Samurai Champloo Fan Fiction ❯ Nenju ❯ V. The voices of the wild ducks ( Chapter 5 )

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

Disclaimer: I don’t own Samurai Champloo or any of its affiliated characters, which belong to Manglobe/Shimoigusa Champloos. Neither do I own the haiku of Matsuo Basho; translation for this chapter title and that of the previous are those of Haruo Shirane, on the Asian Topics website maintained by the good folk at Columbia University, and my bad for not mentioning that last chapter. My apologies, Shirane-sempai. Occasionally (i.e., on those days ending in -ay), 3Jane is an airhead.

A/N: I’m taking this opportunity to make something a not-issue, before it becomes one. This particular fic deals primarily with het relationships, but not exclusively; some characters will have same sex relationships, but not as a primary focus (because, honestly, there are fics better than mine that do — check the favorite authors/stories links in my bio). I doubt this will be a big deal for most SC-fic readers — if you’re bright enough to like this anime, you’re bright enough to realize that life isn’t all June and Ward Cleaver. However, if same sex relationships bother you, then you should probably read something else, or go for a nice walk. It’s spring! If they don’t, though, there’s a neat little homage to Agent Orange for the funny that I couldn’t resist.

Many thanks to everyone who’s been kind enough to R&R, especially Coffee Gyrl and linxlynks at MM. You’re all wonderful, kids.


Nenju


She was sitting with her profile to him, chin resting on her knees, as she stared into the campfire he’d built. It did not escape him that she was avoiding their eyes as much as she could. Mugen had given up entirely on pretending he wasn’t upset by what Fuu had said to him (what exactly had passed between them, Jin wondered) and was lying on his sleeping mat with his back to them both, close enough to the cheerful little blaze that the ronin wouldn’t have been surprised if the other man’s clothing had caught fire. It was like haiku, really; a journey counted in evenings spent by the side of a campfire. The sound of fire/The sitting woman is quiet/something something something — well, it had been the Mujuu, not the arts of a courtier he’d learned. He was a priest without a temple, not a poet.

None of them had said much of anything all day as they walked, after he’d so obviously interrupted the conversation between Mugen and the girl; there had been the most peculiar expression on the Ryukyuan’s face — the last time he’d seen anything close had been in the days following the time they’d been asleep in the house of the sunflower samurai. Mugen had wanted to walk down to the water’s edge, Fuu had been adamant that it was much too soon, and they had argued. In the end, Mugen had pushed past her and gone anyway . . . the effort had reopened the wound in his abdomen, and they’d found him by the trail of scarlet washing over the path. The look in his eyes had been a mixture of vulnerability and anger, so much pain . . . and fury at being weak, at being unable to stand on his own, and the utter powerlessness — he’d looked in those unsettling silver eyes and thought: yes. He knew what it was to find yourself caged . . .

Jin concentrated on his breathing; air in, air out. The scent of pine resin came to him along with the woodsmoke, as he frowned slightly. He couldn’t settle his mind this evening. Meditation was usually something that came easily to him, but tonight he was struggling as if he was a green boy, sitting for the first time at his master’s feet. Shishou — he wished again that Mariya-dono were alive, and able to give him advice, then thought wryly to himself in the next second that perhaps his adopted father might not have been a good source of advice on women. Well, woman, anyway; he wondered what the older man would have thought of Fuu, and the journey to find her father. Mm. Fruitless thought, really. He might as well wonder what his real father would have thought of the girl — the woman, he corrected himself. Maybe Takeda Chozaburo would have had some piece of wisdom for him. Hn. He probably would have asked his only child instead how it was that Jin had managed to break a katana that had been in the family for over three hundred years, after having it in his possession for just over twenty-four months. The only other man around to ask for — wait. Had he just considered asking Mugen for advice? Regarding Fuu? He groaned inwardly.

A pine knot cracked loudly, as the fire consumed it. Snap. Mugen twitched in his sleep.

It was questionable as to whether there was anything he needed advice for, which was the problem. He didn’t doubt Mugen’s tale of being charged nine monme at the whorehouse, or that Fuu had lived for a short while in Kyoto, where she’d met someone. Someone who, apparently, she’d felt something for, to the point where she had — had she felt something for this man?

Or had he taken it from her?

Unnoticed, a small muscle in his jaw tightened.

If he had, he would die, slowly, he thought. Some small part of his mind asked him what he would kill the man for, having done something so wrong, or Fuu having felt something for the man. Shut up, he told himself, and the little voice went away.

Fuu might cry, but —

And that was it, wasn’t it. It was Fuu. Not his mother, not his sister, not a wife, not anyone he would be justified in killing for having taken her and then sending her on her way. Fuu didn’t owe any explanation to either himself or Mugen.

How to solve a problem, when there was none there?

He gave up on meditation, for the evening. The fire had died down a bit, he saw; he snapped a small piece of kindling in half and fed it to the flames.

“Jin?” Startled, he looked up at her. She was still looking into the fire, eyelids drooping. He noticed then just how tired she appeared — she’d slept last night, he’d thought, even if they’d woken early to get further away from Kasumi, but she looked as if she hadn’t slept for about a week.

“Mm?” He kept his voice pitched as low as hers had been, though he could have told her it was useless if she was trying not to wake Mugen. The other man slept as lightly as he did.

“That boy at the river, the one you said was like a little brother to you. Did you love him?”

Yukimaru. Why — he maintained his control with difficulty, keeping emotion from washing over his face. Did he love him — Jin thought of stalling, of asking whom she was talking about, but couldn’t. His mouth suddenly dry, he did the only thing he could: he told her the truth. “Yes.”

“He tried to kill you.”

No. “Yes.”

She was silent a moment, as he waited; as Mugen waited, he knew. The other man lay as though he were still asleep, but from where he was sitting, Jin could see the moonlight glimmering off those silvered eyes. Finally, she turned her head so that she faced him, pressing her cheek into her knees, and said, “You forgave him.”

It hadn’t been a question, but he knew there was one, lurking. I would have forgiven him anything. “Yes,” he told her, again.

“Why?”

He sat for a moment. Yukimaru — he wondered in passing what she knew of dojo life, how it was a world onto itself, where the sky could narrow into the reflection in a pair of beautiful eyes. He’d taken the younger boy to be his little brother in shudo, when Yuki had been fifteen and looked up at him with such yearning, so much tenderness, a hush of snowflakes falling around them in the orchard that night — “It wasn’t his fault. He did it because I hurt him,” he told her. He closed his eyes against the light of the fire.

(“Why do you keep running from me?” the ghost asked. Jin was drowning in those eyes, choking in their despair, darkness closing over his head as he slipped down, down — “I will never, ever let you get away.“ Then his own voice, and the word of love, the sound of flesh — )

He did not see her eyes, with his own closed; he only heard the sliding sound of silk, as she lay back on her mat. “Good night, Jin,” was all she said, and the sound of fire was all that was left for him that night.

The next morning, he wondered, as they set off in the general direction of Lake Biwa. Fuu was behaving as if she’d never spoken after dinner, keeping up a cheerful chattering (the girl had some particularly useful thoughts on gambling that he filed away for future reference) and the other man was casual to a fault, rooting in his ear with a long, knobby finger. The Ryukyuan was bothered, though; Jin had noted in the past that Mugen became progressively more vulgar in his habits the more the man felt disturbed. Not that he was one to talk, he was more than a little melancholy himself. He always did, when he thought about Yukimaru — he frowned, and fished the map out of his kimono.

“Oi. Fish face. What is it?” Jin looked up to find Mugen’s eyes on him. “We lost?”

“No,” he answered, giving the other man a look. You’re going to thank me, later. And one of these days when you call me fish face, I’m going to make you eat dirt, nose miner boy. “Fuu-chan, you wanted to exchange your kimono for another, correct?”

“Yes!” Her eyes lit with pleasure. “We’re that close to a town already? Mou, that was quick. I didn’t think we’d get to one for a couple days yet.”

“We should get there some time tomorrow, I believe,” he said. “There should be a crossroads up ahead, where we’ll turn right. But we can’t stay too long.” He made a show of folding the map again and replacing it in his kimono. “I don’t think we’ll be too far off the road to Motomachi . . . maybe we shouldn’t.” He gave them both a look in which doubt was not entirely feigned; fishing was a life and death struggle between man and fish.

Mugen’s eyes had narrowed thoughtfully, as Fuu looked happy enough to levitate from the path. “No! It shouldn’t take long at all,” she blurted, a little grin working its way across her face, visions of bathtubs dancing in her head. “We could probably even stay overnight.”

“Hn. Possibly,” Jin allowed. She quickened her pace, leading them forward. Mugen hung back slightly, still watching the ronin. When he saw Jin looking back at him, he raised one eyebrow. What are you doing?

Jin shook his head imperceptibly, and flicked his eyes in the direction of the young woman. I’ll tell you, later.

Mugen drew his eyebrows together and scowled. No. What are you doing?

Jin scowled back. Trust me, stupid.

Mugen rolled his eyes and made an obscene pumping motion with his left fist behind Fuu’s back. Whatever. He lengthened his stride to catch up to Fuu, as Jin shook his head again.

Ah, friendship was a beautiful thing.

Except, of course, when one of those friends was yelling at you, at the top of her lungs.

“You JERKS!”

“. . . “ Jin opened his mouth, but she steamrollered over him, still ranting.

”I thought you meant some village! You did this on purpose! You knew —“ Fuu visibly caught herself before coming anywhere near to completing that sentence, as he listened with great interest. Knew what, he wanted to ask, but kept quiet. There was at least an equal chance that she attempt his strangulation over answering the question, and then he’d have to subdue her. Her eyes sparked dangerously at him, her chest heaving under the silk, and — hn. Subduing. Yes. The parent bead of his prayer bracelet was unsatisfactorily loose, he’d have to see to that — he glared at Mugen, who was staring at Fuu, mesmerized by those bobbing breasts, up and down, up and down, her heart beating furiously underneath — he tore his eyes away. At this rate, he’d end up as much a pervert as the Ryukyuan. There were thirty-six beads accompanying the parent bead. Um.

She glowered at them both, before biting her lip — he gritted his teeth in order not to let out a low moan at the sight; why was he coming so completely undone? It was Fuu, for the sake of all the gods, he’d seen her angry countless times before, what was wrong with him — and getting herself back under control. Finally, she took a deep breath, Mugen emitting a tiny whimper, and poked Jin in the chest with her finger.

He blinked. Ow. Her nails were surprisingly sharp through the cotton of his kimono.

She hissed, “Fine. You’re both coming with me to sell this, and then we’re finding a place to stay, that’s it. We’re leaving first thing in the morning. Got it?” She gave the Ryukyuan one last angry look before starting down the hill to Kyoto.

Hn. It was — a sensible plan, actually, he had to admit. Probably a better one than his idea of licking the underside of her — wait.

Distracted, he hurried after his companions, as Mugen asked, “So how did you not realize this was where we were going? I thought you lived here for half a year or something.”

“It was five months! And I didn’t walk this way to Kasumi!”

“Still. How dumb are you?” The other man was grinning at her as he caught up.

“You’re a jackass, you know that? No. You’re why jackasses have a bad name!”

There was very little to Kyoto that was not beautiful. Jin had never been there before, and for a while contented himself with following behind the other two, looking around. There was a small, lovely temple complex filled with maples he’d particularly have liked to explore at his leisure — the gardens! — but the small whirlwind leading their tiny procession seemed to be intent on whisking them to a specific destination as quickly as she could.

They had entered a side street of shops and teahouses, Fuu muttering something under her breath about how this should be far enough out that it would be all right, before she ducked into the kimono-seller’s. Thankfully, she left them outside, with the stern warning “Don’t do anything,” before she entered the shop and the two men could hear the sounds of Fuu bargaining.

Mugen sidled up to Jin. “How are we supposed to find the guy this way?”

“Hn.” It would be next to impossible. The city was simply too large, and without asking her directly what the man’s name was, what he looked like, where he was likely to spend his time — somehow, he thought wryly, he doubted she’d cooperate — their search was likely to be unsuccessful. “It would be best if we found a place where she was well known.”

“Could try the gambling houses,” Mugen offered.

The ronin mulled this over. “That would be a good idea,” he said finally.

“Kill the asshole, maybe make a little money for the trip, evening well spent.”

Jin gave him a skeptical look. “You have acorns you wish to lose?”

Before Mugen could answer, Fuu emerged from the door of the shop, wearing a pink kimono. She gave them a displeased look, having heard the last question. “What is with you two? I swear, Mugen, if you start telling me what a babe I am and how on the ball I am, I am gonna hit you both so hard — “

The Ryukyuan gave her a look of such hurt at being justly accused. “What is your problem? You tell us ‘don’t do anything’, we don’t do anything, so you start bitching?”

Well, other than planning to kill an old lover of yours, but that doesn’t count, does it, Jin thought idly.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. We’ll have dinner, then let’s just get some sleep and leave in the morning, okay?” She gave them a smile of what oddly looked like relief, when Jin heard a man’s voice coming from the street behind them. She froze, eyes wide.

“Ojosama!” A noblewoman? Here? The shops were nice enough, but hardly anything he would expect a noblewoman to have an interest in — he looked back, seeing no one but a running man, and an elderly woman haggling with a shopkeeper over plums — Mugen was already looking over at Fuu, who appeared to be having some sort of attack, her face gone the red of ripe strawberries. What the — ?

The man skidded to a halt before them, clasping Fuu’s hands in his own as she stared at him. “My ojosama! I knew you’d come back to me!”

Jin could hear Mugen mumbling curses under his breath, his gray eyes knife blades as she stood there gaping up at the stranger, who was not at all attractive, with idiotic pretty hair, and a smarmy smile with way too many teeth that the ronin itched to smash into something, preferably some sort of public latrine — he gave a frustrated growl, low in his throat. Mugen broke off his cursing for a moment, as the stupid, stupid man continued to twitter at their Fuu, to dart a shocked glance at Jin. Louder than he’d thought, then. Dammit.

Shit.

Wait. Ojosama — ?