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400 Years Apart	By : Cynthermes Category: +M to R > Mirage of Blaze Views: 4238 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Mirage of Blaze and its characters solely belong to Kuwabara Mizuna. I’m just going to creep into a corner of her sand box and play the part of a wannabe historical writer. No profit has been made in the construction of this story.

Chapter List
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Chapter Three:

Sagami no Tengu

A/N: I’m jumping a lot aren’t I? So… I’m the type who likes to wrap it up last. Hehe.

Disclaimer: (See chapter one)

25 lashes,

25 bloody lashes…

Just an image of that whip-torn back and the craving for sake completely dissipates to be replaced by a dull discomfort. Saburo watches a performer do a triple flip in the air over a pole with a bored expression. Now that drinking his fill of the addicting wine was out of the question and the living reminder of that incident tails him without fail, Saburo has resorted to entertaining himself by wandering outdoors.

Every once in a while the town, with the permission of the lord of Odawara-jo would allow performers and merchants protected by the local temple monks to showcase their wares. The lord’s young brother would borrow peasant clothes from the servants and venture town secretly to pretend being a freeman for a day.

A series of applause marked the end of today’s successful acrobatic troupe. Saburo dusted his bottom and stood up joining the satisfied people who rewarded the performers with a few coins. However when it was his turn to drop money he wasn’t able to withdraw his hand back.

“What?”

For a brief moment, a man with the most piercing dark eyes held his delicate wrist captive. “Such a smooth skin for a peasant, don’t you think young sir?” The insolent performer who had obscured his face with a sugegasa⁶ was tracing his forefinger on Saburo’s open palm.

“Don’t touch me!” He slaps that offending hand away and storms off, disappearing within the crowd.

The man smiles and performs a mudra with the rejected hand before lightly touching the juzu⁷ around his neck.

“Oi Musa! Don’t tell me you’re hitting on that pretty boy?” One of the elder performers of the troupe teased him.

“It’s not bad to have a lucky charm amongst our crowd of admirers, right?” Musa replied and winked at two giggling maidens who found his looks too pleasant to the eye.

“What nonsense are you spouting, fake unsui⁸?” The others just laughed at Musa’s odd words.

“Actually I’m a sohei⁹.” Musa said provocatively while highly being aware of murderous intent stealthily directed at him.

XxXMOBXxX

How dare that presumptuous man! Saburo bristles and rubs his palm repeatedly with a rough kerchief. He was not used to be touched by strangers. In the castle the servants won’t even lay a finger on him if he spoke not a word thus his wet appearance before his brother.

He should have known it would be a completely different story outside the protective walls of his home. Usually he was accompanied by kokujin excluding Kotarou when going out of town in broad daylight. People were held at a distance due to his rank. He was also made to wear an oversized sugegasa or a thick uchikake¹⁰ for concealment. Most of the time he was kept within a palanquin and his feet were not allowed to touch the ground¹¹.

At night most of the people were already inside their homes by the time he went slumming. So perhaps this was the first time a stranger especially a man has invaded his personal space.

He sulked on his favorite spot and finally noticed the reddish-yellow orb descending down the horizon. It was almost sundown and the sun creeps ever lower to its hiding place beneath the bay. A half day of freedom wasted on some childish tantrum. He felt dejected. In a year or so he was going to come of age and he still acts like a spoiled temperamental child. Would the bushi follow and respect a daimyo who acts like a defiled woman each time she is touched? –Just where did that come from?

His view of Sagami Bay became distorted. The horizon seemed bent at the middle with half of the sun below and the other above it like a sharp katana had sliced through and its ellipses were coming apart in opposite directions. The hues of orange, gold and indigo appeared to swirl together in the skies like a runny painting hung out before it could dry properly. Saburo looked at his hand and found a blurred, hazy image of a limb whose fingers were not slender and straight. He took that same hand and smacked himself.

What was wrong with him? He raked his fingers against his hair and bunched messy tendrils against his temple, crouching beside the large sakura tree to dispel a short wave of dizziness. His body broke into a cold sweat and he shivered in the late afternoon breeze. Was there a malady suffered in abstaining from sake? He thought flippantly and tried not to imagine what he had seen out of his own hand and the feeling of terrible dread of witnessing flesh drip away like watercolor paint.

He badly needed a drink right now. Agitation was giving him an excuse to indulge maybe a cup or two of rice wine just to calm his nerves. Leaves rustling and the blossoms swaying in the wind directly above him snappily brought a sense of foreboding. Kotarou. Saburo sulked… again.

Then a wicked idea entered his mind. There was one thing that he had found out about his virtually impervious protector. It surely amused him to no end that shinobi were sensitive to woodwind instruments. Kotarou was particularly vulnerable to his flute. He supposed it was because the shinobi used whistles as signals or as a form of communication that the enemy simply couldn’t begin to decipher.

But that wasn’t his purpose when he brought out the fine piece of ivory. Taking a deep breath he wanted to blow as hard as he could to annoy the hell out of his guardian… to make him lose his balance at the sound of horrible music and fall down (face flat from the tree) like when he was a child. Starting to play this instrument under the careful tutelage of his second elder brother was not as easy as he had hoped. Notes as broken and as grating as a raving wraith’s screams pricked the ears of those unlucky enough to listen. Certainly the closest and the first casualty to his beginner’s mistakes was Kotarou.

Unintentional torment was during his childhood days, now he could summon every horrendous note in existence at will. If Kotarou was in fact human, he’d drop himself down the nearest well just to escape from his infuriating master’s bedevilled playing.

Yet Saburo did no such thing and weaved beautiful, enchanting, and spell-bounding fine tunes with his flute. As elegant notes flowed out melodiously one after another; a sense of unearthly quiet fell all around him. The leaves stopped rustling, the wind stilled, and the seas hushed; even the birds paused in their twitter to bask into the tengu’s music.

A lone man rests his palm against a tree bark and looks up the hill. In all his life he has never heard such music that filled him up to his very bones. So the Tengu of Sagami wasn’t a rumor after all. Musa loosens his sugegasa and lets the knot catch on his back. Tall, lean muscular frame, fine features, dark piercing eyes, straight nose, long thick hair, a performer wearing yamabushi clothes to play dress-up. His luck had gotten him this far.

Yet his fortune wasn’t enough to protect his heart from becoming enraptured. Musa sighs and a helpless smile of content refined his wry lips. He had never thought that he would find the elusive tengu atop the hill overlooking the seas of Odawara. The goblin music that was said to entrap any a person’s soul was actually lifting his spirits.

Will I lose my soul if I happen to gaze upon you? Mindful of the same pair of wolf’s eyes tracing his every step, watching his every move, he courageously ascends the hillside and stops short of what he sees.

Black silken hair swaying freely in the wind, closed serene eyes, enticing slender body shrouded in rough-spun peasant clothes, and beautiful hands moving skilfully on an ivory-white flute… Musa could claim to have never beheld such a creature of fine porcelain, ethereal, and eerily pretty until a little while ago.

“Why did you stop?”

And as if he uttered a taboo, the serene symphony was shattered.

The beautiful tengu’s calm bearings were gone. In its place stood a cornered animal with fiery tiger’s eyes, body rigid with tension, and poised to flee or fight. Musa regarded the young man shrouded in peasant clothes with slight amusement. “I just earned my supper from our performance earlier so I am not a threat to you.”

His words didn’t loosen the tight stance one bit. “How long have you been standing there?”

“I’ve been listening to your music the moment you blew the first note, ouji-sama¹².” The tall man answered not even taking another threatening step. “Don’t you have many admirers when you play the flute so beautifully? I almost thought I was in a trance.”

He followed me until here? Saburo couldn’t let his guard down. This man already made two offhanded comments of him not being a commoner. He must tread carefully.

“Do you… Do you need a flutist for your troupe?” He left the tanto safely sheathed within his kimono. “You’re new in Odawara, correct? You haven’t established a common crowd that could steadily watch your performances.”

“Are you saying you’ll help us?” Musa was incredulous.

“You doubt my skill now?” Saburo countered; his irritation fading.

“No, it’s just…”

“It’s just…?” Saburo paused and felt something unsettle his gut. Was he having a sense of deja’vu? It felt like they had this conversation before… somewhere. He shrugged it off.

“It’s very sudden. I was about to make the offer but you saved me the trouble.” The performer answered noticing the younger man’s shifty behavior.

“Is that so?” He had moved so fast and lethal that Musa had no time to react. Musa found his back against the ground with a dagger point swiftly digging into the skin of his neck. “Were you following me?”

Ah, to be caught so off guard like this, Musa found himself to be inconveniently slack. If he turned his head the wrong way that blade would surely sink and puncture an artery. “Here I am thinking that you were threatened by my presence when it’s my safety I should be worried about.”

“Dead right.” Saburo agreed pleased to have the upper hand.

“Beautiful and deadly. Don’t you know it’s every man’s wet dream, ouji-sama?” The voice of the man beneath him rumbled in a low purr.

As a result, Saburo became very aware of the intensity of that piercing stare, the dishevelled thick hair, the deceptively kind face, the defenseless position, and the faint stirring of flesh underneath the thin layer of robes. He gasped and immediately flushed scarlet.

“Y- You… shameless lecher!” He was about to jump away; his tanto forgotten when strong large hands seized his wrists keeping him in place, straddling the hips of this man.

“This is what happens when you provoke a man, ouji-sama.” Musa whispered until he could smell the fragrance of long silken hair. His dark eyes were preoccupied however and fleetingly met the wolf’s hungry with possession and… jealousy? He let the flutist go, planted him safely on his feet, and stood up dusting his clothes like nothing happened. “Be more careful of your actions. Remember that if you play a tune, those who listen to it would follow you wherever you go. And then you would be forced to deal with their attentions.”

“You did not answer my question.” Saburo points yet another dagger in his direction.

So he’s keeping a reserve. He’s armed to the tooth. Musa chuckled. “I’m an entertainer masquerading as a wandering monk in our troupe. My name is Unsui no Musanaga. My last name is made up, a stage name they said, which I doubt since that is really what my fellow entertainers have come up to tease me. We’re performing again tomorrow so if ouji-sama is interested he’ll be there again.”

“Stop calling me that!” Saburo snapped. This man infuriates him to no end.

“What should I call you then? You haven’t told me your name.” Musa offers him another patient and indulgent smile.

“Tsune.” Saburo could not come up with a better name.

“See you again tomorrow, Tsune-sama. Good night.” The entertainer turned his back and disappeared down the thick line of trees.

Such confidence… Saburo hated that man for having that much.

Something round and rumpled then caught his eye. A nerve twitched in his temple. He thinks he could leave this so that I could have a reason to see him again? Saburo picks it up anyway before the sugegasa was promptly snatched from his grasp. He looks up to find his protector and ever-silent guardian with an odd expression on his face.

Kotarou looked… agitated? “That man is dangerous. Please use caution in dealing with him.”

It was the first time the shinobi spoke directly to him. Saburo wondered what pushed his taciturn protector to speak that cloistered mind. “I know what I’m doing.”

The ninja’s glare matured into a full scowl. “Then you would understand if I take this.”

He didn’t even feel a brush of skin or much less sensed a comfortable weight leaving him. The ivory flute dangled down Kotarou’s long lethal fingers.

Saburo instantly fumed. “How dare you! Give it back!” He quickly came after Kotarou with his dagger but as he struck once, twice, the shinobi effortlessly evaded the blade.

“Does young master wish to spar with me? I can tell he is not even ready.” Kotarou taunted as he side-stepped a slash, pivoted against a powerful thrust, moved gracefully away from the sharp tip of the tanto as if he were a feather gliding in the wind.

The young lord stopped when he was a little out of breath. The shinobi moves too fast and he was indeed no match. In fact he’d be more than incapacitated should his guardian retaliate. If he really wanted to beat the crap out of Kotarou he must become stronger.

In a last desperate attempt he thoughtlessly charges towards the shinobi like he would wield a katana. Kotarou intercepts but was startled when Saburo dives on the ground for his feet.

He steps away a little late. “I’ve got you.” Saburo smirks triumphantly below him.

“Only because I’m lenient with the young master.” Kotarou disentangles the stubborn fingers off his legs and picks his charge up like a child.

Saburo backhands him forcefully in return and the ninja’s head snaps to the side. The blunt edge of the tanto causes a bruise and a little bleeding at the corner of his lip. Kotarou looks nonchalantly unaffected by the physical admonishment.

“Give me back my flute.” He grates against his seemingly passive protector.

“No.”

Saburo raises his hand again but stops himself short. “So this is paying you back my due, isn’t it?” His hand trembles a little before clenching it against his side. A shadow falls over his face and he had his eyes cast down.

The shinobi smiles briefly but he doesn’t see it. “Young Master’s safety is my concern. As of now, playing the flute attracts unnecessary attention from outsiders of Odawara. Once they leave I will gladly return this valued item to you. Let me keep it safe until then.”

“Lies.” Saburo spats out.

The blank mask shifts again. A hungry wolf with cold-blooded golden eyes reflects Saburo’s startled image. Kotarou looked terrifying. Was this how he appears to those he kills? For a single heartbeat, the lordling wonders if he went a little too far. It was never wise to provoke a born assassin. Soundless footsteps were slowly approaching and Saburo fought to hold his ground. He was a master of such a beast. The least he could do was to tame it.

“You want to come at me now? What kind of retainer poses aggression towards his master?” He yells at the wolf trying his best to sound incredulous.

Kotarou pays no heed and advances steadily until they were very close… very close for comfort.

Saburo tried not to flinch when fatal fingers reached for his wrist. Then the Fuma Clan head was getting down on his knees, bowing before him, “Return home, young master.” Despite Kotarou’s bent form they were still head level with each other. His protector was as tall as that strange man he met earlier.

And why was he thinking about Musanaga all of a sudden?

“Forgive me if I have offended my young master.” Heat rose on his cheeks when astonishingly petal-soft lips pressed on his knuckles. He was doing this more often and Saburo felt irritated about himself. Why was he suddenly painfully receptive towards two particular men’s affections when he was plain oblivious to them before?

Was Kotarou usually this subservient? Saburo studied the docile outline of his protector patiently waiting for his command.

“I refuse you to take me home until you return the flute.” Stubbornness usually gets him somewhere with the most uptight of individuals.

“Young master leaves me no choice,” was the only warning he gets before everything blacks out.

A soft tap at the nape of Saburo’s neck and the ninja catches his unconscious lordling before he falls to the ground. What a handful. Kotarou sighs as he carries his obviously tired master one hand underneath the knees and the other around the delicate neck… he could snap oh so easily…

The tengu of Sagami will most certainly do everything in his power to extract the sweetest vengeance once he wakes up. If he was any ordinary retainer of the Hojo household he would be losing his hair right now just thinking about faring against the savage beauty’s wrath. But he was Saburo-sama’s personal assassin and protector. He would be honored to receive that much attention.

By the time Hojo Saburo was done with him he would be nothing but pitiful shreds and the scraps left would be fed to the ravens.

TBC~

Translations:

6 – Japanese conical hat

7 – Buddhist rosary beads

8 – Travelling or wandering monk

9 – Warrior monks during the late Heian period

10 – Japanese outer robe

11 – Japanese nobles or royals were treated like gods or descendant of the gods and thus their feet shouldn’t be allowed to touch the dirty earth or ground.

12 – (In high regard) Prince
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400 Years Apart