Maelstrom: Wave-Man (Part II)
Part II of this. Really quite tired. Night.
Concrit plz.
--------------------
The next morning rose as white as the young woman who had brought it to Karako Palace, but Masanori and Tomio padded quietly down to the forge an hour before sunrise, as always. The wind didn't bite as hard through his padded workman's over-kimono, and by the time the forge was up to a good temperature, it was time for his sunrise kata.
The sword he carried at home was not of the finest making, and sometimes he regretted that - but most mornings, he would have it no other way. He knew little of kata compared to his brothers, but his path was not a warrior's, and no matter how pointed his father's remarks would grow, he made no apologies for that. He carried a wakizashi, as was required, not the older swords he knew were of superior manufacture, because it was beautiful, and they were not. The thick blade of the spatha, the ugly weight of the pergeas, both pulled on the obi and unbalanced body and soul. Only the wakizashi reflected it.
Despite his weapon, then, his kata were honed on the sharp breeze of every morning he had seen since he could walk. Emptying his mind, his body moving almost without him, he stood in the new winter's wind and faced the rising sun with sword drawn.
The forge was welcoming, and Tomio had the tea ready. The human knelt, still and patient, waiting for his master across the tea-set, while he removed the padded over-kimono. That went on a dummy in the corner of the room, and the sword went on a stand, while Tomio waited without movement.
As always, the tea was excellent, but brief.
It was some hours before Ayame caught up with him. It wasn't that she didn't know where the forge was, or suspect that he would be there, but she would have bathed, had her aite deal with her head-fur, dealt very precisely with her claws, and taken her time over her first proper breakfast in the weeks she had been travelling. Her delicate nose sniffed at the air of the forge as she entered - coals, sweat, a hint of burnt fur, and the incense meant to cover it all up - and she gave her brother a cynical look. "Masa, have you burned yourself again?"
He stood, and they bowed as was required of them, and he held out the palm of his hand, where irregular burns scarred the skin. She tutted, sighed, and stepped in.
To his horror (although not entirely to his surprise) had three of her aite followed her in, carrying perfumes, combs, brushes, and a bowl of steaming water. He felt his jaw start to drop in surprise, but kept it decent, at least. Her face, on the other hand, was neutral, giving away neither amusement nor pleasure. "Tomio told me you were so busy these days, working to the highest standards of excellence, that I would likely have some trouble getting you to leave the forge. I have brought what is necessary to the forge, then, big brother."
"I..." Masanori stuttered, "Ayame, this isn't the place!"
"But it is the time."
"I'm not sure of that, either! I have, on the forge, the half-made hilt of the katana I am to present to Yayoi Ichiro-sama for his eldest daughter's gempukku!"
"Does it not need to cool down?" Ayame asked, her tone level. "The same cannot be said for the water."
"Ayame!" Masanori growled, "This is not your place."
For the first time, her composure broke. She turned her head a little, and whispered a command to her aite, who retreated out of the door. Masanori raised an eyebrow, and then nodded. "Tomio. I will find you when I need you."
He bowed and left with the others, and the brown-furred smith knelt again over the sword-hilt, putting back on the thick leather gloves that would let him hold it. She sat by his side, and waited.
"This is not your place, Ayame," he said, eventually, "Don't presume because I'm fond of you I will let you sidestep propriety."
"Masa!" she sounded shocked.
"Well, I won't!" he rounded on her, dropping the hilt again, and his voice was hard. "This forge is my place, and it is all. I will play my role in the games of the family, yes, and you may give me a chonmage if you want, but not here, little sister. This is not the place for your giggling aite that you barely keep charge of and your perfumes and your hot bloody water!"
"I'll bear that in mind," she said, coldly.
There was a silence, longer, filled with things unsaid. For his part, Masanori knew exactly what she would ask; she, however, had to get there first.
"Is father still-" she began.
"Yes."
"He will never listen, Masanori-kun."
"He may."
"And if he does not?"
"...there are still possibilities," he said slowly, "There are means of resolving disagreements."
"Now, big brother, who is disregarding propriety?"
"I have learned as much as I ever will here, Ayame-chan."
This was more familiar territory for them both, an argument they had both had before, but the form needed to pass. "Men spend their lives learning to fashion the katana, and you assume you have learned all there is to learn."
"Father keeps me-" he stopped, frustrated with himself for letting that out. "We have enemies, and I cannot learn whilst we must watch our backs. I spent only months in the New World, and I learned more there than I ever would in mere months here."
"Masa, didn't you fight oni there?"
"A fight worth fighting."
"Didn't you nearly die there?"
"I did. I fought more there than in the rest of my life put together, and I wish to return, because it was the least of my concerns." His face was set.
"Masa-kun," she touched his arm, white on dark brown, fingertip on muscle. She shifted her head, and he shifted his to meet her eye. It was a gesture he knew; it was a gesture that meant she was being serious. "I won't let you go alone."
He blinked in surprise at that. "What?"
"When you went, we all knew what might happen. And... you came home, injured and horrified, and Hideo was the first to notice you wanted to go right back."
"He probably knew before I did."
"He probably did."
"Will you... leave?" He couldn't bring himself to say the word, but if she would make the decision, then it was hers to make.
"I imagine I will have to," she said.
Some little silence passed, and her hand didn't move from his, and his hand didn't move from the edge of the anvil. The incense had burned out, and when his attention flickered to her again, he noticed she was sweating too under the fur. Sweating, and trembling, a little.
"He may not accept you-" Masanori began.
"He will have to, Masa-kun, or I may be made to protest my honour."
They both knew what that meant. And neither trusted their father not to take her up on the protest, especially at his winter court, with diplomats present. They would have to be very sure of his love for his favoured daughter, very certain indeed, or the journey could end very quickly indeed for them both.
For the first time in a new age, then, he moved. His hand came to rest on hers, and he sighed. "You decided this some time ago, didn't you?"
"Last winter, when you argued with him."
"It is hot there. It is Hell, after all."
"I have taken summer in the south before," she grinned, "I will be fine."
"Ayame..." he began, but hesitated. After a moment more, his head bowed, and then rose again to meet her eye, and -
- and again, he failed to speak.
"It's fine, brother," she said, filling the space he didn't want to fill. Winter after winter had passed, and he had always begun the same way, with her name and a hesitation, and he had never said the words he couldn't say. When he wanted to talk, he would.
Until then, she could wait. The snow was patient, outlasting the brief footprints of mortals, and she was of the snow. He was of the fire, and sometimes he showed that more than others - but now, he must be left to his silence, and the snow must wait for the fire to calm down.
And soon, their father would argue, and it would only grow worse. Soon, he would try for the last time to smother the fire that burned in his son's heart, ignorant of its strength - and Masanori could only wait it out.
This time, though, he was not alone.
Concrit plz.
--------------------
The next morning rose as white as the young woman who had brought it to Karako Palace, but Masanori and Tomio padded quietly down to the forge an hour before sunrise, as always. The wind didn't bite as hard through his padded workman's over-kimono, and by the time the forge was up to a good temperature, it was time for his sunrise kata.
The sword he carried at home was not of the finest making, and sometimes he regretted that - but most mornings, he would have it no other way. He knew little of kata compared to his brothers, but his path was not a warrior's, and no matter how pointed his father's remarks would grow, he made no apologies for that. He carried a wakizashi, as was required, not the older swords he knew were of superior manufacture, because it was beautiful, and they were not. The thick blade of the spatha, the ugly weight of the pergeas, both pulled on the obi and unbalanced body and soul. Only the wakizashi reflected it.
Despite his weapon, then, his kata were honed on the sharp breeze of every morning he had seen since he could walk. Emptying his mind, his body moving almost without him, he stood in the new winter's wind and faced the rising sun with sword drawn.
The forge was welcoming, and Tomio had the tea ready. The human knelt, still and patient, waiting for his master across the tea-set, while he removed the padded over-kimono. That went on a dummy in the corner of the room, and the sword went on a stand, while Tomio waited without movement.
As always, the tea was excellent, but brief.
It was some hours before Ayame caught up with him. It wasn't that she didn't know where the forge was, or suspect that he would be there, but she would have bathed, had her aite deal with her head-fur, dealt very precisely with her claws, and taken her time over her first proper breakfast in the weeks she had been travelling. Her delicate nose sniffed at the air of the forge as she entered - coals, sweat, a hint of burnt fur, and the incense meant to cover it all up - and she gave her brother a cynical look. "Masa, have you burned yourself again?"
He stood, and they bowed as was required of them, and he held out the palm of his hand, where irregular burns scarred the skin. She tutted, sighed, and stepped in.
To his horror (although not entirely to his surprise) had three of her aite followed her in, carrying perfumes, combs, brushes, and a bowl of steaming water. He felt his jaw start to drop in surprise, but kept it decent, at least. Her face, on the other hand, was neutral, giving away neither amusement nor pleasure. "Tomio told me you were so busy these days, working to the highest standards of excellence, that I would likely have some trouble getting you to leave the forge. I have brought what is necessary to the forge, then, big brother."
"I..." Masanori stuttered, "Ayame, this isn't the place!"
"But it is the time."
"I'm not sure of that, either! I have, on the forge, the half-made hilt of the katana I am to present to Yayoi Ichiro-sama for his eldest daughter's gempukku!"
"Does it not need to cool down?" Ayame asked, her tone level. "The same cannot be said for the water."
"Ayame!" Masanori growled, "This is not your place."
For the first time, her composure broke. She turned her head a little, and whispered a command to her aite, who retreated out of the door. Masanori raised an eyebrow, and then nodded. "Tomio. I will find you when I need you."
He bowed and left with the others, and the brown-furred smith knelt again over the sword-hilt, putting back on the thick leather gloves that would let him hold it. She sat by his side, and waited.
"This is not your place, Ayame," he said, eventually, "Don't presume because I'm fond of you I will let you sidestep propriety."
"Masa!" she sounded shocked.
"Well, I won't!" he rounded on her, dropping the hilt again, and his voice was hard. "This forge is my place, and it is all. I will play my role in the games of the family, yes, and you may give me a chonmage if you want, but not here, little sister. This is not the place for your giggling aite that you barely keep charge of and your perfumes and your hot bloody water!"
"I'll bear that in mind," she said, coldly.
There was a silence, longer, filled with things unsaid. For his part, Masanori knew exactly what she would ask; she, however, had to get there first.
"Is father still-" she began.
"Yes."
"He will never listen, Masanori-kun."
"He may."
"And if he does not?"
"...there are still possibilities," he said slowly, "There are means of resolving disagreements."
"Now, big brother, who is disregarding propriety?"
"I have learned as much as I ever will here, Ayame-chan."
This was more familiar territory for them both, an argument they had both had before, but the form needed to pass. "Men spend their lives learning to fashion the katana, and you assume you have learned all there is to learn."
"Father keeps me-" he stopped, frustrated with himself for letting that out. "We have enemies, and I cannot learn whilst we must watch our backs. I spent only months in the New World, and I learned more there than I ever would in mere months here."
"Masa, didn't you fight oni there?"
"A fight worth fighting."
"Didn't you nearly die there?"
"I did. I fought more there than in the rest of my life put together, and I wish to return, because it was the least of my concerns." His face was set.
"Masa-kun," she touched his arm, white on dark brown, fingertip on muscle. She shifted her head, and he shifted his to meet her eye. It was a gesture he knew; it was a gesture that meant she was being serious. "I won't let you go alone."
He blinked in surprise at that. "What?"
"When you went, we all knew what might happen. And... you came home, injured and horrified, and Hideo was the first to notice you wanted to go right back."
"He probably knew before I did."
"He probably did."
"Will you... leave?" He couldn't bring himself to say the word, but if she would make the decision, then it was hers to make.
"I imagine I will have to," she said.
Some little silence passed, and her hand didn't move from his, and his hand didn't move from the edge of the anvil. The incense had burned out, and when his attention flickered to her again, he noticed she was sweating too under the fur. Sweating, and trembling, a little.
"He may not accept you-" Masanori began.
"He will have to, Masa-kun, or I may be made to protest my honour."
They both knew what that meant. And neither trusted their father not to take her up on the protest, especially at his winter court, with diplomats present. They would have to be very sure of his love for his favoured daughter, very certain indeed, or the journey could end very quickly indeed for them both.
For the first time in a new age, then, he moved. His hand came to rest on hers, and he sighed. "You decided this some time ago, didn't you?"
"Last winter, when you argued with him."
"It is hot there. It is Hell, after all."
"I have taken summer in the south before," she grinned, "I will be fine."
"Ayame..." he began, but hesitated. After a moment more, his head bowed, and then rose again to meet her eye, and -
- and again, he failed to speak.
"It's fine, brother," she said, filling the space he didn't want to fill. Winter after winter had passed, and he had always begun the same way, with her name and a hesitation, and he had never said the words he couldn't say. When he wanted to talk, he would.
Until then, she could wait. The snow was patient, outlasting the brief footprints of mortals, and she was of the snow. He was of the fire, and sometimes he showed that more than others - but now, he must be left to his silence, and the snow must wait for the fire to calm down.
And soon, their father would argue, and it would only grow worse. Soon, he would try for the last time to smother the fire that burned in his son's heart, ignorant of its strength - and Masanori could only wait it out.
This time, though, he was not alone.