Saiou no Hana
BL
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Historical
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Drama
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BL | Historical | Drama |
From the moment the man first smiled at him, Shion knew he wished to keep that smile on those lips forever.
He was fishing a bend in the river which lay near the road into town. There was an unusual amount of traffic that morning, men with and without horses, tramping about noisily in their armor. Military maneuvers meant as little to him as any other peasant. Whoever it was coming in, life would not alter much in the village. The momentary commotion had scared his fish away- that was all- and, feeling bored and a bit impatient, he had raised his bamboo flute to his lips and begun to play.
Everything and everyone went on just as it had before, until at length he became half-conscious of a single figure which lingered alongside the road. It stood apart from all the others, listening in rapt attention, a blissful curve at the edges of its mouth. For that brief span of time, they shared an existence together. That man was Shion's entire world, the one thing he cherished, the one thing he felt certain of.
He hadn't noticed the sword hanging at the man's side until he finally turned to go.
Abrupt fear churned in the pit of his stomach. Samurai were dangerous men, with very little regard for the lower classes. The stranger did not seem frightening, though. He had foregone any trace of visible armor, while his hair fell loosely around the edges of his face. His smile was gentle and sincere, without malice or condescension.
Shion found this incongruity intriguing. He could not help but wonder who the newcomer was. He had heard that the daimyo's successor was surveying his new territory- surely he would bring an absurd number of soldiers with him, in a customary show of force. It was probably his best chance of glimpsing the samurai again.
He was dismayed to find the new lord flanked by only three men, none of whom seemed familiar.
Shion turned his attention to the tall figure standing front and center. He was sharp-featured beneath the severe knot of hair adorning his head, broad and imposing in his leather and metal armor. The weapon hanging at his waist seemed far too long for anyone to wield comfortably, yet he moved as though it was an integral part of his body.
His name is Kamui, someone in the crowd murmured, just above a whisper. Another gasped.
Not that Kamui. His son. I heard that he was exiled some years ago. Strange that he should come here, of all places.
The man turned in the voice's direction. Shion's breath caught in his throat. He should not be seen there, he should get away, he should run-
Who knew what such a man would think of all these rumors?
The man was gazing directly at him. What was worse, he was smiling, and worse yet, it was a smile Shion recognized.
He tripped over his own feet and several other peoples' in his haste to get away, not stopping until he was safely home. He pressed his back hard against the inside wall, panting with exertion and an unnameable anxiety. He was terrified of having been followed, and yet, he found it oddly disappointing once it became apparent he had not.
Shion did not leave the apothecary's shop for several weeks afterwards. He learned that the survey had been completed and certain civil works projects were being put into place. Lord Kamui- for that was indeed his name- wished to ease the effects of the seasonal flooding and increase the yield of the harvest. His presence among the townspeople and the consideration he showed for their concerns had garnered him the men's respect and the women's admiration.
Many of these adoring women were now competing for the new lord's attention, despite the rumored lack of interest on his part. The daimyo was obviously too busy to spend his time seducing the village's wives and daughters.
That was what Shion told himself, at least. The other possibility was both too dangerous and too painful for him to admit.
The memory of Lord Kamui's smile still burned within his mind. It ached like any half-healed scar. Why did he wish to be wounded like that again? Why could he not simply allow the scar to heal, and vanish? Why must everyone bring news of him, and speak his name, the name Shion himself had never had occasion to utter?
Someone else was coming. He sighed, brushing the dust and ashes off his garments.
“At last. I have found you, little songbird.”
Attempting to flee had been useless. He had been caught, entangled in the low, sweet cadence of the daimyo's voice as inexorably as any well-set trap. Shion bowed very low, addressing him with the utmost humility. He could hear the soft tink of metal against metal as the man moved slowly towards him. He was afraid to lift his head, afraid to even breathe.
The movement stopped abruptly.
Rising up, Shion saw that his master the apothecary had entered the room. He was standing between them, halting any further progress, his thin arms crossed over his chest, a warning look in his eyes.
“How may we serve you, Lord Kamui?”
The daimyo showed little surprise at this unexpected appearance.
“There are no medicines in the storehouse. I wish to buy as much as you can spare.”
Preoccupied with the idea of such overwhelming profit, the old man's demeanor changed dramatically. He guided Lord Kamui from one side of the room to the other, extolling the virtue and value of each and every item. When the selections were at last finished, Kamui paid him what was clearly an exorbitant amount, on the condition the apothecary would pack them together and carry them out to his horse.
“What is your name?”
“Shion Kaito, my lord.”
“I would like to meet with you again, Shion, in a more discreet place than this. The bend in the river, perhaps? Tomorrow, near noon.”
Prologue
They had met many times in the weeks and months that followed. The daimyo never stopped favoring him with that same sweet expression, yet in all that time, Kamui had never once touched him. Shion did not understand his lord's reticence. He was, after all, little more than property, and the daimyo could have done whatever he liked to him, whenever he wished it.
Shion knew kindness only as a form of currency, valued according to its rate of exchange for merchandise and favors. He had but a single possession men were willing to spend their kindness upon. Once they no longer desired it, the world grew cold and indifferent to him yet again.
He had learned not to expect any kind of lasting compassion from anyone in the world, and to have found it here, in this man who must have killed so many-
Shion had wanted to know everything about him, to understand- why-
He had never stopped wanting it, not for an instant. He had never abandoned his wish to make Kamui smile. But now, half a year later, all his wishes and desires had become more distant than ever.
Shion crossed his master's doorway with careful, hurried steps. The old man would not be pleased to wake and find him in the hall, but the hours reserved for sleeping were the only ones he could spare for this particular project. He had not slept more than a few hours these past three nights, but at long last the work was finished. The apothecary could beat him as much as he wanted once the unassuming jar Shion carried was safely hidden away.
He buried it within the straw mat in the far corner of the workroom before collapsing onto it, exhausted. The exultant feeling of success gave way to a far more sober emotion. He rolled over, staring past the drying racks and into the fire.
Shion was deeply worried for his lord. Kamui had avoided him, and the village itself, entirely, since returning from the summer campaign. Overcome with unease, he had sought out Kamui’s practice grounds. Although they were protected by high walls, one could see past them from a certain point on a nearby hill. Kamui was there, just as Shion had guessed he would be. His dominant arm was splinted up in a sling, and he did not appear to be able to use it at all. The daimyo had returned to them wounded, most likely in the shoulder, deeply enough to sever through layers of muscle.
Neither Shion nor his master had been called in to see to the injury, and although an experienced soldier like Kamui would know enough to bandage and splint it himself, if the wound became infected, what could he do then? Lacerations which were not immediately fatal often became more dangerous over time.
Bearing that thought in mind, Shion kept climbing to the same spot day after day after day. On the ninth day, Kamui was nowhere to be seen. He returned home immediately and began preparing the medicine that he hoped would save his lord's life.
Now, lying alone in his bed, he forced himself to close his eyes. Something else about that day had lingered in his mind. Kamui, alone there and unaware of anyone's presence, had stripped down to his hakama. His body was exquisite, although it was covered in scars.
Shion had studied him with a kind of anguished fascination. Could this possibly be the same man who had walked with him contentedly beneath the sakuras, or waded knee-deep, despite his fine robes, to retrieve Shion's flute from the midst of the stream? There was something hard about him, something unfeeling. It seemed as though, if the time ever came, he might simply break apart in Kamui's arms.
So much fear, and so much longing, mingled together in his thoughts. He felt half-insane already. How much more could he withstand?
As it was, Shion didn't get much sleep that night. The next morning, he looked predictably worn and pale. The moment his master saw him, he folded his gnarled arms across his equally gnarled chest and chided Shion for being so frail and pathetic. "You'd better not be getting sick," he cautioned, as he slammed the door in Shion's face. He found the lack of concern somewhat amusing, considering all the concoctions jammed into the pack on his shoulders.
A few of the items were indeed medicinal, but the vast majority were rather ambiguous. Today he seemed to be carting supposed aphrodisiacs all over town. It was humiliating in some indefinable way, knowing that everyone else could do as they pleased, with whomever they pleased, while he alone must suffer, having asked far too much and aimed far too high.
His hand reached up instinctively, feeling for the shape of the jar, the one thing inside which truly mattered.