InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Vivication ❯ Middle Ground ( Chapter 7 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Crossing his arms over his chest as he watched Saori wade out into the river, Fai scowled thoughtfully.  Sure, he knew that she'd caught fish last night with no real problem at all.  Even so, a part of him still believed that she had to have some fishing line hidden somewhere.  It just seemed so outrageous, the idea of just standing there and being able to catch fish with one's bare hands . . . And if it were possible, he really had to wonder about this 'oji-chan' of hers.  Who would have even thought of such a thing, in the first place?

'You know, about that . . . Have you noticed just how at home she seems to be out here?  She's not panicking or worried that we might be lost.  It's like she knows . . . Just how much time has she spent outdoors?'

That was a good question, he figured.  It was kind of interesting, considering he'd never actually met a woman who was so comfortable away from the conveniences of home.  Still . . .

"Did you spend a lot of time, camping and stuff when you were younger?" he asked a little grudgingly.

She stopped and turned to look back at him, the light bouncing off the water, reflecting in her eyes, adding a soft sort of glow as she pondered his question.  "Oh . . . I guess so," she admitted.  "Oji-chan owns a forest, and I loved being out there . . . It was peaceful, you know?  And there was no one else out there to judge me or that made me feel like I had to measure up to them . . ." Suddenly, she laughed, but she seemed almost embarrassed by it as she lifted a hand to hover over her lips.  "I really wasn't very good at things like makeup or flirting with boys . . . I mean, I tried, but I always felt so . . . so dumb in comparison.  I'm not a tomboy, per se, but . . . But I'd like to think I can hold my own out here . . ."

'Better than you can, Fai.'

'. . . Shut up.'

"Anyway," she went on, turning back, throwing her arms out to the sides as she waded a little deeper into the water, "oji-chan thought it was important for all of us to learn basic survival skills along with the rest of our training.  I did spend a lot of time during breaks in school, though, camping out with them, without them . . . It's . . . peaceful . . ."

Lifting his gaze, taking in the untouched beauty of the land, of the water, Fai nodded slowly to himself.  Yes, he supposed he could understand what she was saying, even if he hadn't really stopped to consider it for himself before.  "And that's why you're so good at hand fishing?"

"I guess so . . ."

And that made perfect sense, too.

"So, you find a good spot—near rocks and stuff are usually good because the current slows down a bit.  Then you just stand still—perfectly still.  Don't move at all.  Keep your hands in the water because if you have them out of the water and try to grab the fish that come up, they'll get away every time.  Then you just wait.  Just . . . like . . . this!" she said, standing up straight with a rather fat Siberian salmon—not a huge one, by any stretch of the imagination, but a very respectable catch.  It wasn't fully grown, looked like it might be around ten pounds, but most certainly nothing to scoff at, either.  She took a sharpened stick and jammed it through the fish, embedding it in the water to hold until they were done fishing.

Not to be outdone by the young Japanese woman, Fai unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it aside as he kicked off his shoes, then caught the back of his socks between his big toe and the others to tug them off of his feet, and rolled up his pants before striding into the very cold water to about knee-deep and hunkering down like she'd done, hands resting in the water.

She giggled when his first attempt to snag a fish failed.  He managed to grab it, but it squirmed right out of his hands.

So, there was a little more to it than she'd said, obviously, and he frowned as he concentrated, willing himself to calm, to remain perfectly still.  A fish swam in close.  It wasn't quite as big as the one that she'd caught, but it was decent sized, and he waited, thinking that maybe he'd simply moved too fast on the last one.  This one started to nibble at his toes, and he gritted his teeth to keep from wiggling the appendages.  Then he grabbed.

He managed to catch this one, but he grasped it too tightly, and he grimaced when the body of the poor thing crunched in his hands.

"Not bad," she said, grabbing her stake and wading over to get a look at his fish.  "Oh . . . That's . . . unfortunate," she said, peering over his arm at the fish still held in his hands.  He heaved a sigh and chucked it out toward the middle of the river where the other marine life could make use of the poor creature.  "I guess it's something that you learn by trial and error—how to grasp them without . . . without . . ."

"—Without mangling them.  Right," he grumbled, unable to staunch the blush that surfaced in his cheeks.  "I'll get one."

He could feel the fact that she wanted to say something, but she didn't, and he ignored it as he leaned over again, letting his hands dangle in the water to wait.

"When oji-chan taught me to fish, I was a child," she finally said.  "I remember one night, we were camping, and he told me that I'd have to catch my own dinner, and it took me awhile.  I kept losing them or they'd dart away just before I could get them.  I . . . I think I was ready to cry, I was so frustrated."  Suddenly, she laughed, but again, it seemed almost embarrassed, as though she hated to admit whatever was coming next, and she sighed.  "I was even . . . even mad at him because he could have easily caught my fish for me, but . . . Oji-chan told me to calm down; that they could feel my emotions.  And then, I caught my first fish . . ."

He didn't respond to that.  Instead, he tried to clear his mind, to will away the irritation that he hadn't been able to accomplish what should have been easy enough.  Another fish swam closer.  He couldn't be sure, but he thought that it might well be bigger than the one that she'd caught.  It didn't matter, really.  Even so, he grabbed the fish, grasped it in his hands, brought it up out of the water as it flailed and fought against him.  With a bark of incredulous laughter, he tightened his grip just enough to keep the creature from slithering out of his hands.

"Oh, wow!  That's a nice one!" she exclaimed quietly.  "Much better than the tiny ones I caught last night!"

Bolstered by the very real appreciation evident in her expression, he smiled, just a little.  "There was nothing wrong with those last night."

She laughed.  "No, there wasn't . . . but these?  It's good because I'm hungrier tonight!"

"I . . . I'll cook dinner," he offered, a little grudgingly, almost a little shyly.

She seemed surprised by his offer, but she nodded.  "You cook?"

"Some," he replied, reaching for her stake.  "It's a little rough out here, but I think I can do something . . ."

Her smile widened as she waded back to the shore with him.  "Well, if you're going to cook them, then I'll clean them," she said.

He let her take the fish.  The one on the stake was fine, but the other was still rather angry at having been caught, and she laughed as she smashed it against her chest to keep it from wiggling loose.

Blinking as he watched her, as she sank down in a grassy patch away from the edge of the water, he frowned.  Hair mussed, clothing smudged and faded, she pushed her sleeves up her arms to her elbows before grasping the still-wiggling fish and started to clean it.  There was no hesitation, no squeamish girliness: just an efficacy in movement as she swiftly and deftly cleaned the fish.

What was it about her? he wondered.  He didn't know that much about her, aside from what she'd told him, and yet, something about her made him feel like he knew her so much better than that, almost like he'd known her . . . forever . . . which was entirely stupid.  Someone like him . . . Well, he tended to be too pragmatic to think in those kinds of fanciful terms.

Even so . . .

Snatching up his shirt with a grimace—it stank horribly—he opted instead to wade back into the water, to try scrubbing out the garment with a handful of sandy dirt and small pebbles that were plentiful in the riverbed.  His pants could use a good washing, as well, but that wasn't actually something that was feasible, given that he had no other clothing to change into.

'Give it up, Fai.  You think she's as fascinating as I do.'

Grunting unintelligibly at his youkai-voice's words, Fai scrubbed a little harder at his shirt.

'Her hair . . . It's pretty amazing, don't you think?  I mean, she's just . . . She's different from the women you've met.  She's not fussy or prissy or so set on how she looks . . . Do you remember when Gar Metwin brought his daughters for you to meet?  Could you imagine any of those girls out here?  Can you imagine if they were forced to trek through the forest?  To camp out?  Or to fish?  You know, if that were the case, we'd be starving by now . . .'

Making a face since he did, indeed, remember that, he scowled.  'You don't really have to remind me of that,' he grumbled since the incident was still vivid enough in his mind.  Considering the three daughters were pretty well falling all over themselves in their efforts to curry his favor, leaving him feeling uncomfortable in the extreme, yes, he remembered it a little too well, and the idea of any of those girls, out here?  He grimaced.

It seemed to him that people were of one of two mindsets early on: either they wanted to challenge him to remove him from his office or they were overly excited by the idea that he was young and very eligible.

At least things had calmed down on both of those fronts more recently.  When he'd first stepped into the role of tai-youkai, both things had been common enough occurrences, to the point that, back then, he rather dreaded appointments and correspondence in general.  It wasn't that bad these days.  Most of the time, he was occupied in the things that were supposed to come part and parcel with his title, and those things, he was adept in dealing with.  It was a relief.  He hadn't been challenged in well over a year, and the women?  Well, he tried to discourage that as often as possible, but there were those who tried, anyway.  The fathers, however, seemed to be all right with the idea that there was just nothing at all there—no spark, no fascination—and they let it drop after the initial meetings, thankfully.

'Fai . . .'

'What?'

'I think . . . I think I feel that spark . . .'

Peering up without raising his head, Fai frowned as he watched the woman on the riverbank as she carefully cleaned the fish.  Hair catching the early evening sunlight that caught in the long locks, shining gently, lending her a bluish hint, she quickly tipped her head to the side, using her shoulder to push her hair back out of her face.  His frown deepened.  It wasn't black, that hair—almost, but not quite.  No, it was more of a dark, deep, glossy gray, kissed with those bluish highlights, incredibly long, ridiculously soft looking, perfectly paired with those silvery eyes, too.  Along with paleness of her skin, it gave her a dramatic kind of presence, and when she smiled, those same eyes of hers seemed to light up, sparkling like diamonds—like precious gems . . .

As if she sensed his blatant perusal, she glanced up at him, breaking into that smile that illuminated her eyes, that carved the most endearing dimples in both of her cheeks, as her skin took on a hint of pink, as her dusty rose lips parted.

Dropping his gaze almost instantly, his brows drawing together in a consternated frown as a certain warmth infiltrated his own cheeks, he concentrated instead on rinsing out his shirt.  Something about her completely flustered him, as much as he was loathe to admit it.  It was a rather unsettling sensation for someone who was used to being in charge, who tended to thrive upon it.

'I'd say it's a little novel, don't you think?  Being completely flummoxed by that slip of a girl?'

'No, I don't,' he countered dryly, 'and I'm not . . .'

'Uh huh . . .'

'I'm not.'

'Yep, keep telling yourself that, Fai, but you know, it's all right to be interested in a woman.  It's kind of surprising that you weren't already at least mildly interested in someone . . .'

'I've been . . . interested . . .'

His youkai-voice snorted.  'You've been  horny; that's what you've been, and once you got that out of your system, the interest waned just as quickly.'

He grunted, but he didn't argue it.  After all, what was the point when his youkai-voice was dead-on the mark.  Not often, but a few times, he'd had moments when he'd given in to lust, but it was always a fleeting emotion, gone about as soon as it had been quelled.  There was never any interest in any kind of long-term attachments, and that was fine with him, too . . . but . . .

That was always simply about the carnal act—just sex and nothing more.  The first time had been fairly horrifying.  He'd gone a weekend holiday with his roommate in boarding school when he was sixteen.  Back then, he was attending a very prestigious school in Italy, and he'd met a very cute girl from the nearby girls' academy.  He hadn't realized back then that she knew very well just who he was, and after they'd done the deed, she'd proceeded to tell all of her friends that she would be his mate, which was simply not the case.  The debacle that had unfolded after that was more than enough to quell his enthusiasm until he'd moved on to the University of Oxford in England.  While there, he had met and become friendly with a very sweet finch-youkai named Elizabeth, and they had slept together whenever the mood hit, but it wasn't like they were anything other than friends with certain benefits, and they were both quite all right with that.  They were still friendly now, though it had devolved more to texts and the occasional phone call, usually around a holiday or birthday . . .

And there were a couple others, but nothing at all that was noteworthy or anything special, and, he was somewhat ashamed to admit, there were even a few women that he didn't even know their names, but then, they probably didn't know his, either, and he supposed that it was all right with him, too . . .

Fai snorted.  Loudly.  'Shut up.'

His youkai laughed.  Loudly.  'Fine . . .'


"What are you doing?"

Glancing up from the makeshift bag she'd fashioned out of an old, ratty sweatshirt, Saori bit her lip as she let her gaze fall back down again, her thin shoulders rising and falling in a soundless sigh.  "I . . . I was considering taking a bath, but . . . But I really can't shove the children's precious things into this shirt . . ." she remarked, scowling down at her clothes.

Fai nodded slowly.  Given that the sweatshirt she was wearing was pretty dirty and a bit on the smelly side, to boot, he kind of figured that she was more concerned with soiling the items than she was in cleaning herself up.  "So, wash the one you're wearing," he remarked casually, turning his attention back to his task of prepping the fish filets for cooking.

"I only have this other sweatshirt," she pointed out rather primly.

"You came all the way to my home, and you only brought along a single change of clothing?"

He had a feeling that she was glowering at him, but he didn't turn to verify it.  "Of course, I brought other clothes," she scoffed.  "I didn't have room to pack more in this, not when I had to bring the children's things back, too.  Even if I managed to make it back to where I left the van, do you honestly think it'll still be there?  Because I don't."

He frowned.  She had a point.  Considering the area where the van had broken down was fairly poor, there was every chance that she was entirely right.  If anyone happened across it and realized that it was abandoned, they'd just tear it down and load it up for scrap—or they'd remove any decent part of it and sell it off, bit by bit, and anything left inside it?  Well, that would be fair game, too, as far as they were concerned.  "All right," he relented.  "But you could just wash their things when you got back to the orphanage—and you do kind of stink—and when I say, 'kind of', I'm being kind because I actually mean that you smell worse than I did before I washed my shirt."

She uttered a terse little 'hrumph'.  "I cannot wash a drawing pad," she pointed out haughtily, opting to ignore his commentary on the way she smelled.

He sighed.  "So, take your bath, wash your foul sweatshirt, wear the clean one until the other one dries overnight, and then you can pack everything back into the un-smelly one in the morning."

She blinked, sitting up a little straighter as she considered his suggestion.  "Oh, that's not a bad idea," she allowed, sounding almost bemused.  "It's nice to know that you're more than just a pretty face, Fai-sama."

For some reason, her candid and teasing statement still made him blush.  Luckily, though, he was faced away from her, so she didn't see it, and he snorted.  "The tai-youkai does not like to be teased," he grumbled.

She laughed softly.  He heard her rummaging around, but didn't turn to see what she was doing, either, but a few minutes later, she stood up.  "I'm going to go see about getting cleaned up," she told him.  "Can you keep an eye on the children's things?  I just don't want anything to happen to them . . ."

"And what's going to happen to them out here?"

She paused.  "A bear could come along and decide that the teddy bear's his kin," she offered.

He grunted.

"I'll be back as soon as I clean up," she said.

He grunted again, listening as she slipped away from the campsite, her feet making very little noise in the process.

Shaking his head as he stood up and moved in closer to the fire, he held his hand over the flattish rock he'd arranged in the center of the blazing flames.  Still not quite enough heat coming off of it to serve the purpose yet, and he straightened up, draping his hands on his hips as he slowly turned to survey the campsite.

It wasn't bad, he figured.  The shelter looked sturdy enough for the chill of the oncoming evening, and he'd made a makeshift stick rack that he'd stretched his shirt over to help it dry a little faster.  She'd already washed out and refilled the plastic water bottles that they'd emptied during the course of the day, and he sighed.  The water tasted fine, sure, but he made a mental note to get checked out by a doctor when he got back home because the last thing he wanted or needed was some weird stomach infection from drinking untreated water, in the first place.

Figuring that he might as well try to clean out the shelter a little since he wasn't fond of sleeping on decaying leaves, Fai started to move off, only to stop when his gaze caught on the ratty old teddy bear with one missing eye.  Hunkering down, he frowned as he slowly reached out, lifted the much-loved toy, turning it over in his hands.  What was it that she'd said . . .?

"This belongs to one of our kids, and he loves it!  He doesn't care that it's so ragged.  He sees past that to the love that he feels instead!"

The absolute conviction in her gaze at that moment had lent an added brilliance, a lustrous sheen to her already stunning eyes . . .

He could feel a few places along the seams where someone had so carefully stitched the bear back together at one time or another, and he sighed, grimaced.

Setting the bear aside, he reached for the sketchbook.  The thick cover was scratched and worn, nothing more than pressed cardboard—a very cheap book.  The corners were thickened, starting to separate, and the pictures inside were barely discernable for the most part.  Even so, the awkward crayon lines and scribbles held their own quaint charm, and he sighed, grimacing at one picture in particular: a small stick figure with crazy scribbles of red hair, a stick figure smile, between two taller stick figures: one wearing a misshapen triangle of a bright yellow dress, one a plain but tall stick man.  The three were smiling their red-crayon smiles, standing beside a blocky house with angry red flames, putrid gray smoke, shooting out of the windows . . .

An involuntary shiver ran up his spine, and Fai very quickly closed the book and set it aside once more.

A worn and tattered baseball mitt that looked like it had seen much better days . . . a yellow haired doll with a grimy face—the smudges looked pretty well set in . . . Her eyes should have closed when she was held horizontally, but only one did . . . A die cast car that used to be bright red but was so chipped and faded that it seemed almost a dark pink . . . It was missing a wheel, and the two back wheels were wired on . . . A thick storybook compilation of Grimm's fairy tales . . . A half-deflated American football . . .

And all of those things each belonged to a child—prized possessions, Saori had said.  They'd let her take their precious things, all in the hopes that she'd be able to change his mind.

He sighed.  That was the hell of it, wasn't it?

He'd never wanted to take away the funding for the orphanage.  That was the very last thing he'd ever wanted to do, but . . .

'Being tai-youkai isn't fun, Faine.  It never was meant to be.  You are the one who will have to make the tough decisions—decisions that might well mean that you're the one that people hate, that they blame, right or wrong.  It's a very harsh thing to have to do, but do it, you will because you must . . .'

Those were some of the words that Alexei had left him, all written in his neat hand in the pages of a thin journal that he'd found on his father's desk the first time he'd walked into the study after Alexei's disappearance.  That's what his father had been doing behind the closed doors for those thirty-five days after Faina's death.  He'd holed himself up in there, writing down all the things that he'd always meant to tell Fai, but hadn't gotten around to yet . . .

Now, that journal was locked in the fireproof safe, along with the rest of the valuable paperwork and things that made up the Demyanov empire.  One day, he'd let Yerik read it, too, but the opportunity hadn't presented itself yet. Besides, Yerik was still only eighteen.  He had some time before Yerik needed to read the words the journal contained . . .

As for the things, arranged so carefully on the fallen log?

Fai sighed.  It wasn't the first time that he had to wonder just how many more things he'd have to barter away, just to ensure the welfare of the majority . . .


Setting the wooden plank aside with a satisfied sigh, Saori rubbed her tummy as she uttered a small, almost rueful, laugh.  "I can't remember the last time I ate that much," she remarked.  "That was so good . . . How did you learn to cook like that?"

Offering a little shrug, Fai tossed his small plank into the fire and leaned back on his elbows.  Since they didn't have anything resembling a skillet, he'd made do by building the fire around a very large, flat rock that he'd then used to cook the fish.  "I was afraid it wouldn't work," he admitted.  "I've never tried cooking on a rock before."

She giggled, but the giggle shifted into a groan since she had eaten a lot more than she normally did.  "I've never thought to try cooking on one, either, but that was really, really good.  You know, if this whole tai-youkai gig falls through, I think you'd have a future in restaurant kitchens . . ."

"It was just a little salt and pepper," he maintained dryly, brushing off her lavish praise as though it were nothing at all.

She shook her head.  "You added something else.  I saw you," she said.

He chuckled.  "I found a little bit of basil," he relented.

She nodded and tried not to look at him since he was still very shirtless.  She'd seen men shirtless many times, but most of them were related to her, and the overall effect, she'd found, was vastly different, especially given that Fai was a very, very good-looking man . . . "I knew it!  But if you do it like that every night, I'll leave all the cooking to you."

"What?  Without a shirt, you mean?"

She blinked, couldn't help the blush that rushed into her cheeks.  Teasing, sure, but . . . Had he noticed that she had been blatantly staring?  'Kami, I hope not . . .'

'Well, if you're going to stare, then that's a really nice thing to stare at, don't you think?'

She stifled a groan.  'You're not helping at all . . .'

'Sure, I am!  Tell him you think he's damn fine looking, Saori.  He'll be flattered . . . I mean, wouldn't you be flattered if he said you looked good with your shirt off—Oh-h-h-h-h . . . Maybe you should take yours off, too!  I mean, fair's fair, right?  Besides, I happen to think we have a damn fine set of jugs, don't you?'

'They're not big enough to be 'damn fine',' she shot back.  Then she smashed her hands against her cheeks for a long moment, squeezing her eyes closed, willing herself not to blush more.  'You so did not just say that!' she half-groaned, half-squeaked.  'Oh, I didn't just say that . . .'

'Naked in the forest . . . What could possibly go wrong?'

She sighed, resolved not to say anything else on the subject.

"Are you all right?"

Blinking away the last of her reverie, Saori offered a silent word of thanks for the pervasive darkness that hid her embarrassment—she hoped.  "I just . . . I just meant that you cook so well, you should do it all the time, is all," she managed, proud of how normal she sounded, given the situation.

He sighed.  "I wish . . ."

"Oh?"

"Cooking is my hobby," he admitted.  "Well, kind of.  I don't have a lot of time to do it, though.  Too many other things . . ."

She considered that as her amusement waned.  Being who he was, what he was . . . No, it probably didn't leave a lot of time for him to pursue any other interests.  Something about that bothered her.  After all, she'd heard from time to time, as her mother and her aunt had talked over tea, just how often had her aunt complained about the same sort of thing with Toga?  That he was so busy so often that he, at times, missed things or had to cancel plans?  "You should never give up something that makes you happy," she finally said.  "Responsibilities are important, but if that's all you have, then what do you have to make you smile?"

"Smiling isn't in a tai-youkai's job description," he told her, but it wasn't mean or even condescending.  No, there was a matter-of-factness in his voice that bothered her, like he was resigned to it when maybe he shouldn't have been . . .

"And what makes you smile, Fai-sama?" she asked quietly.

Turning his head to look at her, he had such a serious expression on his face that it hurt her to see it on some level, but she refused to look away.  A second later, that unsettling sensation was back, like hurling down a ski slope at a hundred miles per hour, like the floor being dropped out from under her, like riding the elevator in the Inutaisho Industries complex . . . She had to smash her hand over her stomach to control the rioting, and she wondered vaguely if he could hear the blood, thundering through her veins . . .?

It was hard to read his expression in the flickering light of the fire with the darkened sky above, with the deep black of the moonless heavens.  Hazel eyes so veiled, he almost seemed like he was looking to her for an answer, but she didn't understand the question, either . . . "I . . . I don't think anything does," he confessed, sounding as confused as she felt.  "That . . . That sounds bad . . ."

"Nothing?" she prompted.

Letting out a deep breath, he shrugged, as though it were a foregone conclusion.  "It's not like tai-youkai are afforded the luxury of days off," he told her.  "It's not like I have the luxury of waking up and thinking that I can put it all aside for the day or anything like that."

"You're not being tai-youkai today," she reminded him.

He grunted.  "That's different.  You kidnapped me.  Meanwhile, Asia's probably going to hell in a handbasket.  That's the expression, isn't it?"

"I appropriated you, Fai-sama . . . Haven't we been through this already?"

"It doesn't change facts, Saori," he told her.

"Yes, well, what you said: that's an American-ism," she pointed out.  "I think, anyway . . ." She frowned.  "What about your brother?  Don't you get along with him?"

Pushing himself up, straightening his arms as they stuck out behind him, braced on the earth, Fai sighed.  "We're . . . not seeing eye to eye at the moment," he admitted.

She nodded slowly, sitting up, wrapping her arms around her ankles as she rested her chin on her raised knees.  "Well, I don't always get along with nii-chan," she said.  "Isn't that normal for siblings?"

"It's not like that," Fai replied.  "The last time Yerik came home, he said he wanted to be a hunter.  A hunter," he repeated, as though it would make a difference to her.  "Damn stupid, stubborn . . ." He sighed.  "Sometimes I think he comes up with these thoughts just to see what I'll say . . ."

"Is that really what you think?  I mean, being a hunter . . . It's more like a calling than something that you just choose out of the blue."

"And you know something of it?"

She shrugged.  "I know my fair share of hunters," she said.  "None of them chose to do what they do lightly."

"You may not take Yerik's side in this," he stated flatly.  "You haven't met him, don't know a thing about him, so your opinion doesn't count."

"Are you just saying this because you don't believe he can do it or because he really doesn't have the skills for the job?" she challenged mildly, almost philosophically.

"Both," he snapped, temper igniting since the subject was very obviously a sore spot.  Then he heaved a sigh, shook his head.  "Neither . . . I . . . I don't know."

"You do know," she challenged quietly, almost placatingly—like she was trying to coax an answer out of him.  Maybe she was . . . Strangely, though, her persistence didn't actually bother him like it usually would have if someone else had dared to speak to him in such a way, but he didn't stop to dwell upon that, either . . .

"He's been trained," Fai admitted.  "He's been thoroughly trained by the same master who trained me.  He's quick on his feet, he's skilled at disarming opponents . . . He's able to hold his own, even against me.  He's . . . He's very, very good.  It's not that I think he can't do it.  I know very well, just what he's capable of.  It's just . . ."

She bit her lip for a moment, considered what he'd said.  "Then what bothers you about the idea?" she finally asked.

Letting out a deep breath, not exactly a sigh, he shrugged.  "He's my brother," he slowly said.  "It's more than that.  I raised him from two years old.  I . . . I promised my father that I would make sure that he was safe.  Hunts . . . They're not pretty, and you end up, taking a life, and whether it's deserved or not, the bottom line is the same.  Yerik . . . I know he doesn't make rash decisions.  I've told him often over the years that it's better to think things through than to act on a gut feeling, but this time . . ."

"You don't believe that he's really thought it through?"

He made a face, hunching forward, drawing up his knees, wrapping his hands around them.  "No, I don't believe that, at all. He has, I'm sure.  Of course, he has.  Even so . . ." he admitted, lifting a hand, holding it up as though he were trying to emphasize his point for a long moment before letting it fall back once more.  "I just . . . The first time I was challenged, I was twenty—two years older than Yerik is now.  It was . . . days after I became tai-youkai, and I . . . I won, obviously, but . . . He was an old weasel-youkai.  I don't know how old, just . . . He was no real threat to me, and I didn't want to fight him.  I had to, of course.  The fight lasted maybe five minutes.  It felt like forever, just because . . . but . . . the emotions that came with it as I stood over the place where I cut him down?  Yerik . . ." Slowly, he shook his head, scowl darkening as he glowered at the fire.  "I don't want him to know that—to understand that . . ."

Saori didn't stop, didn't think, didn't do anything, but react as she scooted over, as she leaned her temple against his bicep.  Lifting a hand, gently rubbing his forearm, she sighed softly, wanting nothing more than to let Fai know that he wasn't alone.  For the briefest of seconds, he stiffened, and she felt his breath, stirring her hair.  Then he seemed to sigh though there was no sound, and a moment later, she felt the weight of his cheek against her head.

They sat that way for a long, long time, staring at the fire as the smoke rose in lazy, slow tendrils into the night sky . . .