Later that same night, after Nobunaga had finally left her, Naomi had stayed within the confines of her chambers for as long as she could stand it, but sleep was elusive, and so it was at about two hours past midnight that she left the premises, unsure where she was going but knowing only that she needed to be away. Her feet were quiet over the ground, and she knew well the routes and paths the guards took. If she didnāt want to be seen, she wouldnāt be. She could leave, and nobody would know. She could be out of the whole city by morning if she wanted to.
She was no stupid girl who zoned out when the men spoke of strategy. She knew who Nobunagaās enemies were, knew things about him that many of them would pay handsomely for. She could flee to one of them, sell her secrets to the highest bidder, and live somewhere, quiet and alone, on her earnings, safe and content. It was a dream so tantalizing she sometimes almost forgot how impossible it was. He would find herāof that, she had no doubt. Naomi did not fear dying. She had never seemed to have that fear, perhaps because she had never really seen herself as truly alive to begin with. But she did fear, in the darkest parts of her heart, what he would do when he found her. Because he was far too cruel a man to simply let her die, that she understood very well.
More even than the fear, though, what stilled her plans to flee was the same thing that always hadāher rage. She carried it with her, locked deep within the prison of her black, frozen heart, nurturing there the tiny flame that she knew would one day become the blaze that consumed her, once and for all. But she had to be patient. Until the day came when letting it burn would actually achieve something. In the end, really, Nobunaga meant nothing to her at all. He tormented her, made her body itself into a prison and her dwelling into a cage. He pinned her in place with power and fear and menace, but every one of those feeling paled next to the anger. Even the fear would not stop her, when the time came.
The time to kill Sakaki.
This, she had told herself for so long. But it would appear that while her heart was a carefully-guarded ice chamber, as dark and poisonous as that of any yakuza, her body could only take so much before it started to break down, to tremble and ache in terrible places and beg her to do something to relieve her own pain. Healing factor or not, wounds from that man did not simply disappearāshe could feel the bruises forming on her, purplish-red splotches beneath her heavy kimono, other spots raw and once-bleeding from places heād bitten or scratched. Those had scabbed over, and sheād cleansed herself of the worst of her own blood, of course, but the wounds were still tender, and she dare not stretch too far in any given direction. There was an angry red scratch running from her cheekbone down her throat, disappearing beneath the neckline of her kimono before ending just below her clavicle. It throbbed uncomfortably with every beat of her heart, a reminder that sometimes being alive in and of itself was a painful thing to do.
Something stung at the back of her eyes as she took a better survey of her own condition, and she wondered for once with alarming clarity how sheād allowed herself to come to this. How she could have known this was going to happen, and stepped willingly forward into it, or as willing as a sold woman could be, all for the chance at something she knew would kill her. And then she remembered her brotherās face, and she him for taking that from her, hated her body for its mortal weakness, and most of all, just hated herself for everything she had become and would never be. She was a terrible, wicked, ugly person, no matter what her face looked like, and she couldnāt even bring herself to try being anything else.
Because the memory of that day held her still.
Swallowing thickly, she lowered herself to sit by the riverbank, drawing in a shaky breath but refusing to let herself cry. She had become wicked so that she would no longer be weakānow was hardly the time to let that be for naught. For wicked she would always be. Terrible she would always be. Weakness was a choice, one she refused to make.
Somehow, in the godforsaken hour of the night, Yujin found himself awake, staring up at the ceiling of the home he shared with his siblings. He stared, trying to collect his thoughts as they spilled into one message: wake up. He sighed softly, turning his head to the side to spot his brother, sound asleep, and his sister, clutching onto his arm. He smiled sleepily, peeling the girl from his arm as gently as he could, before blinking slowly. He could still feel sleep beckoning him to return to it, however; his muscles were burning for a little movement. He needed to stretch them, to allow them the air they wanted, and the only way to remedy that was to move. With a tired sigh, he sat up, moving as carefully as he could (considering his size) so that he did not disturb his sleeping siblings.
For a moment, he wondered how he even came to be here, with them. They had tried to kill him once, and now, here they were sleeping under the same roof. They were his family now, and he wasn't sure how to make due with that. She was a human, and he was a Hanyou, and himself a full-blooded Oni. He almost laughed, remembering a comment he heard once that had been made. It had turned his sister a shade of red he wasn't sure human's were capable of, and his brother had merely frowned. Though Masurao does look older than Tatsuki, and he is, a woman once commented on the lovely family Yujin had. At first, it took a moment for the information to settle in, and it finally hit him when the woman asked if Tatsuki was his and if Masurao their son.
The Oni had laughed almost the entire day, much to the chagrin of his siblings. He shook his head, dismissing the thoughts from his mind as he slipped out of the home. The night air was cool, and crisp. It felt like silken sheets were caressing him, enveloping him in their embrace against his roughened and heated skin. It was a welcoming gesture, and he wished that nights were more like this one. He blinked as he noticed the change of scenery, frowning only lightly until he came upon the riverbank. He narrowed his eyes, trying to see the figure off in the distance, but even his eyes could not see that far. He decided to leave the figure alone, not wanting to alert whomever it was to his presence, however; something familiar caused him to take a closer look. A small smirk found its way upon his face as he stared down at Naomi.
"Nights disturbing you too?" he questioned, seating himself next to her. He was about to say more on the subject, but something caught his eye, and he frowned. She'd never sported a scar like that before, and if he knew anything about his former employer, it was that he didn't like things marred. Especially if those things belonged to him. "Get into a fight with a cat?" he asked, his tone light, though there was a light hint of concern. For what people believed him to be, he wasn't just that, and he could have his sentimental moments. He didn't choose when they surfaced, however; over the years of being with them, he had learned that it wasn't such a bad thing as he was made to believe. One just had to apply it right.
Of all the luck. She was out here, in the middle of the night, not I any sort of state for company, and company had found her all the same. Not just anyone, either. The initial question drew a breathy snort from her, mostly an ironic sound, because she was finding it difficult to be amused right now. To her creditāor perhaps her detriment, thoughāshe didnāt look that different from usual, save perhaps the slight, nearly unnoticeable tremor in her limbs and the obvious wound on her face. It, too, was scabbing over, and would likely be completely healed within the hour, no trace of it left on her person. She supposed that was the benefit of oneās concubine being a hanyou, rather than a human. She would never dare to presume to be owed what an oni woman knew was her due in such a position, but she wouldnāt simply break when struck, either. Sheād also last longer, in terms of youth.
And he never did seem to grow tired of her. Her instructors would be so proud.
āNothing so harmless,ā she replied, though she said nothing else, at first, merely lifting her chin as if daring him to even try asking the question. It was hardly his business, after all, and she did not feel much like telling anyone. There was too much shame in it for her. Just because she had chosen it didnāt mean she felt no embarrassment about what sheād been reduced to. The slight motion shifted the neck of her kimono, though, making visible half a row of teeth marks at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. She was unaware of that, though, having missed the injury in her own examination earlier. She rarely bothered to catalogue anything not needing treatment or concealing, and she hadnāt planned on needing to conceal anything this time.
āAnd yourself?ā she inquired, attempting to turn the topic away from her. It was far less elegant than she would have usually been capable of, but right at the moment, Naomi wasnāt feeling her usual self. She felt like a raw nerve, vulnerable, exposed, and quite likely to feel pain if prodded the wrong way. āI would have picked you to sleep like a rock, somehow.ā She clung to the normality of such a remark, hoping for her own sake that heād just leave it alone.
Yujin quirked an amused eyebrow, the amusement glimmering through his eyes, however; as quickly as it appeared, it disappeared. His eyes narrowed his eyes, trying to fix them on a particular spot and he felt a slight tremor roll through him. There were teeth marks on her. He wasn't a fool, though many questioned his intellect, and he knew her occupation as Nobunaga's Geisha, however; he did not know her actual duties to the man. Nobunaga wasn't one to care about tradition. Geisha were not whores, but Nobunaga could make them into anything he wanted with just a wave of his hand. And, perhaps, it was that information that he knew of Nobunaga, that infuriated Yujin. If only for a bit.
It subsided as quickly as it came, and he shook his head, instead choosing not to further question her. If she wanted to tell him, she would. He would leave that up to her, and by the way her posture shifted, she was challenging him to do so. But he wouldn't, and instead, turned to gaze out across the lake. "Sleep? What is this sleep you speak of? Didn't you know, Oni doesn't sleep. And as for a rock," he stated, turning to face her with a grin. "You must have me mistaken for Mao-Mao," he concluded, turning his attention back to the lake. It had a sort of innocent beauty to it, the way it reflected the moonlight and captured the brightness of the stars.
"So tell me, have you figured out what you are trying to convince the world you are?" he stated, lowering himself on his back, and folding his hands behind his head. He, of course, referenced to the last conversation they had. "So far, Oni is convinced that you are trying to convince the world that you exist. Perhaps not as you are now, but as something you will be, eventually," he stated, his eyes focusing on her through the corners. His head remained forward, as forward as it could be, however; his eyes never left her form. It was hard to tell what he meant by that, and perhaps he meant nothing at all by it. But he always knew what he meant.
āNot the world,ā she said softly, lowering her head slightly. Her hair, loose as it was, fell forward over her shoulder to obscure her face, and for a moment, she studied the hands folded daintily in her lap. Even now, when she had no idea what to do or what she wanted, her training came though and saved her. It made her sit with her back straight, her hands perfectly folded. When somewhere inside herself she felt like just collapsing and succumbing to her weakness, these things she had been taught, her tutoring, kept her strong. It was almost funnyāpeople surely believed geisha to be delicate women, prone to breaking and shattering, like glass or flowers. But rather, she had been taught to weather anything and everything with the same mannerisms, the same perfect grace. To make even the hardest things look as though they were easy.
She was surprised she had answered him at all, but maybe it was only that talking was keeping her from thinking of the things she didnāt want to dwell upon. She had a nasty habit of dwelling, and she knew it. āThere is only one person who needs to know I exist, and reminding him will probably be the last thing I ever do.ā She raised her head then, her hair falling back against her diaphragm, to join the rest pooled on the ground behind her. āBut not yet. Itās not time yet.ā She smiled at him, but there was no mirth or happiness or cheer in it at all. Only cold certainty.
āAs for the world, wellā¦ I suppose I donāt care what the world thinks of me, in the end. I only need to remain in it for so long, after all.ā Truthfully, there was one thing she needed to be thought for a while longer, the thing that at the very least was keeping her alive long enough to die. āAll I need to fool the world into thinking is that Iām beautiful, that thereās a reason to bother with me at all, and itās not the most difficult deception, really. They see what they want to, and I make it easy. Thatās all.ā Sheād been learning how for most of her life, after all.
Not the world? He was confused, who was she trying to convince then? The answer, however, startled him slightly. He wasn't expecting an answer, at least not one of that depth. It appears that, no matter who, someone had wronged her. Life seemed to be funny that way. It did not matter who or what you were, life was certainly going to screw you over one way or another. That, he was certain of. She was spared no sympathy from life, or so it seemed. He sighed softly through his nose, tearing his gaze away from her for the moment. It was a little sad, thinking about it, and hearing it that way only intensified the feeling.
"Fool the world into thinking you are beautiful," he stated, repeating her words and rolling them around his tongue. "I'm afraid you're going about it all wrong then. If you want to convince the world you are beautiful, you need a little more color to your face," he stated, having already sat up in his spot. His hand, however, had smeared a bit of mud along the side of her face, drawing a spiral upon her cheek. He flashed her a small smile, though there was something a little sad behind it. Truly, no one, not even her, deserved to think of life that way. He sighed once more though. When had he become so sentimental to plights such as these? He couldn't remember, even if it didn't seem like a plight.
"That, is a shame, really. You should want to exist in this world, even if it is not kind to you. Existing is the only true weapon we have against those we hold a grudge to. It allows them to see that by existing, they have not won. That we have continued to thrive, to live where they thought we to be broken. It destroys them, but I suppose retribution is different for us all," he stated. He did not know her circumstances for which she desired to do what she did, and he would not pry. That was not his place, and it was a touchy subject, as far as he could tell. He only wished that people did not have to suffer as they had.
Her brows drew together when he touched her face, and she had to fight very hard not to flinch away. But as always, her training kicked in, and she remained perfectly still, blinking bright blue eyes in confusion at the sensation of mud on her face. There was nothing harmful about it, to be sure, but that didnāt mean it made sense. The smile she gave him was brittle, but there might have been at least a little truth in it. āIām afraid my existence is not nearly enough retribution for this crime. Perhaps, if I were the only one heād hurtā¦ but I am not, and a life demands a life in return.ā Pressing her lips firmly together, she shook her head. Sheād said too much already. Perhaps it was because she could never speak freely that the temptation was too great. Perhaps it was only that she felt weaker now than she had in a long time. Perhaps it was only the false safety of the dark.
She had best leave now, before her tongue betrayed her further. Standing, she searched his eyes for a moment with her own, folding her arms into her kimono sleeves and inclining her torso slightly, a voluntary gesture of gratitude. Beyond that, though, she did not speak, and turned instead to leave, trailing her way back to the estate to enter the way she had leftāunseen, unheard, unknown. Her fingers touched briefly the spiral of earth on her cheek, and she had the strange thought that sheād never been more relieved to be told she wasnāt beautiful.
She was no stupid girl who zoned out when the men spoke of strategy. She knew who Nobunagaās enemies were, knew things about him that many of them would pay handsomely for. She could flee to one of them, sell her secrets to the highest bidder, and live somewhere, quiet and alone, on her earnings, safe and content. It was a dream so tantalizing she sometimes almost forgot how impossible it was. He would find herāof that, she had no doubt. Naomi did not fear dying. She had never seemed to have that fear, perhaps because she had never really seen herself as truly alive to begin with. But she did fear, in the darkest parts of her heart, what he would do when he found her. Because he was far too cruel a man to simply let her die, that she understood very well.
More even than the fear, though, what stilled her plans to flee was the same thing that always hadāher rage. She carried it with her, locked deep within the prison of her black, frozen heart, nurturing there the tiny flame that she knew would one day become the blaze that consumed her, once and for all. But she had to be patient. Until the day came when letting it burn would actually achieve something. In the end, really, Nobunaga meant nothing to her at all. He tormented her, made her body itself into a prison and her dwelling into a cage. He pinned her in place with power and fear and menace, but every one of those feeling paled next to the anger. Even the fear would not stop her, when the time came.
The time to kill Sakaki.
This, she had told herself for so long. But it would appear that while her heart was a carefully-guarded ice chamber, as dark and poisonous as that of any yakuza, her body could only take so much before it started to break down, to tremble and ache in terrible places and beg her to do something to relieve her own pain. Healing factor or not, wounds from that man did not simply disappearāshe could feel the bruises forming on her, purplish-red splotches beneath her heavy kimono, other spots raw and once-bleeding from places heād bitten or scratched. Those had scabbed over, and sheād cleansed herself of the worst of her own blood, of course, but the wounds were still tender, and she dare not stretch too far in any given direction. There was an angry red scratch running from her cheekbone down her throat, disappearing beneath the neckline of her kimono before ending just below her clavicle. It throbbed uncomfortably with every beat of her heart, a reminder that sometimes being alive in and of itself was a painful thing to do.
Something stung at the back of her eyes as she took a better survey of her own condition, and she wondered for once with alarming clarity how sheād allowed herself to come to this. How she could have known this was going to happen, and stepped willingly forward into it, or as willing as a sold woman could be, all for the chance at something she knew would kill her. And then she remembered her brotherās face, and she him for taking that from her, hated her body for its mortal weakness, and most of all, just hated herself for everything she had become and would never be. She was a terrible, wicked, ugly person, no matter what her face looked like, and she couldnāt even bring herself to try being anything else.
Because the memory of that day held her still.
Swallowing thickly, she lowered herself to sit by the riverbank, drawing in a shaky breath but refusing to let herself cry. She had become wicked so that she would no longer be weakānow was hardly the time to let that be for naught. For wicked she would always be. Terrible she would always be. Weakness was a choice, one she refused to make.
Somehow, in the godforsaken hour of the night, Yujin found himself awake, staring up at the ceiling of the home he shared with his siblings. He stared, trying to collect his thoughts as they spilled into one message: wake up. He sighed softly, turning his head to the side to spot his brother, sound asleep, and his sister, clutching onto his arm. He smiled sleepily, peeling the girl from his arm as gently as he could, before blinking slowly. He could still feel sleep beckoning him to return to it, however; his muscles were burning for a little movement. He needed to stretch them, to allow them the air they wanted, and the only way to remedy that was to move. With a tired sigh, he sat up, moving as carefully as he could (considering his size) so that he did not disturb his sleeping siblings.
For a moment, he wondered how he even came to be here, with them. They had tried to kill him once, and now, here they were sleeping under the same roof. They were his family now, and he wasn't sure how to make due with that. She was a human, and he was a Hanyou, and himself a full-blooded Oni. He almost laughed, remembering a comment he heard once that had been made. It had turned his sister a shade of red he wasn't sure human's were capable of, and his brother had merely frowned. Though Masurao does look older than Tatsuki, and he is, a woman once commented on the lovely family Yujin had. At first, it took a moment for the information to settle in, and it finally hit him when the woman asked if Tatsuki was his and if Masurao their son.
The Oni had laughed almost the entire day, much to the chagrin of his siblings. He shook his head, dismissing the thoughts from his mind as he slipped out of the home. The night air was cool, and crisp. It felt like silken sheets were caressing him, enveloping him in their embrace against his roughened and heated skin. It was a welcoming gesture, and he wished that nights were more like this one. He blinked as he noticed the change of scenery, frowning only lightly until he came upon the riverbank. He narrowed his eyes, trying to see the figure off in the distance, but even his eyes could not see that far. He decided to leave the figure alone, not wanting to alert whomever it was to his presence, however; something familiar caused him to take a closer look. A small smirk found its way upon his face as he stared down at Naomi.
"Nights disturbing you too?" he questioned, seating himself next to her. He was about to say more on the subject, but something caught his eye, and he frowned. She'd never sported a scar like that before, and if he knew anything about his former employer, it was that he didn't like things marred. Especially if those things belonged to him. "Get into a fight with a cat?" he asked, his tone light, though there was a light hint of concern. For what people believed him to be, he wasn't just that, and he could have his sentimental moments. He didn't choose when they surfaced, however; over the years of being with them, he had learned that it wasn't such a bad thing as he was made to believe. One just had to apply it right.
Of all the luck. She was out here, in the middle of the night, not I any sort of state for company, and company had found her all the same. Not just anyone, either. The initial question drew a breathy snort from her, mostly an ironic sound, because she was finding it difficult to be amused right now. To her creditāor perhaps her detriment, thoughāshe didnāt look that different from usual, save perhaps the slight, nearly unnoticeable tremor in her limbs and the obvious wound on her face. It, too, was scabbing over, and would likely be completely healed within the hour, no trace of it left on her person. She supposed that was the benefit of oneās concubine being a hanyou, rather than a human. She would never dare to presume to be owed what an oni woman knew was her due in such a position, but she wouldnāt simply break when struck, either. Sheād also last longer, in terms of youth.
And he never did seem to grow tired of her. Her instructors would be so proud.
āNothing so harmless,ā she replied, though she said nothing else, at first, merely lifting her chin as if daring him to even try asking the question. It was hardly his business, after all, and she did not feel much like telling anyone. There was too much shame in it for her. Just because she had chosen it didnāt mean she felt no embarrassment about what sheād been reduced to. The slight motion shifted the neck of her kimono, though, making visible half a row of teeth marks at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. She was unaware of that, though, having missed the injury in her own examination earlier. She rarely bothered to catalogue anything not needing treatment or concealing, and she hadnāt planned on needing to conceal anything this time.
āAnd yourself?ā she inquired, attempting to turn the topic away from her. It was far less elegant than she would have usually been capable of, but right at the moment, Naomi wasnāt feeling her usual self. She felt like a raw nerve, vulnerable, exposed, and quite likely to feel pain if prodded the wrong way. āI would have picked you to sleep like a rock, somehow.ā She clung to the normality of such a remark, hoping for her own sake that heād just leave it alone.
Yujin quirked an amused eyebrow, the amusement glimmering through his eyes, however; as quickly as it appeared, it disappeared. His eyes narrowed his eyes, trying to fix them on a particular spot and he felt a slight tremor roll through him. There were teeth marks on her. He wasn't a fool, though many questioned his intellect, and he knew her occupation as Nobunaga's Geisha, however; he did not know her actual duties to the man. Nobunaga wasn't one to care about tradition. Geisha were not whores, but Nobunaga could make them into anything he wanted with just a wave of his hand. And, perhaps, it was that information that he knew of Nobunaga, that infuriated Yujin. If only for a bit.
It subsided as quickly as it came, and he shook his head, instead choosing not to further question her. If she wanted to tell him, she would. He would leave that up to her, and by the way her posture shifted, she was challenging him to do so. But he wouldn't, and instead, turned to gaze out across the lake. "Sleep? What is this sleep you speak of? Didn't you know, Oni doesn't sleep. And as for a rock," he stated, turning to face her with a grin. "You must have me mistaken for Mao-Mao," he concluded, turning his attention back to the lake. It had a sort of innocent beauty to it, the way it reflected the moonlight and captured the brightness of the stars.
"So tell me, have you figured out what you are trying to convince the world you are?" he stated, lowering himself on his back, and folding his hands behind his head. He, of course, referenced to the last conversation they had. "So far, Oni is convinced that you are trying to convince the world that you exist. Perhaps not as you are now, but as something you will be, eventually," he stated, his eyes focusing on her through the corners. His head remained forward, as forward as it could be, however; his eyes never left her form. It was hard to tell what he meant by that, and perhaps he meant nothing at all by it. But he always knew what he meant.
āNot the world,ā she said softly, lowering her head slightly. Her hair, loose as it was, fell forward over her shoulder to obscure her face, and for a moment, she studied the hands folded daintily in her lap. Even now, when she had no idea what to do or what she wanted, her training came though and saved her. It made her sit with her back straight, her hands perfectly folded. When somewhere inside herself she felt like just collapsing and succumbing to her weakness, these things she had been taught, her tutoring, kept her strong. It was almost funnyāpeople surely believed geisha to be delicate women, prone to breaking and shattering, like glass or flowers. But rather, she had been taught to weather anything and everything with the same mannerisms, the same perfect grace. To make even the hardest things look as though they were easy.
She was surprised she had answered him at all, but maybe it was only that talking was keeping her from thinking of the things she didnāt want to dwell upon. She had a nasty habit of dwelling, and she knew it. āThere is only one person who needs to know I exist, and reminding him will probably be the last thing I ever do.ā She raised her head then, her hair falling back against her diaphragm, to join the rest pooled on the ground behind her. āBut not yet. Itās not time yet.ā She smiled at him, but there was no mirth or happiness or cheer in it at all. Only cold certainty.
āAs for the world, wellā¦ I suppose I donāt care what the world thinks of me, in the end. I only need to remain in it for so long, after all.ā Truthfully, there was one thing she needed to be thought for a while longer, the thing that at the very least was keeping her alive long enough to die. āAll I need to fool the world into thinking is that Iām beautiful, that thereās a reason to bother with me at all, and itās not the most difficult deception, really. They see what they want to, and I make it easy. Thatās all.ā Sheād been learning how for most of her life, after all.
Not the world? He was confused, who was she trying to convince then? The answer, however, startled him slightly. He wasn't expecting an answer, at least not one of that depth. It appears that, no matter who, someone had wronged her. Life seemed to be funny that way. It did not matter who or what you were, life was certainly going to screw you over one way or another. That, he was certain of. She was spared no sympathy from life, or so it seemed. He sighed softly through his nose, tearing his gaze away from her for the moment. It was a little sad, thinking about it, and hearing it that way only intensified the feeling.
"Fool the world into thinking you are beautiful," he stated, repeating her words and rolling them around his tongue. "I'm afraid you're going about it all wrong then. If you want to convince the world you are beautiful, you need a little more color to your face," he stated, having already sat up in his spot. His hand, however, had smeared a bit of mud along the side of her face, drawing a spiral upon her cheek. He flashed her a small smile, though there was something a little sad behind it. Truly, no one, not even her, deserved to think of life that way. He sighed once more though. When had he become so sentimental to plights such as these? He couldn't remember, even if it didn't seem like a plight.
"That, is a shame, really. You should want to exist in this world, even if it is not kind to you. Existing is the only true weapon we have against those we hold a grudge to. It allows them to see that by existing, they have not won. That we have continued to thrive, to live where they thought we to be broken. It destroys them, but I suppose retribution is different for us all," he stated. He did not know her circumstances for which she desired to do what she did, and he would not pry. That was not his place, and it was a touchy subject, as far as he could tell. He only wished that people did not have to suffer as they had.
Her brows drew together when he touched her face, and she had to fight very hard not to flinch away. But as always, her training kicked in, and she remained perfectly still, blinking bright blue eyes in confusion at the sensation of mud on her face. There was nothing harmful about it, to be sure, but that didnāt mean it made sense. The smile she gave him was brittle, but there might have been at least a little truth in it. āIām afraid my existence is not nearly enough retribution for this crime. Perhaps, if I were the only one heād hurtā¦ but I am not, and a life demands a life in return.ā Pressing her lips firmly together, she shook her head. Sheād said too much already. Perhaps it was because she could never speak freely that the temptation was too great. Perhaps it was only that she felt weaker now than she had in a long time. Perhaps it was only the false safety of the dark.
She had best leave now, before her tongue betrayed her further. Standing, she searched his eyes for a moment with her own, folding her arms into her kimono sleeves and inclining her torso slightly, a voluntary gesture of gratitude. Beyond that, though, she did not speak, and turned instead to leave, trailing her way back to the estate to enter the way she had leftāunseen, unheard, unknown. Her fingers touched briefly the spiral of earth on her cheek, and she had the strange thought that sheād never been more relieved to be told she wasnāt beautiful.