto attended the crown prince's court as the crown prince presided over court in the emperor's stead while the emperor dealt with the mandate issue.

Satoru's parents offered him a detailed account of the complexities that stalled the resolution. A wry laugh escaped Satoru's lips. It was a response more befitting to a reality like a theatrical performance than the solemn proceedings of a court.

Lady Murasaki voiced the potential solution, "The royal family proposes another match with the Amanai girl. She is the current grand priestess. It's not a bad match."

"I don't want her," Satoru asserted, his words carrying a flat certainty. There was an edge to his voice as his mind raced through endless possibilities, and what he needed to do next if this fell through. "The last mandate given ended in a disaster. How is switching out who the bride is helpful?"

"Then what do you want?" Lord Gojo inquired, seeking the core of his son's desires. The intensity of Lord Gojo's scrutiny bore down on Satoru like a silent challenge that demanded clarity.

Measured and deliberate, the Gojo heir began to outline his terms, "The compensation I want should benefit the Gojo clan. Perhaps some land in the east near Edo. I also do not want any more imperial mandates that dictate who I marry or when I should marry."

Day Five of Mediation

The passage of time bore down heavily on Utahime as day five unfolded with an ominous silence. Her parents were entangled in the web of imperial politics, and they remained absent from home. Fueled by concern, Utahime sought solace with Mei Mei and her main base of operations.

As she approached, an unexpected sight unfolded before her eyes – the Gojo servant she saw the other day was escorted from Mei Mei's office space personally by Mei Mei herself. The servant was not dressed in the Gojo uniform, however. The interaction between the two raised Utahime's suspicions, and she couldn't help but assume the worst while trying to hope it was not what she thought. When the Gojo servant departed, Utahime was ushered into Mei Mei's office by a tea house worker.

The doors closed behind her, and the air in the room became charged with unspoken tension. Goosebumps rose on her arms and a nervous tickle began settling at the bottom of her stomach. Her heart began to race, driven by a growing sense of unease.

"Hello, Utahime," Mei Mei replied as if there was nothing wrong.

"Hello," she uttered back weakly. "Who was that?"

"A customer."

Her stomach began to turn as sickness overtook her the longer she stood in the office, staring at the female pirate. The girl couldn't help looking at her childhood friend a little differently now. Utahime confronted Mei Mei though. Her voice was firm and accusatory as she stated what she suspected, "You're the one spreading the rumors."

The pirate's pleasant facade shattered with her smile dropping instantly, and her eyes taking on a darker hue. Undiscouraged by the sudden change, the princess pressed on, "And you're working for the Gojos."

A dismissive eye roll accompanied Mei Mei's response as she delivered her words with a disarming directness, "It's business, Utahime. Nothing personal."

A stake of pain shot through her heart as the heavy truth left the young woman hurt and a little betrayed. How could Mei Mei do this to Shoko? How could she help push the girl further to the edge? The princess was driven by a sense of urgency as she left for the Gojo manor without notifying her maid servant.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, a moment of resolution was achieved. The representatives from each clan would not leave the palace until the seventh day when the formal agreement became official.

The princess was escorted into the Gojo manor easily and there was this unnatural sense of calm enveloping the expansive estate. A slightly on edge Gojo was seated on the veranda without his usual black frames covering his eyes. He appeared contemplative and calm, engaged in what seemed like a pleasant conversation with another figure. His blue eyes were bright and energetic.

To Utahime's surprise and confusion, the second figure was none other than Geto. Utahime couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that something was amiss. She knew they were best friends, but was this how normal people reacted when their other childhood friend was currently imprisoned because of the person before her? He ruined her reputation, and he destroyed their engagement.

When he glanced over his shoulder at her, Geto bore no visible signs of distress with a calm and placid face, and Gojo's demeanor was unaffected as he stared at her with an unreadable face. The two young men appeared too unaffected by the situation. Why were they not more distraught? The question lingered in Utahime's mind.

The servant announced her right away before leaving the vicinity once more, "A guest for you, Young Master."

Beneath the delicate veil that shrouded her features, a flicker of realization danced in Utahime's eyes. The once scattered puzzle pieces began to align in a disconcerting pattern. From the letter to Geto's appearance at the temple.

Was it possible that they had planned all of this out? How long had they plotted in the shadows, lying in wait?

Even the parents, she surmised, might be oblivious to the machinations of their sons as their mothers were too shocked by the scandal they witnessed.

A startling revelation seized Utahime's thoughts – these were not merely men that she was facing, but beasts. Their veneer of humanity was now cracked to reveal the ruthlessness that always lurked beneath. Gojo and Geto wore the skins of humans, yet their actions betrayed a more predatory nature like the monsters they truly were. Apprehension pressed upon Utahime's shoulders like boulders, and unease settled in her chest as a heaviness overtook her limbs and senses. She was out of her depths, and the princess knew she was not equipped to confront these two demons.

And yet justice for Shoko raged within Utahime like a burning inferno consuming her entire heart.

"H-how could you two do this to her?" Utahime's voice trembled with fiery hatred. Her heart pulsed with aching pain, and her stomach contorted in uncomfortable hot bends and curves. She was going to be sick.

"Who is this?" Geto was dismissive and indifferent, brushing aside the princess' presence with a nonchalant wave. To him, she was merely an inconvenience – boring and annoying, unworthy of attention like a buzzing fly.

On the other hand, the white-haired youth wore an amused smirk upon hearing the passion in her voice, but kept his mouth shut as he rested his cheek against the palm of his hand.

She gulped harshly seeing their reactions. Despite the undercurrent of fear and apprehension coiling within her, Utahime resisted the urge to be dismissed by these men. An unyielding determination surged within her, urging her to air her grievances, to confront the beasts hiding beneath human guise. She lifted the veil that obscured her features with a steady hand, revealing her face to the pair before her.

Gojo's mouth turned upside as his frown deepened. His blue eyes reflected an unexpected discontent upon seeing her unveiled. He had underestimated her courage, assuming she would be too afraid to expose her face to Geto. His eyes then darted at Geto.

The dark-haired man was caught off guard by the revelation, watching in stunned silence as the woman glared daggers at him. Recognition dawned in his widening eyes, and he spoke her name with realization and disbelief, "Hiko…No, rather you are the princess."

Geto's initial impoliteness dissolved in an instant, and his frown was replaced by a happy grin that spread across his face. In a swift change of demeanor, his hand shot up briefly, waving to Utahime.

The more the two men acted as if nothing was wrong, the more Utahime wanted to scream and shout.

"You know what you two have done right? You've destroyed her, you've killed her," Utahime filled all her anger and despair into her words. At that moment, the young woman believed Gojo and Geto were architects of chaos, akin to crazed arsonists setting ablaze the foundations of another's life. "Her reputation is ruined."

"That's a little dramatic, Utahime," said Gojo ever, replying with a tone of indifference. The white-haired captain was dismissive as ever as the young woman before him was getting on his nerves. Then a smirk settled on his face once more as his fingers began to tap against his cheek.

"Wow, first name basis. Amazing," Geto quipped with a touch of sarcasm, acknowledging the interesting aspect between the princess and his best friend.

"Don't call me by my name," the princess spat out venomously as her words were laced with bitter and dark resentment. "You've never earned the right to call me by my name. Recognize your better."

The smirk on Gojo's face faltered, frozen by the sting of Utahime's chide. Taking his head off his hand, Gojo stared at Utahime as the urge to fight ticked stronger and stronger. In a sudden change of demeanor, he addressed the dark-haired man with a terse command, "Suguru, go home."

Geto teased him, glancing at Utahime's reddening face, contorting in anger, "You sure about that buddy? She looks like she wants to kill the both of us."

"Go home, Suguru," Gojo repeated his command to his friend. He was resolute in his decision. "I can handle this. I'm not sure how stupid and weak you have to be by picking a fight with the strong."

Geto nodded and offered a nonchalant shrug before placing his hands into his kimono sleeves. Gojo rose from his position on the veranda and walked alongside Suguru. An unsettling and foreboding sensation crept up on the princess, refusing to dissipate as she backed up with small, hesitant steps. Her fear lingered in her eyes as she glanced at Gojo and Geto smiling and walking towards her like demons drinking blood. Gojo stopped and positioned himself a few feet away from Utahime, staring down at her with his intimidating eyes.

Parting ways with Gojo, Geto delivered a parting remark, patting him on the shoulder. "Bye Satoru. I'm going to be disappointed if you die here."

Then Suguru turned his head towards her, a little tilt to the way he looked at her as he smiled at her politely. He said, "Princess, I was starting to miss my new friend. I'm happy to know that you're still out there. I miss our talks and conversations. Let's chat again when you're not so angry. See you around."

Disbelief shivered through her body upon hearing his jeering words as the princess ignored the animal's attempt at conversation. The black-haired demon's attempt to bridge the gap was laden with insincerity and seriousness only fueled the fire of the princess' simmering anger. Her unsteady gaze tried to remain fixed on the white-haired demon standing before her. She was afraid the moment her eyes moved away from him – Gojo would snap her neck. Utahime confronted the realization within herself that she had grown complacent, believing his silly and bratty facade that masked his cruel nature.

As Geto retreated from the immediate vicinity, leaving behind an echo of useless words that lingered between the remaining two. Gojo's voice cut through the air. His words were spoken with a low and on edge attitude, "Utahime, you two have interesting conversations, hm? I'm jealous. You give pieces of yourself away so freely to others when I must scrape and fight for what little bits I get. How unfair. Don't you think that's unreasonable?"

Utahime was resolute in her silence, refusing to be drawn into the white beast's taunts. The emotional toll of Shoko's destruction weighed heavy on her, but the princess chose not to expend her energy in futile exchanges with the one before her. The young woman was weighing her choices, knowing that beast before her was watching her every move, but she couldn't figure out his intent.

A tactical retreat was needed.

Turning to leave, Utahime was intent on escaping the claws and jaws of Gojo Satoru. She knew her first mistake was allowing herself to be carried away by her emotions. She was not thinking the moment she stepped into his domain. As she turned her back to him, the princess was ensnared by a powerful and punishing hand, forcing her to face him as he towered over her easily. He breathed down on her harshly as his grip tightened around her wrist. His touch was a forceful and unwelcome pull that brought her closer to the source of her turmoil.

"Let go!" she commanded, trying to pry her hand back. "Unhand me right now."

Her heart raced as an unmistakable sense of vulnerability and panic settled in the pit of her stomach. Her eyes grew wide as she pulled away from him, bending her knees the slightest so she could get away from his mocking fangs that hovered over her face. He hung onto her easily despite her best efforts to go limp. Instead, her action caused him to capture her with both of his hands as his other hand wrapped around her back, forcing her up once more as his face was centimeters away from her won. The air hummed with the charged atmosphere of a battle not just of words, but of wills. The beast before her, reveling in the unfairness of their exchanges, now held her captive, leaving Utahime to navigate the treacherous terrain before her.

Gojo's normally nonchalant, brilliant blue eyes now gleamed with a dark intensity as he forced Utahime to face him. His head tilted down even closer, doing his best to dominate her as he spoke at her, "I thought you came here to talk. Let's talk. You have all of me to yourself."

Hearing his arrogant tone, Utahime forced herself to maintain a calm façade despite her trembling, fearful self. She swallowed her spit and gritted her teeth as she easily glared up at him. In the face of the storm, she issued her first order to him, "First order of business, unhand me."

A smug smirk played on Gojo's lips as he countered, crooning into her ears, "Give me a please first,"

Suppressing the swell of frustration, Utahime pursed her lips and uttered through clenched teeth, "Please."

True to his word, Gojo released his hold on her person, granting her the freedom she demanded. The air thickened with anticipation as Utahime initiated the dark conversation that loomed between them.

"You two are behind this entire fiasco," she accused, not caring if it was true or not. At this point, it was the truth for her. Her mind could not be changed.

"Mmmhmm," Gojo acknowledged with a nonchalant nod, a gesture that betrayed neither confirmation nor denial.

"Now you're forcing my uncle to find a solution for everyone involved," the princess continued, unraveling the layers of manipulation and chaos orchestrated by the demon before her. Utahime could have sworn the tendrils of deceit surrounded him like tentacles lurking in the shadows, waiting to pull down unsuspecting victims.

A smug smirk curved Gojo's lips as he locked eyes with Utahime, his dark blue gaze narrowing with a calculated intensity. He countered her accusations with a taunting assertion. "Like you did. You forced your family to find a solution for you."

Before Utahime could refute, he cut her off with a blunt declaration. "It's the same. Admit it. You and I are very similar, Utahime. The only difference is that I am strong, and you're weak."

"I am nothing like you," she shot back with resolute defiance, rejecting the comparison he sought to draw between them. The clash of wills unfolded as each word became a battleground in the volatile conversation. Refusing to be swayed from the original point, Utahime circled back to the heart of the matter despite Gojo's attempts of deflection. "You two didn't ask about her feelings, did you?"

"Ask who? Tell me exactly what you're accusing me of. Choose your words wisely," he retorted with an edge that mirrored the intensity of their first encounter on that fateful morning on the hill. He was demanding clarity, forcing her to repeat her ideas repeatedly.

Frustration etched across her features as Utahime realized the futility of engaging in a meaningful conversation with Gojo. His evasive maneuvers and indifference to understanding Shoko's feelings left her exasperated and exhuasted. The realization that he had no intention of having a genuine discussion settled heavily and it disappointed Utahime, draining her emotionally as she glared at him.

It seemed like the only thing she could do was glare at him, and even then, her glares would never hurt him. In response to his poisonous demeanor, she scoffed, leveling a straightforward accusation at him. "You don't want to understand Shoko's feelings. It is probably easier for you to operate under the assumption that you're making the best decision for everyone involved if you don't understand. You're incredibly selfish."

Gojo appeared unfazed by the accusation.

"Me? Selfish? Who would have known," his words carried an air of sarcasm, acknowledging the undeniable truth of his nature that lingered beneath the surface. "Utahime."

At that moment, Utahime truly believed there was an inherent difficulty of finding common ground with him in the tumultuous sea of conflicting emotions and agendas.

Utahime started accusing him with a self-righteous fervor fueled by frustration and disappointment. "You don't seek to understand, nor do you wish to be understood. Keeping people at arm's length until people become convenient for your use."

Her words were charged with the weight of observation and condemnation, seeking to pierce through the layers of indifference that shielded the white-haired demon. She wanted to hurt him, she wished she could hurt him like how he hurt Shoko.

"You don't know what you're talking about. You don't know me." he retorted, a defensive shield rising in response to the probing words. Gojo's handsome face contorted into a frightening look as he was visibly irritated by her accusations. He abandoned his façade of nonchalance and began openly scowling at her.

Utahime was unyielding, snapping back at the man who loomed over her like tyrant. She hoped her words were sharp enough to hurt Gojo, but she doubted there was anything that could pierce through him. Despite that, she said, "I know enough that you two destroyed her reputation beyond repair. Now she has no choice but to marry Geto. Will they even take her? I know enough that you two ruined her for your own results and rewards. How do you know this is what she wanted if you don't ask her?"

It was a plea for understanding and accountability in the face of the chaos they had unleashed upon Shoko's life. But as the weight of the situation pressed upon her, Utahime's composure began to unravel, slipping away from her control. Tremors gathered at her fingertips, showcasing the storm raging within her mind, body, and soul. The veiled hat in her grasp trembled as her chest heaved rapidly as small rapid breaths escaped her lips. Choked words fled from her as an overwhelming need to cry began seizing her with each passing moment in the face of this stone-cold man. "How is this not killing her? You and Geto pushed her off the edge."

Why was Gojo Satoru so cruel? She knew then that he did not possess a heart nor a soul. He was a creature made of brutality and malice. She was overcome by the weight of the truth and the pain it bore as the storm of grief swirled around her, overtaking her completely.

Teardrops gathered at the ends of her eyes, and even though she tried holding back, Utahime was unable to control her body's response to the utter anger and agony wrecking her. Then the first two dropped. Before long the floodgates burst open as more and more teardrops traced the curves of Utahime's face, carving glistening trails down her cheeks. Her cries echoed in the air with an intensity that matched the turbulence of her emotions, growing louder and louder until the princess was on the disgraceful verge of wailing.

"Are you crying?" Gojo asked, his dumbfounded tone betraying a glimpse of the unexpected vulnerability that unraveled before him. The sight of her tears left him at a loss as he was unsure of what to do. The stark contrast between the usual stoic Utahime and the tear-streaked figure crumbling before him left him momentarily speechless.

Upon hearing his words, the princess' cries intensified as she brought up her hat to shield her shameful self from him. She instinctively brought her veiled hat up to shield her face, attempting to conceal the raw vulnerability beneath the gauzy fabric. Her sobs were muffled by her hands and the veil.

Gojo found himself taken aback. The young man harbored an aversion to the sight and sound of tears. Tears and cries were typically dismissed or disdained by him. Yet, in this moment, he felt a surprising absence of annoyance as he took in the sight of her shaking shoulders and bowed head. A realization then hit him that her tears were deadly, piercing through the barriers he had erected, stirring a discomfort within him that he was unaccustomed to. An unusual urge to remedy the situation took hold of him as his mind tried to come up with ideas and solutions to console the woman before him.

"Stop crying. If you don't stop crying, I'll give you something to really cry about," Gojo pleaded, the unfamiliarity of rare empathy creeping into his frustrated tone. His attempt to quell her tears was poorly executed.

His consoling words sounded like a threat to her ears. Utahime lowered the white gauze just enough to cast him a glare with her puffy and reddened eyes. Her glare was full of defiance and vulnerability. Her body refused to calm down as her tears defied her attempts at restraint. The tears continued to flow relentlessly. Suffocating on her words, she wept out, "I'm not crying because I want to."

In the hushed aftermath of her admission, Gojo could only stare at her, unable to forget her red and puffy eyes as tears slipped from them. Warmth began blooming within him as his discomfort ebbed away.

"Then I will give you a reason to stop crying, Utahime," he declared quietly, a note of promise lacing his words.

His warm hands enveloped her freezing ones that held onto the veil in a firm and confident capture as his warmth sunk into her, causing her to freeze. Her body reacted right away to his touch in alarm, stopping her tears as her mind now registered that he was holding her hands. Her head snapped up at him, showcasing her wide eyes at him like a doe ensnared in a trap. His scent was clean and citrusy, and he was too close to her. Before she could react, Gojo Satoru cradled her face with her hands in his as her hands were moved from her mouth to the sides of her jawline. Then with the tilt of his head with his hot breath teasing her senses and skin, Gojo lowered his head, closing the distance that separated them. The gauzy veil that was damp with her tears became the only barrier as lips met lips. Her lips were soft and receiving while his own were firm and tender as he kissed her.

Amidst the fragile connection sealed by the unexpected kiss, Utahime's trembling lashes brushed against his cheeks, fluttering like delicate butterflies. The intimate exchange between them formed a temporary sanctuary amidst the storm of emotions.

A tiny gasp escaped her, and if there wasn't a veil between them, Gojo would have done something the princess would have been rather embarrassed of. Alas, the shield remained as he rested his forehead against hers, staring into her stunned eyes with his hazy ones. His unexpected kiss was a fusion of comfort and an attempt to silence the tears that spoke of a pain he couldn't fully comprehend.

His thumb brushed against her veiled lower lip, recognizing the warmth in her cheeks and mouth growing hotter and hotter as her cheeks blazed red. Enchanting and enticing, the tenderness of her face and the heat radiating from her cheeks and lips lured him to her again. His lips met hers once more, connecting with her affectionately again in this quiet moment they shared.