Gift fic for iverin
To: iverin
From: spiritdream
HAPPY HOLIDAYS!
Title: ashes, ashes. (we all fall down)
Pairing: Kamenashi Kazuya/Tanaka Koki
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: character death (!!), alternate universe (!), blood, gore, vague hints of underage sex
Notes: For iverin, who wanted Kokame and Samurai AU, preferably both at the same time. I, um, tried. I hope I didn't fail that terribly with your request. Merry Christmas! ♥ A huge thank you to R, who's a wonderful and amazing person for bearing with me.
The story is set between 1858 and 1869, at the end of the Tokugawa Shogunate focusing on the Bakumatsu. Koki's about 16 at the start, Kame should be somewhere around 28. I've tried to compile a little reference page for the (real life) people mentioned in the story, along with some political background information and a few customs mixed in between - find the post on the sockpuppet account here.
Summary: He's never made that promise anyway.
He's been kneeling on the soft cushion for what could be minutes or hours - he can't feel his legs anymore. The lack of sensation doesn't indicate how much time has passed since he silently slid the door behind him; his whole body has just been dead weight these past few months, dragging him down towards the ground, dirt and below.
The room is in a quieter part of the estate, falling outside of the most frequented paths of residents and servants alike. He can faintly detect the sounds of children playing outside, shrills and shouts muffled through thin sheets of painted paper as they try to coax the bird out of its cage in the evening of dawn, but the notes' blunt edges glide on Koki's nerves without even nicking the surface, no matter how well the song fits with the mood.
The lord had been surprisingly considerate in offering the room, and Koki's grateful for what little peace he can have. He gently fingers the sleeve of his kimono, pristine and bright, the color usually so distinguishable now lost in the sea of white of the place. The room's milky monotony is broken only by the black, lacquered borders of the fusuma doors. Fragile strokes of painted cranes, delicate lines of soft brown and smoky grey cover parts of the surface, and Koki's been staring at them for so long he expects the one with its wings unfolded and spread wide to take flight at any given moment.
Sweat prickles the back of his neck and slides under the folds of his clothes, slowly slithers down the line of his spine to rest on his lower back, almost making him shiver in the stifling warmth of the room. The light, silky material of his kimono provides little help to ease the heat of July. He takes a deep, cleansing breath. The air tastes hot and humid, heavy on his tongue, ready to clog his sinuses and suffocate him as he swallows.
There's a flutter on the periphery of his vision and he fights the urge to turn his head toward the blurred movement. He's a little surprised and almost impressed at the boy's patience, though he knows he shouldn't be. Anyone who can stay in the close vicinity of the man Koki truly believes to be the devil's spawn for days, let alone years, is worthy of respect.
The last time Koki's seen him, Ichimura Tetsunosuke was a bit shorter and a lot louder. He's only a year younger than Koki, but the na?veté and clumsiness still clinging to his birdlike frame made Koki almost snarl with disgust when they first met. He didn't know that the troops were so desperate that they would even take innocent newborns from their mothers' breasts and fling them out like a scrap of meat to the starving hyenas on the deserted battlefield. When he learned just whose page the boy was, his disdain quickly morphed into horrified disbelief. The choshu radicals wouldn't even have the chance to see the boy, let alone harm him - he would die within the compound from the hands of his own master before he could even hold a sword. When he dared to voice his concerns about Ichimura's position to his master, the man's lips just twitched into a small smile.
"I don't know why you're always so nervous when it comes to Hijikata-san. It's not like he's the devil himself," he said, faint traces of amusement softening his eyes when he looked at Koki, and Koki suppressed a sigh. He knew his master would never understand - he was one of the bravest and strongest men Koki'd ever known, of course he wouldn't be intimidated by a creature from Hell, no matter how many times Koki had subtly warned him about the vice commander's dubious heritage.
Now, though. Now, when Koki looks at him, Ichimura's face is weary and his spine almost bends in two from the shadows clinging to his back. He only purses his lips and gives a tight, small nod when Koki asks him to follow, eyes boring into Koki's and recognizing agony, despair, and hopelessness among a thousand different emotions swirling and reflecting in his own.
They've never been close and have only met on a few occasions before running into each other in Sato Hikogoro's estate. Despite his previous doubts about the boy, he recognizes the similarity of their situation, and in the end it's the main reason his choice falls on Ichimura. He's certain that he won't refuse his request.
Koki's eyes follow the ray of light filtering through the paper thin doors and skipping over the tatami mats, skirting the white edges playfully before crashing into the lacquered tray lying on the floor in front of him. The tray gleams a dark shade of mahogany, a dim color somewhere between the deepest tones of brown and rusty blood red, the surface free from any decoration. It stands elegant and firm, strengthening Koki's resolve by drawing attention to the single tanto resting innocently in the middle. The dagger's scabbard is simple, polished black peppered with thin, silver lines of ginko leaf motives and Koki feels a dull pang of regret for leaving his own behind next to his master's resting place. To feel the familiar weight in his hands and see the well-known chips and cracks on the handle would grant at least the slight illusion of connection to the man he's received his weapons from - but the weapons, among other things, among everything, belong to his master - and he intends to give back everything he's been given.
His fingers feel numb and rigid when he loosens the folds of his kimono, the material slipping through his fingers like quicksilver.
The air is hot and scalding on his exposed skin, burns his fears and leaves ashes of his life behind, cooled and still and feathery light. He takes a deep breath, but the familiar smell of smoke he's expecting to inhale is missing, and the absence doesn't feel right. Phantom pain slices through him faster than he can blink, makes him almost double over on the spot.
His arm is steady and his fingers don't tremble when he reaches for the knife.
(He never made that promise anyway.)
*
The sun is about to set and he's still standing in front of the grave. Most people present at the funeral have already left the sight, only a few linger near, but Koki's too focused on staring at precise characters engraved in the grey, smooth stone to pay any attention to them. The chanting of the priest is still ringing in his ears, and the smell of burning flesh and heavy smoke mixed with the nauseous scent of sage tickles his nose, makes his stomach lurch. He hasn't eaten nor slept in days, and the exhaustion lingering on the edge of his consciousness crawls closer and latches onto his ankles, slithers up on his legs and starts to pull and drag him towards the ground with unrelenting force.
He wants nothing more than to fall to his knees in front of the grave, let everything shatter and fade away while he stares and stares and stares at his master's name, but someone comes to a halt on his left, ripping to shreds the protective, cotton-soft cocoon he's woven around himself.
"He was an honorable man," the Lord says, his voice deep and smooth, comforting, and Koki feels the hot flash of fury spark to life in the deepest part of his soul. He lets the weak flame nourish and gain ground, slowly devouring the icy, frozen chunks of his insides and leaving a pulsing, writhing red mass in its wake.
Lord Takizawa is standing with his shoulders straight and arms resting against his side. Koki wants to snarl and jump at him, rip the elaborate funeral garments from his body and sink his teeth into the soft, human flesh underneath; he wants to bite, tear and devour every fleshy bit until he's gnawing on nothing but bare bones.
You're the reason my master is dead, he wants to shout and spit in the face of sorrow and barely masked compassion radiating from the man. He died for your cause. He died for you.
"Thank you for taking care of him," he says, and Koki's breath hitches on a smothered sob. He's almost trembling with the suppressed urge to kill, to maim and scream.
He carefully washed his master's face from dirt and blood, peaceful and young in death, bathed the body bearing numerous, slowly festering cuts with the other silent attendants. Dressed him and combed his hair, just like he did a hundred times before - but every time before now his fingers moved over warm, supple flesh and breathless laughter tickled his senses when he encountered a sensitive patch of skin. He stayed awake during the night, listening to the chanting of the priest, keeping watch and never moving from his master's side. He waited for a slight twitch of fingers, a trembling flutter of lashes or a small, breathy sigh from those pale, now bluish lips. Nothing happened.
The dead do not move. The dead do not laugh. The dead do not speak.
Watching the hungry flames consume his most precious person almost made him sick, and he had to swallow the bile in the back of his throat when he carefully lifted the gleaming, white bits of bones from the ashes with dangerously trembling chopsticks.
He took care of his master in death, but he could do nothing for him alive. He failed. Spectacularly. And now his master is dead, dead, dead. Lord Takizawa shouldn't be thanking him.
"You're welcome to stay for as long as you'd like. The gates of my house have always been open to Kamenashi, and the same applies to you," he offers, and Koki's lips almost pull into a smile. Just because he lost his master doesn't mean he'll choose another one. Dogs are loyal even in death, after all.
"Lord Takizawa," Koki says, his voice hoarse and scratchy from days of disuse. He wets his lips before he continues, weighing his every word carefully. "I'm grateful for your offer, but I must decline. My master left me some errands to run."
Which is true. He has specific instructions to deliver a journal, along with a sealed letter to Sato Hikogoro in Hino. He would never disobey his master. If he happens to run into seven choshu radicals along the way, who also happen to be directly responsible for his master's death, nobody can fault him for defending his master's honor.
"I see," Lord Takizawa says, his voice carefully blank while his gaze rests on Koki, and Koki's not afraid to stare right back. "Do what you must." He finally nods and turns back towards the grave.
While Takizawa hasn't given any clear, official indication on which side he supports in the revolution, it's clear from his family ties that he's leaning more to the bakufu. Walking the razor sharp edge of political balance requires a skill subtle and fine that not many possess, and Takizawa, especially during these crucial months, can't risk his somewhat neutral position for revenge - even if it's for the murder of one of his most trusted men. Still, Koki feels a little calmer, a bit more centered that he has the Lord's disguised blessing and support for what he has in mind.
"Kamenashi was an honorable man," Takizawa echoes, and Koki feels an answering, dull throb somewhere in his chest to the smothered grief filtering through the syllables. "When you've done what you've been entrusted with, we should have a cup of sake to remember him by."
"Perhaps."
"The gates of my house have always been open to Kamenashi, and the same applies to you," Takizawa repeats, his voice strong and sure, and in that moment Koki can almost see why his master had admired the Lord so much. He knows coming back is impossible because the murders will be easily traced back to him, but the offer of protection and belonging break the hold of the heavy shackles circling his wrists and help to strengthen his awakening resolve.
"Thank you, my Lord," he breathes, and a comfortable silence descends over them.
The sun has set and the Lord has taken his leave long ago when Koki loosens the silk cords tied around his waist and places his katana, along with his wakizashi, in front of the grave. When he takes a step back, his left side feels naked and vulnerable without the additional, familiar weight he's been carrying since that rainy day he turned thirteen.
He intends to give everything back to his master, his own life being the last offer, the first present Koki ever received from him.
Long ago, his master asked him not to follow him into death, if it ever came down to that decision. The tentative, drunken slur was a suggestion at best, and Koki never had to swear or make promises about anything.
(It comes as a relief, because Koki would never dare to disobey his master, in life and beyond, in eternity.)
*
He quietly slides the door closed behind him before picking up the tray and making his way to his master. Kame is sitting on the floor, his fingers holding a brush that glides over the paper, the tiny movements of his arm refined and elegant while shadows dance and twirl on the wall in the soft glow of the candlelight.
"Master, would you like some tea?" Koki asks while he kneels, but he's not surprised when there's no answer forthcoming. He starts to prepare the tea, trying to be as quiet and insignificant as he can while his master works, and he's almost finished when his master puts down the brush with a tired sigh.
"Yes, tea would be wonderful," Kame says as he sets the papers aside to dry, watching Koki's finishing touches with a small, content smile. Koki needs every ounce of self-control to not let his hands tremble while he pours hot water into the cup.
"Thank you." Kame accepts the cup with a slight nod of his head, his hair now free from the high ponytail falling below his shoulders and gleaming a warm, dark brown in the soft hues of the light. Koki's skin itches to feel those tresses under the tip of his fingers, and he can't wait for morning to come when he's granted the privilege of combing the locks and tying them back into their usual style.
He must have been staring for some time, because when he blinks, Kame's staring back at him over the rim of his cup with barely concealed amusement. Koki flushes and quickly lowers his gaze, bites the inside of his cheeks against the sudden urge to fidget. It's not his fault that sometimes he forgets himself. On a subconscious level, Koki has always been aware that his master is beautiful, delicate bone structure amidst angular lines, power concealed beneath soft skin and determination simmering behind the warmth of his eyes. He's just only learned to appreciate the subtle allure behind the glaringly obvious recently (or maybe not so recently, but still), and every realization makes his insides clench. It's uncomfortable and strange, and Koki has the horrifying inkling that his master knows. It's really embarrassing.
"I swear you make the best tea in all of Edo," his master sighs as his eyes slam shut, expression blissful and unguarded, and Koki's stomach trembles from the restless, tiny little fireflies fluttering in his veins.
"You exaggerate," he mumbles, fingers twitching in his lap.
Kame hums and drinks the rest of his tea in silence. When he places the cup on the table and reaches for the papers again, Koki can't help his curiosity.
"What are those papers for?"
"Letters to Sato in Hino. It's been a while since we've visited his estate, and you know how he hates to be left uninformed about what I've been up to," Kame answers with fond irritation. His gaze flickers to Koki for a second while he dips his brush into the ink. "Go to sleep, we'll have a long day tomorrow."
"But---" he starts to protest, but Kame doesn't let him finish.
"Go to sleep," he repeats, eyes never straying from the paper, and Koki can't do anything but nod.
He wakes to a steady pressure on his skin. When he opens his eyes he sees Kame looming above him, one hand gently gripping Koki's left shoulder while his other holds his katana. Koki sits up without making a sound, the lingering traces of sleepiness vanishing quicker than an assassin draws his sword in the night.
His master leans closer and his breath tickles Koki's ear when he whispers. "Get ready to move. Don't make a sound."
Koki does as he's told, the urgency in Kame's voice making his skin tighten and his heart beat staccato against his ribs, adrenaline numbing his fingers and making his ears ring while he dresses and prepares himself on autopilot.
He stands still and looks expectantly at his master, waiting for his next order. Kame's finished gathering what few possessions they have, then briefly looks Koki over before nodding and handing him a small, carefully wrapped package. Koki holds it and stares at it with confusion.
"Listen," Kame whispers, and Koki's attention snaps back to his master. "I'm entrusting you the letters and my journal. You have to deliver them to Sato in Hino."
Koki feels like he's been thrown into the Sumida river in the middle of January. The letters he can understand, but his master never goes anywhere without his journal. Anywhere.
"But before that," he continues while Koki stares at him with wide eyes, "you have to warn my Lord about the plan we've discussed last time. He'll know what I'm talking about. Just tell him that 'Nothing in the cry of cicadas suggests they're about to cry.'"
"Master, I don't unders-" he starts, because why should he recite a poem from Basho to a person he's only ever seen a handful of times, why can't his master deliver those lines in person - but Kame's fingers tighten on his shoulder and he bites into his lower lip to stop the flood of words spilling from his mouth.
"You don't have to understand, just remember. Go to downtown Kyobashi and find Kodama Heisuke. He owns an okeya we've visited a few times, do you remember?" At Koki's tight nod, Kame continues. "Tell him I've sent you to file an extra order similar to the last tub."
"But I don't remember any---"
"Ueda Tatsuya currently resides over the okeya, Kodama will let you meet him. Then, and only then when you're alone with Ueda you recite Basho's poem. He'll know what to do."
"But--"
"No," Kame hisses, the sound dark and cracking like the savage snap of a corded whip on bare, wet skin; and Koki can't help the flinch in the face of such anger. "You visit Kodama, meet Ueda and give him the message. It's vital. My Lord's life depends on it," he says, eyes a swirling mass of clashing emotions, and suddenly Koki can't breathe.
"Then you deliver my notes and journal to Sato. Do you understand?"
Koki chokes. He won't do this. He can't.
"I-" he wheezes out, the sound pathetic and weak even to his own ears, but he can't do more with the sudden weight pressing down on his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs and crushing his ribs along with flesh and tendons and tiny little blood vessels.
"Do you understand?" Kame stresses, and doesn't even try to mask the panic-laced urgency in his tone. Koki's suffocating and he feels sick to his core, but he gives a small nod as an answer. Because he understands. He just wishes he didn't.
"Good," Kame sighs, weary and tired, sagging against him a little. "Good. That's an order, by the way." Warm fingers slide to the back of his neck and gently press against the skin, and Koki trembles against the touch, his breathe hitching on a sob. He must obey his master. He must.
"Good," his master says one last time, pulling away. He looks at Koki for a long moment, eyes tracing his cheeks and the lines of his jaw, following the graceful arch of his neck and mapping the shivering form under layers of clothes. Koki stares right back at him, committing every line to memory, not blinking even when his master gently pushes him towards the door.
"Go," he says, but Koki's knees are locked and he can't move.
"Go," Kame repeats and flashes him one of his special smiles, the one Koki would have always loved to cup between his hands and lock away, put somewhere secret and safe so he could keep it with him forever, and remember. "I'll meet you later."
Koki lips twitch into a grimace, his own version of a smile, before he turns and runs.
When he gets back to the inn, the patrons and some of the neighbours are trying to extinguish the sudden fire spreading in the east wing. Wounded and dead litter the ground while Koki tries to make his way to their room, dodging crying and screaming people along the way. There's a sound of a whistle somewhere in the crowd, and Koki's dimly aware of the arrival of the Edo police. There's a man lying on the ground, blood spouting and pulsing steadily from the wound on his side. His life bubbles and washes away in a crimson, vivid flow beat by beat, breath by breath, but he still has the strength to shout lines of ambush and murder and cover by fire. Koki keeps walking.
When he finds what he's looking for, he sinks to his knees and doesn't move, doesn't speak - not even when some of the patrons try to drag him away, not even when the police try to question him, not even when he sees Ueda make his way towards him amidst the lingering traces of smoke.
*
"I don't like them," Koki says, lips pursed and eyes narrowed while he lights a candle. They're back in their room after a night spent in Matsuo's izakaya, and Koki tries to squash his irritation by mechanically going through his nightly ritual. He's not sure his master would prefer tea in his condition, but maybe he should ask anyway.
"Which ones?"
"All of them," he mumbles, but not quietly enough because Kame's warm laughter washes and settles over him like a blanket, heavy and smothering, only fueling Koki's anger. He knows it's unreasonable and doesn't make a lot of sense on the whole, but currently he doesn't care - and decides that his master will drink his usual nightly tea in the morning.
"They're not that bad, you know," Kame chuckles, placing his katana within arm's reach of his futon before untying his belt.
Koki wants to argue that yes, they are, especially Akanishi and Koizumi-san.
He's been never fond of Akanishi, to tell the truth - he's brash and loud and always in the center of attention. People gravitate toward him unconsciously to bask in his sunny presence and cheerful personality, and even Koki can see and understand the allure, cannot be completely immune to its uplifting effects. But usually, as they get further in the toasts, Akanishi's leaning more and more against his master's side, arms brushing and shoulders touching and Koki fights the urge to grab him and push him away, wedge himself between them and snarl at Akanishi to stay far, far away from his master.
It's an instinct that never fails to rise in the vicinity of Akanishi, unreasonable and uncontrollable. His master and Akanishi have known each other even before Koki's been born, so their closeness and camaraderie shouldn't come as a nasty surprise every single time Koki has the fortune to witness it. He should know better. And at least the dislike is mutual, if the detectable distaste on Akanishi's face when he looks at Koki is of any indication.
Koizumi-san is another story. She's polite and refined, ladylike and beautiful, but Koki can't help feeling uncomfortable and twitchy every time she gets that look in her eyes while she talks to his master. It's a look that gets his protective impulses running at double speed, screaming at him to do something, but he can't figure out exactly what. So no, he's not exactly fond of Koizumi-san either.
Something warm and heavy suddenly engulfs his back, and his knees buckle against the added extra weight. He falls with a quiet whoosh and thumb, hears a winded oof somewhere around his left ear and sighs. They're a tangled mess of limbs and clothes, sprawled out on the tatami mats. His master feels relaxed against his side, smells distinctly of sake, sweat and a smudge of smoke.
"Akanishi speaks funnily. I can't understand him," he elaborates reluctantly, still frowning, but Kame's arm carelessly draped across his chest slowly eases the tension from his back. He doesn't even think about mentioning Koizumi-san, because then his master would really never let him live this down, ever.
"Well, he does use a lot of foreign words," Kame relents, his fingers lazily tracing the bunched up fabric around Koki's shoulder. "Why don't you ever drink? I've told you it's allowed."
"I don't think I'm old enough."
"If you have a sword and can kill, you're old enough," Kame says, quietly, and Koki would be paying rapt attention to everything his master says when he gets into this mood, only if his words weren't slightly slurred. "Furthermore, fifteen is a perfectly reasonable age to drink, among doing other things," he says with a hint of smirk on his lips and Koki squirms, fears that the flush on his cheeks is painfully obvious even in the dimly lit room.
"Well, doesn't really matter. I don't think we'll be meeting each other in the near future on friendly terms, Akanishi and I," his master sighs and rolls onto his back. Koki detects faint traces of melancholy and a tint of regret hiding behind the words, and blinks. He sits up and looks at his master who's staring at the ceiling from behind half-shut lashes.
"Master?" he asks, his voice tentative and soft, because drunk and emotional don't really fit well with his master.
Kame hums before tugging at Koki's sleeve to get him to lie back down. "Different political views can be dangerous these times. At least he thought it wise to warn me," he murmurs, eyes shut. "It's not anything you should be worrying about."
Sleepy silence settles over the room and Koki swallows against the urge to yawn. He contemplates dragging his master to the futon because it'd be easier than to get him to move on his own - he knows this from experience. There're warm fingers waving between his own, bigger and stronger, the pads rough with callouses as they glide over his skin, enclosing his hand.
"If," Kame says, then stops, wets his lips and starts again. "If I don't make it, alive, I don't want you to follow me into death." His eyes glow black and glossy in the soft hues of the light, pupils blown wide and foggy with the warm tint of intoxication, unguarded and open. The look he gives Koki makes his stomach flip and insides melt. There's a tug on his hand, gentle but insistent, and Koki doesn't resist the pull.
He doesn't agree to his master's request, either.
(Partly because he believes that his master will live forever, but mostly because he knows that it's a promise he can't keep.)
*
The scream is strangled in his throat when he jerks awake in the middle of the night, the tangy, salty taste of blood sharp and fresh on his tongue. He doesn't make a sound and doesn't move, shoulders taut and back bowed, ready to snap from pent-up adrenaline. Fear paralyses his limbs and dread makes his clothes stick to his sweaty skin, smothering, strangling; and Koki lies on his side, eyes wide and staring into the darkness of the room.
He's no stranger to nightmares and even expected to feel the silky touch of flashing images, gore and blood and a hint of tears gliding over the raw edges of his mind, sliding and dipping into open wounds.
His first kill wasn't a clean one. The man he cut in the haze of blind panic writhed on the floor, scream pouring and blood dripping from his snarling lips while Koki clutched his sword like a frightened child would cling to his mother's hand, horrified and afraid.
He didn't expect killing to be that difficult - his master did it so effortlessly after all, feline grace waved into steps and controlled power behind the strength of his strikes, the blade slicing clothes and flesh so easy and light like paper boats gliding on the surface of the Nakano river. Koki's sword felt heavy and rigid as it struck the man's side, catching on bones and sticking between shredded muscles as the man's eyes were watching him with pain and hatred and the urge to kill.
He shudders, takes a deep breath and tries not to feel as small and weak when he was eight and hungry and alone in the world.
It was the first time he's fought alongside his master and he feels a tiny morsel of pride about protecting him from a blind strike, but a lot more shame about not being professional enough during the fight.
When his master ushered him into a shop a few months back, their coats damp and sandals squelching on the wet ground with every third step, and gestured to the katana on display while telling him to choose a design he liked, Koki's heart swelled with so much excitement and anticipation he thought his chest would rip and he'd burst open on the spot. When he could finally hold the sword in his hands, he swore he'd make his master proud.
He wishes he'd have trained a little harder, improved a little faster to have been better prepared for the experience.
He hears the faint rustle of clothing and a warm hand suddenly touches his back, makes him flinch and almost jump. The weight is a steady pressure between his shoulder blades and Koki concentrates on the heat, can make out the ridges and bumps of his master's palm and fingers if he concentrates hard enough. The painful clutch of memories loosens its hold and recedes, slithers back into secret corners cloaked in darkness, hiding and waiting, ready to spring again. Koki's breathing evens out as his muscles sag in relief, tiny little tremors leaving his frame shaking in the aftermath.
The same sense of security and belonging settles over him that he felt when he was eight, a shuddering ball of a whimpering child after dreams he couldn't quite recall, when warmth and acceptance enveloped his screams and absorbed his sobs, blanketed him in layers of soft and spicy and safe.
The effect doesn't lessen over the years and Koki's eyes drop while he burrows deeper into the covers, drowsy and limbs heavy with the promise of sleep. The sounds of the steady beats of his heart fade into silence as he slowly topples over the edge of consciousness, the pressure over his back never relenting even in his sleep.
He dreams of fire licking his feet and smoke wading between his fingers. He feels safe and shielded amidst all.
*
He can't recall the day or season or even the year, time and sound just a whitened blur within the cracked frames of his memories. He doesn't remember feeling scared and angry, lost or broken on the edge of a tiny, nameless town, clothes torn and dirty. He can't remember sitting between blackened wood and dented metal, an abandoned little lifeless doll with a smudge of ash on his cheek.
He can't recall much from that day at all.
He remembers the man standing in front of him, tall and sure and asserting. The unsheathed katana loose but steady in his right hand, dripping with blood, and Koki follows the red drops with his eyes, hears the imaginary sounds as they reach the ground. Thud, thud, thud. His gaze traces the arch of the blade, flickers up and up and higher, until his eyes meet the man's, staring back at him with burning intensity.
Seconds pass in silence, and Koki blinks when the man turns away. He takes a few steps, stops, but doesn't turn when he says, "I'm waiting."
Koki pushes himself up from the ground and follows.
*
The Master of the World
has passed away-
and after him,
eager to serve my lord,
go I.
-Nogi Maresuke
From: spiritdream
HAPPY HOLIDAYS!
Title: ashes, ashes. (we all fall down)
Pairing: Kamenashi Kazuya/Tanaka Koki
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: character death (!!), alternate universe (!), blood, gore, vague hints of underage sex
Notes: For iverin, who wanted Kokame and Samurai AU, preferably both at the same time. I, um, tried. I hope I didn't fail that terribly with your request. Merry Christmas! ♥ A huge thank you to R, who's a wonderful and amazing person for bearing with me.
The story is set between 1858 and 1869, at the end of the Tokugawa Shogunate focusing on the Bakumatsu. Koki's about 16 at the start, Kame should be somewhere around 28. I've tried to compile a little reference page for the (real life) people mentioned in the story, along with some political background information and a few customs mixed in between - find the post on the sockpuppet account here.
Summary: He's never made that promise anyway.
He's been kneeling on the soft cushion for what could be minutes or hours - he can't feel his legs anymore. The lack of sensation doesn't indicate how much time has passed since he silently slid the door behind him; his whole body has just been dead weight these past few months, dragging him down towards the ground, dirt and below.
The room is in a quieter part of the estate, falling outside of the most frequented paths of residents and servants alike. He can faintly detect the sounds of children playing outside, shrills and shouts muffled through thin sheets of painted paper as they try to coax the bird out of its cage in the evening of dawn, but the notes' blunt edges glide on Koki's nerves without even nicking the surface, no matter how well the song fits with the mood.
The lord had been surprisingly considerate in offering the room, and Koki's grateful for what little peace he can have. He gently fingers the sleeve of his kimono, pristine and bright, the color usually so distinguishable now lost in the sea of white of the place. The room's milky monotony is broken only by the black, lacquered borders of the fusuma doors. Fragile strokes of painted cranes, delicate lines of soft brown and smoky grey cover parts of the surface, and Koki's been staring at them for so long he expects the one with its wings unfolded and spread wide to take flight at any given moment.
Sweat prickles the back of his neck and slides under the folds of his clothes, slowly slithers down the line of his spine to rest on his lower back, almost making him shiver in the stifling warmth of the room. The light, silky material of his kimono provides little help to ease the heat of July. He takes a deep, cleansing breath. The air tastes hot and humid, heavy on his tongue, ready to clog his sinuses and suffocate him as he swallows.
There's a flutter on the periphery of his vision and he fights the urge to turn his head toward the blurred movement. He's a little surprised and almost impressed at the boy's patience, though he knows he shouldn't be. Anyone who can stay in the close vicinity of the man Koki truly believes to be the devil's spawn for days, let alone years, is worthy of respect.
The last time Koki's seen him, Ichimura Tetsunosuke was a bit shorter and a lot louder. He's only a year younger than Koki, but the na?veté and clumsiness still clinging to his birdlike frame made Koki almost snarl with disgust when they first met. He didn't know that the troops were so desperate that they would even take innocent newborns from their mothers' breasts and fling them out like a scrap of meat to the starving hyenas on the deserted battlefield. When he learned just whose page the boy was, his disdain quickly morphed into horrified disbelief. The choshu radicals wouldn't even have the chance to see the boy, let alone harm him - he would die within the compound from the hands of his own master before he could even hold a sword. When he dared to voice his concerns about Ichimura's position to his master, the man's lips just twitched into a small smile.
"I don't know why you're always so nervous when it comes to Hijikata-san. It's not like he's the devil himself," he said, faint traces of amusement softening his eyes when he looked at Koki, and Koki suppressed a sigh. He knew his master would never understand - he was one of the bravest and strongest men Koki'd ever known, of course he wouldn't be intimidated by a creature from Hell, no matter how many times Koki had subtly warned him about the vice commander's dubious heritage.
Now, though. Now, when Koki looks at him, Ichimura's face is weary and his spine almost bends in two from the shadows clinging to his back. He only purses his lips and gives a tight, small nod when Koki asks him to follow, eyes boring into Koki's and recognizing agony, despair, and hopelessness among a thousand different emotions swirling and reflecting in his own.
They've never been close and have only met on a few occasions before running into each other in Sato Hikogoro's estate. Despite his previous doubts about the boy, he recognizes the similarity of their situation, and in the end it's the main reason his choice falls on Ichimura. He's certain that he won't refuse his request.
Koki's eyes follow the ray of light filtering through the paper thin doors and skipping over the tatami mats, skirting the white edges playfully before crashing into the lacquered tray lying on the floor in front of him. The tray gleams a dark shade of mahogany, a dim color somewhere between the deepest tones of brown and rusty blood red, the surface free from any decoration. It stands elegant and firm, strengthening Koki's resolve by drawing attention to the single tanto resting innocently in the middle. The dagger's scabbard is simple, polished black peppered with thin, silver lines of ginko leaf motives and Koki feels a dull pang of regret for leaving his own behind next to his master's resting place. To feel the familiar weight in his hands and see the well-known chips and cracks on the handle would grant at least the slight illusion of connection to the man he's received his weapons from - but the weapons, among other things, among everything, belong to his master - and he intends to give back everything he's been given.
His fingers feel numb and rigid when he loosens the folds of his kimono, the material slipping through his fingers like quicksilver.
The air is hot and scalding on his exposed skin, burns his fears and leaves ashes of his life behind, cooled and still and feathery light. He takes a deep breath, but the familiar smell of smoke he's expecting to inhale is missing, and the absence doesn't feel right. Phantom pain slices through him faster than he can blink, makes him almost double over on the spot.
His arm is steady and his fingers don't tremble when he reaches for the knife.
(He never made that promise anyway.)
*
The sun is about to set and he's still standing in front of the grave. Most people present at the funeral have already left the sight, only a few linger near, but Koki's too focused on staring at precise characters engraved in the grey, smooth stone to pay any attention to them. The chanting of the priest is still ringing in his ears, and the smell of burning flesh and heavy smoke mixed with the nauseous scent of sage tickles his nose, makes his stomach lurch. He hasn't eaten nor slept in days, and the exhaustion lingering on the edge of his consciousness crawls closer and latches onto his ankles, slithers up on his legs and starts to pull and drag him towards the ground with unrelenting force.
He wants nothing more than to fall to his knees in front of the grave, let everything shatter and fade away while he stares and stares and stares at his master's name, but someone comes to a halt on his left, ripping to shreds the protective, cotton-soft cocoon he's woven around himself.
"He was an honorable man," the Lord says, his voice deep and smooth, comforting, and Koki feels the hot flash of fury spark to life in the deepest part of his soul. He lets the weak flame nourish and gain ground, slowly devouring the icy, frozen chunks of his insides and leaving a pulsing, writhing red mass in its wake.
Lord Takizawa is standing with his shoulders straight and arms resting against his side. Koki wants to snarl and jump at him, rip the elaborate funeral garments from his body and sink his teeth into the soft, human flesh underneath; he wants to bite, tear and devour every fleshy bit until he's gnawing on nothing but bare bones.
You're the reason my master is dead, he wants to shout and spit in the face of sorrow and barely masked compassion radiating from the man. He died for your cause. He died for you.
"Thank you for taking care of him," he says, and Koki's breath hitches on a smothered sob. He's almost trembling with the suppressed urge to kill, to maim and scream.
He carefully washed his master's face from dirt and blood, peaceful and young in death, bathed the body bearing numerous, slowly festering cuts with the other silent attendants. Dressed him and combed his hair, just like he did a hundred times before - but every time before now his fingers moved over warm, supple flesh and breathless laughter tickled his senses when he encountered a sensitive patch of skin. He stayed awake during the night, listening to the chanting of the priest, keeping watch and never moving from his master's side. He waited for a slight twitch of fingers, a trembling flutter of lashes or a small, breathy sigh from those pale, now bluish lips. Nothing happened.
The dead do not move. The dead do not laugh. The dead do not speak.
Watching the hungry flames consume his most precious person almost made him sick, and he had to swallow the bile in the back of his throat when he carefully lifted the gleaming, white bits of bones from the ashes with dangerously trembling chopsticks.
He took care of his master in death, but he could do nothing for him alive. He failed. Spectacularly. And now his master is dead, dead, dead. Lord Takizawa shouldn't be thanking him.
"You're welcome to stay for as long as you'd like. The gates of my house have always been open to Kamenashi, and the same applies to you," he offers, and Koki's lips almost pull into a smile. Just because he lost his master doesn't mean he'll choose another one. Dogs are loyal even in death, after all.
"Lord Takizawa," Koki says, his voice hoarse and scratchy from days of disuse. He wets his lips before he continues, weighing his every word carefully. "I'm grateful for your offer, but I must decline. My master left me some errands to run."
Which is true. He has specific instructions to deliver a journal, along with a sealed letter to Sato Hikogoro in Hino. He would never disobey his master. If he happens to run into seven choshu radicals along the way, who also happen to be directly responsible for his master's death, nobody can fault him for defending his master's honor.
"I see," Lord Takizawa says, his voice carefully blank while his gaze rests on Koki, and Koki's not afraid to stare right back. "Do what you must." He finally nods and turns back towards the grave.
While Takizawa hasn't given any clear, official indication on which side he supports in the revolution, it's clear from his family ties that he's leaning more to the bakufu. Walking the razor sharp edge of political balance requires a skill subtle and fine that not many possess, and Takizawa, especially during these crucial months, can't risk his somewhat neutral position for revenge - even if it's for the murder of one of his most trusted men. Still, Koki feels a little calmer, a bit more centered that he has the Lord's disguised blessing and support for what he has in mind.
"Kamenashi was an honorable man," Takizawa echoes, and Koki feels an answering, dull throb somewhere in his chest to the smothered grief filtering through the syllables. "When you've done what you've been entrusted with, we should have a cup of sake to remember him by."
"Perhaps."
"The gates of my house have always been open to Kamenashi, and the same applies to you," Takizawa repeats, his voice strong and sure, and in that moment Koki can almost see why his master had admired the Lord so much. He knows coming back is impossible because the murders will be easily traced back to him, but the offer of protection and belonging break the hold of the heavy shackles circling his wrists and help to strengthen his awakening resolve.
"Thank you, my Lord," he breathes, and a comfortable silence descends over them.
The sun has set and the Lord has taken his leave long ago when Koki loosens the silk cords tied around his waist and places his katana, along with his wakizashi, in front of the grave. When he takes a step back, his left side feels naked and vulnerable without the additional, familiar weight he's been carrying since that rainy day he turned thirteen.
He intends to give everything back to his master, his own life being the last offer, the first present Koki ever received from him.
Long ago, his master asked him not to follow him into death, if it ever came down to that decision. The tentative, drunken slur was a suggestion at best, and Koki never had to swear or make promises about anything.
(It comes as a relief, because Koki would never dare to disobey his master, in life and beyond, in eternity.)
*
He quietly slides the door closed behind him before picking up the tray and making his way to his master. Kame is sitting on the floor, his fingers holding a brush that glides over the paper, the tiny movements of his arm refined and elegant while shadows dance and twirl on the wall in the soft glow of the candlelight.
"Master, would you like some tea?" Koki asks while he kneels, but he's not surprised when there's no answer forthcoming. He starts to prepare the tea, trying to be as quiet and insignificant as he can while his master works, and he's almost finished when his master puts down the brush with a tired sigh.
"Yes, tea would be wonderful," Kame says as he sets the papers aside to dry, watching Koki's finishing touches with a small, content smile. Koki needs every ounce of self-control to not let his hands tremble while he pours hot water into the cup.
"Thank you." Kame accepts the cup with a slight nod of his head, his hair now free from the high ponytail falling below his shoulders and gleaming a warm, dark brown in the soft hues of the light. Koki's skin itches to feel those tresses under the tip of his fingers, and he can't wait for morning to come when he's granted the privilege of combing the locks and tying them back into their usual style.
He must have been staring for some time, because when he blinks, Kame's staring back at him over the rim of his cup with barely concealed amusement. Koki flushes and quickly lowers his gaze, bites the inside of his cheeks against the sudden urge to fidget. It's not his fault that sometimes he forgets himself. On a subconscious level, Koki has always been aware that his master is beautiful, delicate bone structure amidst angular lines, power concealed beneath soft skin and determination simmering behind the warmth of his eyes. He's just only learned to appreciate the subtle allure behind the glaringly obvious recently (or maybe not so recently, but still), and every realization makes his insides clench. It's uncomfortable and strange, and Koki has the horrifying inkling that his master knows. It's really embarrassing.
"I swear you make the best tea in all of Edo," his master sighs as his eyes slam shut, expression blissful and unguarded, and Koki's stomach trembles from the restless, tiny little fireflies fluttering in his veins.
"You exaggerate," he mumbles, fingers twitching in his lap.
Kame hums and drinks the rest of his tea in silence. When he places the cup on the table and reaches for the papers again, Koki can't help his curiosity.
"What are those papers for?"
"Letters to Sato in Hino. It's been a while since we've visited his estate, and you know how he hates to be left uninformed about what I've been up to," Kame answers with fond irritation. His gaze flickers to Koki for a second while he dips his brush into the ink. "Go to sleep, we'll have a long day tomorrow."
"But---" he starts to protest, but Kame doesn't let him finish.
"Go to sleep," he repeats, eyes never straying from the paper, and Koki can't do anything but nod.
He wakes to a steady pressure on his skin. When he opens his eyes he sees Kame looming above him, one hand gently gripping Koki's left shoulder while his other holds his katana. Koki sits up without making a sound, the lingering traces of sleepiness vanishing quicker than an assassin draws his sword in the night.
His master leans closer and his breath tickles Koki's ear when he whispers. "Get ready to move. Don't make a sound."
Koki does as he's told, the urgency in Kame's voice making his skin tighten and his heart beat staccato against his ribs, adrenaline numbing his fingers and making his ears ring while he dresses and prepares himself on autopilot.
He stands still and looks expectantly at his master, waiting for his next order. Kame's finished gathering what few possessions they have, then briefly looks Koki over before nodding and handing him a small, carefully wrapped package. Koki holds it and stares at it with confusion.
"Listen," Kame whispers, and Koki's attention snaps back to his master. "I'm entrusting you the letters and my journal. You have to deliver them to Sato in Hino."
Koki feels like he's been thrown into the Sumida river in the middle of January. The letters he can understand, but his master never goes anywhere without his journal. Anywhere.
"But before that," he continues while Koki stares at him with wide eyes, "you have to warn my Lord about the plan we've discussed last time. He'll know what I'm talking about. Just tell him that 'Nothing in the cry of cicadas suggests they're about to cry.'"
"Master, I don't unders-" he starts, because why should he recite a poem from Basho to a person he's only ever seen a handful of times, why can't his master deliver those lines in person - but Kame's fingers tighten on his shoulder and he bites into his lower lip to stop the flood of words spilling from his mouth.
"You don't have to understand, just remember. Go to downtown Kyobashi and find Kodama Heisuke. He owns an okeya we've visited a few times, do you remember?" At Koki's tight nod, Kame continues. "Tell him I've sent you to file an extra order similar to the last tub."
"But I don't remember any---"
"Ueda Tatsuya currently resides over the okeya, Kodama will let you meet him. Then, and only then when you're alone with Ueda you recite Basho's poem. He'll know what to do."
"But--"
"No," Kame hisses, the sound dark and cracking like the savage snap of a corded whip on bare, wet skin; and Koki can't help the flinch in the face of such anger. "You visit Kodama, meet Ueda and give him the message. It's vital. My Lord's life depends on it," he says, eyes a swirling mass of clashing emotions, and suddenly Koki can't breathe.
"Then you deliver my notes and journal to Sato. Do you understand?"
Koki chokes. He won't do this. He can't.
"I-" he wheezes out, the sound pathetic and weak even to his own ears, but he can't do more with the sudden weight pressing down on his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs and crushing his ribs along with flesh and tendons and tiny little blood vessels.
"Do you understand?" Kame stresses, and doesn't even try to mask the panic-laced urgency in his tone. Koki's suffocating and he feels sick to his core, but he gives a small nod as an answer. Because he understands. He just wishes he didn't.
"Good," Kame sighs, weary and tired, sagging against him a little. "Good. That's an order, by the way." Warm fingers slide to the back of his neck and gently press against the skin, and Koki trembles against the touch, his breathe hitching on a sob. He must obey his master. He must.
"Good," his master says one last time, pulling away. He looks at Koki for a long moment, eyes tracing his cheeks and the lines of his jaw, following the graceful arch of his neck and mapping the shivering form under layers of clothes. Koki stares right back at him, committing every line to memory, not blinking even when his master gently pushes him towards the door.
"Go," he says, but Koki's knees are locked and he can't move.
"Go," Kame repeats and flashes him one of his special smiles, the one Koki would have always loved to cup between his hands and lock away, put somewhere secret and safe so he could keep it with him forever, and remember. "I'll meet you later."
Koki lips twitch into a grimace, his own version of a smile, before he turns and runs.
When he gets back to the inn, the patrons and some of the neighbours are trying to extinguish the sudden fire spreading in the east wing. Wounded and dead litter the ground while Koki tries to make his way to their room, dodging crying and screaming people along the way. There's a sound of a whistle somewhere in the crowd, and Koki's dimly aware of the arrival of the Edo police. There's a man lying on the ground, blood spouting and pulsing steadily from the wound on his side. His life bubbles and washes away in a crimson, vivid flow beat by beat, breath by breath, but he still has the strength to shout lines of ambush and murder and cover by fire. Koki keeps walking.
When he finds what he's looking for, he sinks to his knees and doesn't move, doesn't speak - not even when some of the patrons try to drag him away, not even when the police try to question him, not even when he sees Ueda make his way towards him amidst the lingering traces of smoke.
*
"I don't like them," Koki says, lips pursed and eyes narrowed while he lights a candle. They're back in their room after a night spent in Matsuo's izakaya, and Koki tries to squash his irritation by mechanically going through his nightly ritual. He's not sure his master would prefer tea in his condition, but maybe he should ask anyway.
"Which ones?"
"All of them," he mumbles, but not quietly enough because Kame's warm laughter washes and settles over him like a blanket, heavy and smothering, only fueling Koki's anger. He knows it's unreasonable and doesn't make a lot of sense on the whole, but currently he doesn't care - and decides that his master will drink his usual nightly tea in the morning.
"They're not that bad, you know," Kame chuckles, placing his katana within arm's reach of his futon before untying his belt.
Koki wants to argue that yes, they are, especially Akanishi and Koizumi-san.
He's been never fond of Akanishi, to tell the truth - he's brash and loud and always in the center of attention. People gravitate toward him unconsciously to bask in his sunny presence and cheerful personality, and even Koki can see and understand the allure, cannot be completely immune to its uplifting effects. But usually, as they get further in the toasts, Akanishi's leaning more and more against his master's side, arms brushing and shoulders touching and Koki fights the urge to grab him and push him away, wedge himself between them and snarl at Akanishi to stay far, far away from his master.
It's an instinct that never fails to rise in the vicinity of Akanishi, unreasonable and uncontrollable. His master and Akanishi have known each other even before Koki's been born, so their closeness and camaraderie shouldn't come as a nasty surprise every single time Koki has the fortune to witness it. He should know better. And at least the dislike is mutual, if the detectable distaste on Akanishi's face when he looks at Koki is of any indication.
Koizumi-san is another story. She's polite and refined, ladylike and beautiful, but Koki can't help feeling uncomfortable and twitchy every time she gets that look in her eyes while she talks to his master. It's a look that gets his protective impulses running at double speed, screaming at him to do something, but he can't figure out exactly what. So no, he's not exactly fond of Koizumi-san either.
Something warm and heavy suddenly engulfs his back, and his knees buckle against the added extra weight. He falls with a quiet whoosh and thumb, hears a winded oof somewhere around his left ear and sighs. They're a tangled mess of limbs and clothes, sprawled out on the tatami mats. His master feels relaxed against his side, smells distinctly of sake, sweat and a smudge of smoke.
"Akanishi speaks funnily. I can't understand him," he elaborates reluctantly, still frowning, but Kame's arm carelessly draped across his chest slowly eases the tension from his back. He doesn't even think about mentioning Koizumi-san, because then his master would really never let him live this down, ever.
"Well, he does use a lot of foreign words," Kame relents, his fingers lazily tracing the bunched up fabric around Koki's shoulder. "Why don't you ever drink? I've told you it's allowed."
"I don't think I'm old enough."
"If you have a sword and can kill, you're old enough," Kame says, quietly, and Koki would be paying rapt attention to everything his master says when he gets into this mood, only if his words weren't slightly slurred. "Furthermore, fifteen is a perfectly reasonable age to drink, among doing other things," he says with a hint of smirk on his lips and Koki squirms, fears that the flush on his cheeks is painfully obvious even in the dimly lit room.
"Well, doesn't really matter. I don't think we'll be meeting each other in the near future on friendly terms, Akanishi and I," his master sighs and rolls onto his back. Koki detects faint traces of melancholy and a tint of regret hiding behind the words, and blinks. He sits up and looks at his master who's staring at the ceiling from behind half-shut lashes.
"Master?" he asks, his voice tentative and soft, because drunk and emotional don't really fit well with his master.
Kame hums before tugging at Koki's sleeve to get him to lie back down. "Different political views can be dangerous these times. At least he thought it wise to warn me," he murmurs, eyes shut. "It's not anything you should be worrying about."
Sleepy silence settles over the room and Koki swallows against the urge to yawn. He contemplates dragging his master to the futon because it'd be easier than to get him to move on his own - he knows this from experience. There're warm fingers waving between his own, bigger and stronger, the pads rough with callouses as they glide over his skin, enclosing his hand.
"If," Kame says, then stops, wets his lips and starts again. "If I don't make it, alive, I don't want you to follow me into death." His eyes glow black and glossy in the soft hues of the light, pupils blown wide and foggy with the warm tint of intoxication, unguarded and open. The look he gives Koki makes his stomach flip and insides melt. There's a tug on his hand, gentle but insistent, and Koki doesn't resist the pull.
He doesn't agree to his master's request, either.
(Partly because he believes that his master will live forever, but mostly because he knows that it's a promise he can't keep.)
*
The scream is strangled in his throat when he jerks awake in the middle of the night, the tangy, salty taste of blood sharp and fresh on his tongue. He doesn't make a sound and doesn't move, shoulders taut and back bowed, ready to snap from pent-up adrenaline. Fear paralyses his limbs and dread makes his clothes stick to his sweaty skin, smothering, strangling; and Koki lies on his side, eyes wide and staring into the darkness of the room.
He's no stranger to nightmares and even expected to feel the silky touch of flashing images, gore and blood and a hint of tears gliding over the raw edges of his mind, sliding and dipping into open wounds.
His first kill wasn't a clean one. The man he cut in the haze of blind panic writhed on the floor, scream pouring and blood dripping from his snarling lips while Koki clutched his sword like a frightened child would cling to his mother's hand, horrified and afraid.
He didn't expect killing to be that difficult - his master did it so effortlessly after all, feline grace waved into steps and controlled power behind the strength of his strikes, the blade slicing clothes and flesh so easy and light like paper boats gliding on the surface of the Nakano river. Koki's sword felt heavy and rigid as it struck the man's side, catching on bones and sticking between shredded muscles as the man's eyes were watching him with pain and hatred and the urge to kill.
He shudders, takes a deep breath and tries not to feel as small and weak when he was eight and hungry and alone in the world.
It was the first time he's fought alongside his master and he feels a tiny morsel of pride about protecting him from a blind strike, but a lot more shame about not being professional enough during the fight.
When his master ushered him into a shop a few months back, their coats damp and sandals squelching on the wet ground with every third step, and gestured to the katana on display while telling him to choose a design he liked, Koki's heart swelled with so much excitement and anticipation he thought his chest would rip and he'd burst open on the spot. When he could finally hold the sword in his hands, he swore he'd make his master proud.
He wishes he'd have trained a little harder, improved a little faster to have been better prepared for the experience.
He hears the faint rustle of clothing and a warm hand suddenly touches his back, makes him flinch and almost jump. The weight is a steady pressure between his shoulder blades and Koki concentrates on the heat, can make out the ridges and bumps of his master's palm and fingers if he concentrates hard enough. The painful clutch of memories loosens its hold and recedes, slithers back into secret corners cloaked in darkness, hiding and waiting, ready to spring again. Koki's breathing evens out as his muscles sag in relief, tiny little tremors leaving his frame shaking in the aftermath.
The same sense of security and belonging settles over him that he felt when he was eight, a shuddering ball of a whimpering child after dreams he couldn't quite recall, when warmth and acceptance enveloped his screams and absorbed his sobs, blanketed him in layers of soft and spicy and safe.
The effect doesn't lessen over the years and Koki's eyes drop while he burrows deeper into the covers, drowsy and limbs heavy with the promise of sleep. The sounds of the steady beats of his heart fade into silence as he slowly topples over the edge of consciousness, the pressure over his back never relenting even in his sleep.
He dreams of fire licking his feet and smoke wading between his fingers. He feels safe and shielded amidst all.
*
He can't recall the day or season or even the year, time and sound just a whitened blur within the cracked frames of his memories. He doesn't remember feeling scared and angry, lost or broken on the edge of a tiny, nameless town, clothes torn and dirty. He can't remember sitting between blackened wood and dented metal, an abandoned little lifeless doll with a smudge of ash on his cheek.
He can't recall much from that day at all.
He remembers the man standing in front of him, tall and sure and asserting. The unsheathed katana loose but steady in his right hand, dripping with blood, and Koki follows the red drops with his eyes, hears the imaginary sounds as they reach the ground. Thud, thud, thud. His gaze traces the arch of the blade, flickers up and up and higher, until his eyes meet the man's, staring back at him with burning intensity.
Seconds pass in silence, and Koki blinks when the man turns away. He takes a few steps, stops, but doesn't turn when he says, "I'm waiting."
Koki pushes himself up from the ground and follows.
*
The Master of the World
has passed away-
and after him,
eager to serve my lord,
go I.
-Nogi Maresuke