SISTERS DO NOT.
“This is the way the immortals feel,” Yoritomo breathed. “To take anything and everything away with a simple wave of the hand. A wing. A face. A civilization.”
He stared at the blade of his katana, transfixed by the light dancing along its edge.
“I am God-sized.”
Buruu closed his eyes and hung his head as Yoritomo strode around to his other wing, katana falling with the weight of an anvil. Not a single drop of blood, not even a vague sensation of pain as the blow sliced away his quills. And yet, he felt as though the sword were cutting the heart out of his chest. His feathers sprayed through the air, sleet and whispering snow, falling earthward in slow motion. He felt the storm wind on his face, felt the rain dashing against him as he wheeled among the clouds, echoing the thunder with the song of his wings. So close. So close he could taste it.
And now so far away.
“Now you see,” hissed Yoritomo. “All you possess, I allow you to have. All you are, I allow you to be. And that which you desire most is mine to give and take as I will. Think on this now, and in all the dark hours between this moment and the day these feathers grow back again, and know each one of them is an hour I allow you to have. I am Yoritomo, Chosen of Hachiman, Emperor of the world. Defy me again, and I will take everything you have left. Do you understand me? Everything.” A feline sneer. “And I will hurt it first.”
He drew close to the arashitora’s face, put his blade beneath its chin and forced it to look up into his eyes. Amber swam with cold fury, coiled like a spring, held in check by a will as fierce as the storms themselves.
“Now show Yoritomo the respect that he is due,” he hissed. “Kneel before him.”
The Shōgun stepped back, sheathed his katana and held out his hands. Defenseless. Unarmed. It would take a single twitch to end him. Everyone in the room held their breath, the growl of the chainkatana poised above Yukiko’s neck the only sound. And as she looked on, near blind with tears, Buruu bowed his head, curled up his talons and pressed his forehead into the stone at Yoritomo’s feet.
“No.”
She cried into his mind, a bitter, broken-glass grief, cutting her insides and flooding over her limits. He reached out and touched her thoughts, held her tight, safe and warm.
OUR TROUBLES ARE BUT MAYFLIES, RISING AND FALLING BETWEEN THE TURN OF DAWN AND DUSK. AND WHEN THEY ARE GONE TO THE HOUSES OF MEMORY, YOU AND I WILL REMAIN, YUKIKO.
He closed his eyes and folded his wings, lighter now than they had been a lifetime ago. Her sobs the only sound, echoing across the stone, cold and empty. His feathers lying severed on the floor, her heart beside them, torn and bleeding.
WE WILL ENDURE.
30 Idle Hands
They left her lying on the bloodstained stone. A boot to the ribs, a gob of fresh spittle, and they were gone. Metal footsteps rang through the floor and into her skull, echoing behind her closed eyes. She couldn’t bear to look at him, at what they’d done to him. All because of her. A bargaining chip, a pawn threatened, forcing the king to its defense. Used. Just like she’d been used against her father all those years ago. A stone around the necks of those she loved.
She could hear his voice in her mind, far away, telling her it would be all right. But she closed herself off, slamming the door and curling up in a dark room inside her head. She didn’t deserve his understanding. She didn’t deserve his friendship. She’d failed him, failed herself, thinking some simple sleight of hand and luck would be enough to see them through to the end.
Kitsune looks after his own.
Not any more.
She pressed her cheek into the floor, gravel denting her flesh. After the longest time, she felt strong hands pulling her up, into someone’s arms. Cold, metallic skin, the whirr and hiss of ō-yoroi, the smell of fresh sweat and chi. She kept her eyes shut, hair draped over her face, a curtain of tangled black to hide behind. Childish fantasy; hoping that if she couldn’t see the world, then it wouldn’t see her either. Fingertips numb, cold sickness in the pit of her stomach, Buruu’s voice outside the closed door fading away into the black.
Hatred, poisonous and seething. For Yoritomo. For herself. Veins running thick with it, throat painted with bile, teeth grinding so hard she felt the enamel might crack, spitting splinters of jagged white and blood along with her curses. Floating impotent in the empty black behind her eyelids, sickness her only company. She could feel it filling her lungs with every breath, seeping into her skin. So complete and terrifying that it made her want to scream.