ōkami would not risk Mariko. Not for a single moment of paltry satisfaction, no matter how deserved.
His throat grew tight. It was as though it were trying to contain all the things he wished to say. All the accusations. All the vilifications. It was irrational for ōkami to worry about Mariko’s safety; he knew she could well care for herself. But if Raiden did anything—even looked at Mariko in an unseemly way—ōkami could not be responsible for what followed.
“I’m not certain what this dog finds so amusing, Lord Kenshin,” Prince Raiden said, as though ōkami were not privy to their conversation. “Do not worry. The Honsho Wolf’s future is at an end. He will not live much longer to torment you.”
“It is not that I worry about his future, my lord,” Kenshin said, his words minced. “It is that I worry about his past.”
ōkami spat blood over the railing in Kenshin’s direction. Then he leaned back once more and closed his eyes.
“Filthy peasant,” Prince Raiden said. “Living among murderers and thieves has made him nothing but an animal. What a disgrace to a once venerated line.”
ōkami grinned to himself.
Raiden continued. “At least no one else will have to suffer on Takeda Ranmaru’s account.” Then he spurred his stallion back toward the vanguard.
Nothing the prince said troubled ōkami greatly. He expected to die, when all was said and done. He’d known it the moment he’d emerged from behind the trees. His father’s sword—the Furinkazan—had blazed brightly, its white light offering proof of ōkami’s lineage. Offering whatever justification Prince Raiden needed to take action.
A small part of ōkami had hoped it would not be so. He’d hoped the blade would know better than to believe him worthy of its power. After all, ōkami did not even remotely resemble a warrior with a pure heart. In the vaguest reaches of his mind, he’d even hoped to see such a samurai in Mariko’s brother.
But heroes, after all, were a thing to hate.
And though ōkami expected to die, he wasn’t ready for it. He preferred the idea of living far more than he did of the unknown. But he did not deserve to live in place of others. Especially those far greater than he. Yoshi had been a far greater man, yet his body undoubtedly lay among the smoldering trees. Yoshi had been like a father to ōkami. He’d cared for an angry orphaned boy with more patience than many men espoused in a lifetime. A sense of anguish seeped into ōkami’s heart. He quickly drove it away, refusing to succumb to such weakness.
To any feeling of despair.
ōkami opened his eyes to the night sky. Starlight filtered through the swaying leaves. He felt the moon’s power slowly work to heal the wound along his brow. It knitted around his eye, burning into his temple.
With nothing but the wish, ōkami could free himself of these chains. He could cut the throat of Kenshin before the Dragon of Kai had a chance to blink. In the next breath, he could force Prince Raiden to his knees. Drive the Furinkazan through his stomach.
Would he get to Mariko in time? And even if he did, what would become of his men in the forest? His brothers. His friends.
The emperor would kill them all, just as he had ōkami’s father and Tsuneoki’s father.
At the thought of Tsuneoki, ōkami swallowed carefully. He’d allowed his dearest friend to take on the burden of his name for nearly a decade. Tsuneoki had been far better suited for it, after all. A true leader. The exact kind of warrior worthy of the Furinkazan.
But this alone had not been the real reason ōkami had let his friend bear the weight of the Takeda name. He’d let Tsuneoki assume his identity because he’d wished for his friend to suffer. They’d been barely eight years old when their fathers had died. If Asano Naganori had stayed firm in his commitment to support Takeda Shingen—if he had not succumbed to his fear—perhaps it would not be ōkami riding in a prison wagon to meet his death.
What kind of person punished his best friend for his father’s crimes?
ōkami swallowed again.
Even if he did not wish to die, he deserved it. For this and many other reasons. He breathed deeply of the night air. Let it settle his raging heart and calm his swirling thoughts. It did no good for ōkami to ponder all he’d done and all he’d failed to do. What might have happened in a different world. In a different life.
Instead ōkami let his mind drift to happier memories. To brighter times.
He would need the strength of these remembrances, if he was to face what was to come.
So ōkami filled his mind with laughter. With Yoshi teaching him how to mend his clothing. With Tsuneoki scheming of ways to recruit other lost young men to their band of forest-dwelling thieves.
With mist coiling above hot springs. The scent of rain in Mariko’s hair. The feeling of her heart pounding beneath his palm.
To me, you are magic.
Warmth settled around his heart. Soothed his soul.
Even if ōkami died a thousand deaths, it would be worth it.