Post #2702502 in The Weight of Soul, a roleplay on RPG

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“Feeling better already, I assume?” Hélène bristles, though Miyoshi hardly flinches. Hélène Köhler is still a woman after all, he thinks, amused. She is an aroused and angry woman, and an angry woman, as the Kazetani heir is well aware, is a victim to her own devices, and is a source of profit to a level-headed gentleman who keeps his cool.

“Much better,” Miyoshi assures. He speaks placidly than indignantly, knowing that he would thus provoke her further. Her well-known perfume assails his nostrils, and he wonders if she powders her skin with the same fragrance. With an insolent smile, he makes a note to find out eventually.

He looks at her, at her fierce gaze and steady hands, and suddenly an odd memory leaps to his mind: receiving Higekiri at the height of his boyhood. Like the katana and other historic trifles--Helene’s reactions are also his to appraise and elevate.

Wealthy men often commissioned sculptures and paintings of beautiful women, but Miyoshi finds that lush lips and graceful bones are best in the flesh. He could use them, weaponize them, and fashion them to suit his own needs--and the German woman is but a pearl on his string. His escort’s usefulness, however. . .

His eyes fall to Claire’s waistcoat, its muted greys now the same scarlet as his clansmen’s camellia. Noting Claire’s wounds mechanically--the Kazetani assumes that whatever could disappear in a few month’s time could hardly be counted as violence. He corrects his last impression rapidly, as Claire’s wound slightly re-opens, leaving the taller man bashfully aware of his own vulnerabilities.

Miyoshi thinks: we were completely overwhelmed.

What the two men must look like to their female companions. The Spiritualist frowns. His mind shapes itself around his reality.

Despite hiring a bodyguard, spending thousands of francs, and making effort to appease Imperial war machines, Miyoshi is never able to assign worth to his House endeavors. He tries picturing himself in uniform, with a Guntō at his hip, but the picture seems absurd. Through his military training, he carried thoughts like Holy Shield for the Emperor, deep honour, and prideful Kusunoki, though his heart feels no sharper for them. There are many hours when he’s bleeding through his throat again, and it suddenly occurs to him that his suicidal ambitions might be frightfully obscene. The current moment is no exception.

Wordlessly, Miyoshi gestures Claire to follow as he makes a start to leave.

“Thank you for the way you’ve looked after us,” Miyoshi politely says to Amelia and Hélène. “Please join me for breakfast, I’ll reserve us a private table. I’m sure we can discuss the…the events of tonight in the morning. Until then, goodbye, Ms. Renard.” and with a tilt of his head, “And of course, Ms.Kohler.”

Miyoshi leans in to whisper a good night, lingering a moment longer to ensure that his own Douro Cologne Eau de Portugal would be remembered. Underpinned with labdanum, his scent is rather intense--engulfing Helene’s light florals in musk and leather. He seizes the opportunity manfully, as exordium to more exciting pleasures for a later time.

Amelia clears her throat, throwing Miyoshi and Hélène both a pointed look. She motions towards the door with a slight nod.

He entertains the Frenchwoman’s signal, and stirs from his place.

Finally strong enough to support himself, the Japanese man stands staring at Hélène's door, which is adorned with a lurid, painted handle. He pulls it with minor force, satisfied at the return of his motor skills. With Claire at his side, they take their departure, closing the door behind them.

Once again, they return to the familiar boundaries of a hallway of shadows. Underneath their feet, the train shifts, shrugs, and pulls.

. . . .

Within the hallway, the memory of Drusilla remains. Miyoshi’s blood swarms where she touched him, though his body, tempered by Kazetani training, will soothe it in time. With a tired feeling in his shoulders and eyelids slipping heavily over his eyes--the Spiritualist recedes into himself. Fifteen paces to their room, fifteen back, Miyoshi thinks, noting the distance it would take to efficiently return to their room from the opposite end of the hall.

The two Saniwa move carefully towards their chambers, with the American ensuring that they are not being followed. For the rest of the journey, the only sound is of men walking with minimal echoes. Their travel is marked by the sporadic and muted lights passing and receding, and Claire’s dogged breathing.

Upon reaching their destination, the Japanese man grips the doorknob.

With a soft tug, their carriage door clicks open, and he flicks on the light.

Miyoshi pauses.

Inside, Kimura Asagi had been lying on his bed and looking at the ceiling, trying to guess when his master would return. At the sound of Miyoshi’s footsteps, the Artifact starts, and gazes back at his master with some fixed and patient concern.

“Master,” he breathes.

There is a pause, shorter than the first. “Kimura,” Miyoshi responds, giving him a curt nod, before striding over to a suitcase hidden behind the bed, producing a gramophone, and setting “Träumerei” into a quiet spin. Then, looking up from Schumann, he surveys his new environment.

It isn’t much, Kimura criticizes, and gestures vaguely to the room.

They weren’t much either, Miyoshi mentally shrugs, referring to their German hosts. But this place is adequate.

I hate it.

You musn’t be like that, Kimura. They are but ever dutiful pawns. The room says as much. Bugs?

None. No devices. They are rude, but not suspicious too much.

See? Adequate.

His own room is as ugly as Hélène’s, though slightly roomier, and as consequence was much in demand; as a trade-off there is an ill-lit ceiling and minimalist fixtures that make the Joffre appear archaic. It might have been beautiful before the war, but it is currently an atrocious mix of styles, upholstery, and ill-colored woods. A cheerless electric spotlight bathes their ceiling in an otherworldly glare. Claire doesn’t seem to mind his carriage as much. Miyoshi, like his Artifact, is too exhausted to complain.

He seems tired enough, calm but tired, and his Artifact moves quickly to assist his needs. Kimura Asagi, who had been in the room for longer than his Saniwa, appears to be familiar with where amenities are stored. A minor search reveals that the Germans had neither prepared them coffee nor tea. With some frustration, Kimura remedies this by producing a handsome tea kit and brewing his master creature comforts. After passing tea to Miyoshi, the Artifact moves to his bedside. He opens his notebook, and begins coding messages to Rosalind and Yuuki, much to his Saniwa’s approval.

With Schumann playing lightly in the background and china hooked between his fingers, Miyoshi turns to Claire, and seats himself on his bed. A tin of Huntley & Palmers lie in his lap. He eats the biscuits one after another, all the ones shaped like pretzels, then the checkered ones, and finally the fig-filled ones.

“Claire,” the Kazetani commands, after nibbling the last of his confections.

“Huh.”

“Let me guide you through treating the corruption.”

Miyoshi looks dispirited, and his voice lacks its usual theatrical edge. He gives a quick flick of his head, gesturing for Claire to kneel. The latter succumbs with some reluctance.

The bodyguard sighs, and reaches into his breast pocket to produce a bottle of oil and a cigarette box. Mumbling beneath his breath, he slots a cigarette between his lips, lights it, and prepares the holy water next. The Irishman rubs the oil on his wounds, and presses his hands together in an act of atonement.

Then, Miyoshi, quite sensibly, begins speaking to Claire as he would a Catholic priest, no doubt part of his worldly Spiritualist training.

“Through this holy anointing may the Lord in his love and mercy, help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit,” the Spiritualist recites, dabbing a spot of oil on his bodyguard’s forehead.

"You never answered me Mouse," Claire states, distracted and eying the man's abdomen, "how badly did she hurt you?"

“Pay attention,” the Spiritualist says crossly. “I am fine. My body can heal its own.” It isn’t the truth, but he doesn’t feel like explaining.

Perhaps Claire thought that he looked at Miyoshi casually enough, but evidently, his own features informed the Spiritualist otherwise. The latter’s own patience slipping, he stares at Claire for a long time, speaking only when guiding counsel. Through it all, he maintains an air of tranquil assumption, ignoring Claire’s furtive looks of concern. Seated, Claire appears rather childlike, hunched below the Spiritualist’s lithe frame. He looks up at his friend with his signature brand of innocent, frank curiosity that Miyoshi finds absolutely frustrating, but difficult to abhor. Frankly, the Spiritualist is simply uncomfortable with sincere, emotional openness, and seems wholeheartedly focused on ridding his subject of spiritual corruption. His own eyes are firmly planted over the anointed spot on Claire’s forehead.

“May the Lord who frees you from sin,” he circles the blessed oil on Claire’s hands, “save you and raise you up.”

The smell of myrrh and tobacco floods the Spiritualist's nostrils, and Claire looks up at him, a new unlit cigarette trembling at his fingertips.

“God our healer in this time of sickness you have come to bless with your grace. Restore him to health and strength, make him graceful and ready to embrace your will. Grant this through Christ our Lord.”

Miyoshi finishes with a final trace over the afflicted area, voice powerful but lacking the exaltation of a true follower.

“That should do it.” he says with a satisfied hum, nonchalantly reaching for his warm beverage.

“Aren’t you still bleeding?” Claire tries again, only to earn him a second frown.

“No harm done,” the Spiritualist says with some sharpness, his British accent growing more prominent with his irritation.

In the midst of Claire, certain common ideas often became inexpressible, only because Claire is wholly opposed to Miyoshi’s fatalistic philosophies, and therefore immune to his reasoning. Yet, Miyoshi has always known that Claire fears for him, much like his own Artifacts. Although the Kazetani heir carries a carefully manicured disposition, Claire senses instability in the shorter man. And some danger that naturally comes with the Kazetani lineage.

“She said,” Claire bravely starts, voice lowering. “Dru called you a ‘weak pillar.’ I never knew her to be a liar, but are you really gonna stay standing after this?”

“What do you mean.” Miyoshi testily says, taking more seriously the very real and persistent menace that is Claire’s unfailing dedication.

“How much longer can you be Kazetani heir if you’re still taking drugs, still doing all of these things that you keep secret,” Claire stands abruptly upright, “nobody outside of the House knew about this mission. Dru. Who is dead. Is after you. Someone raised her, someone powerful has it out for you.”

For a moment, the air around them tenses, though Miyoshi efficiently dispels the feeling.

“Goodness,” Miyoshi says, eyes closing with some relief and a carefully placed chuckle. “Is this what it’s about? Be a dear Claire. Many people have it out for me. You of all people should know.”

“You’re avoiding the answer Mouse,” Claire retorts, “it’s not Joe Schmoe trying to kill the great Miyoshi Kazetani. This is someone who specifically knew you were here and I want answers. Either it’s someone in the House trying to off you or we’re facing an even greater threat. Why kill you and not me huh? Or Rosalind?”

His own calm is wearing thin, and Miyoshi finds himself becoming increasingly more pointed and unpleasant. Though he’d once made his own subtle but unmistakable passes at Claire’s naivete--the Irishman had been the only one to snare him this evening, and the Spiritualist knows that gratuitous cruelty would make for a magnanimous escape. He changes his strategy, and meets Claire’s eyes in the same way that a schoolteacher would placate a small child.

“Bully for that. Perhaps it is my own father? With this kind of thing, you can never tell, you know.” Miyoshi says. It is a baroque suggestion, but there is nothing objectionable about it. It is on this occasion, he is sure, that the elder Kazetani's "well connectedness" could effectively be used against him. A known rebel--Miyoshi, despite his heritage, is not above being assassinated by his own father.

His words strike a chord.

The air stretches tight, and Claire's jaw trembles. At the sight of Claire's response, Miyoshi fights to keep his aristocratic face from gleaming with pleasure. The Irishman stops again, unable to form words. The latter's eyes continue looking for other places in the room to steady himself on (including Kimura Asagi who proves to be no help) before he finally settles on the floor.

“Maybe your father has his reasons,” he finally replies, turning toward his bed.

“So you agree then,” Miyoshi slowly says, his face carefully impassive. He does not make himself an easy opponent.

“I almost died for you, Mouse,” he says, whirling around, bewildered at how little effect any of his previous words had on his friend. His body goes numb, however, at the sight of the Spiritualist’s lack of expression. The latter’s lips are sealed in a thin line, his posture uncharacteristically rigid. Miyoshi isn’t the type to yell or shout when angered; instead, he chills.

When Miyoshi finally speaks, his words cut like Higekiri, with absolute ruthlessness and precision.

“You almost died for Luck Gandor as well--more often too.” he coolly says. “You don’t owe me anything. As I am no true agent of my father, you are not beholden to my life. You can leave me dead if you wish.”

He sets down his tea with a loud clink before rising altogether, gathering friction at his heels.

“Good night. I am so sorry to have disturbed you.” he manages, his voice poisonous but tightly controlled. He does not sound sorry, but both men know that Miyoshi Kazetani’s apologies, truthful or not, are hard-earned. Regardless, the espionage agent makes no attempt to hide his hostility towards the Irishman, and retires to his side of the room without so much of another word. With deft movements of his fingers, Schumann is silenced, the song fades, and the room is grotesque once more. Miyoshi sheds his immaculate suit. His expression is completely closed off.

Fighting Claire was a decision he strategically made. The argument would make for a more obedient bodyguard later, Miyoshi thinks. He will feel guilty, and he will press less.

With some assistance from Kimura Asagi, he slips into an expensive jinbei. The Artifact acts as if he hadn’t witnessed his master’s tirade, but casts Claire a curt, arctic glance. He knows the truth, however. Intellectually, at least, Kimura understands the purpose behind the battle. There were greater issues to address, namely, the drugs. . .

His eyes travel to Miyoshi's clavicle.

. . .and wounds. The Artifact is careful to avoids touching his master’s skin, but briefly acknowledges where Drusilla had made her mark. The area is a light blue now, fading in thanks to Miyoshi’s spiritual prowess.

Catching his Artifact’s lingering gaze, Miyoshi pulls his jinbei’s collar firmly closed. There is a tightness to the gesture that Kimura recognizes as anger and perhaps annoyance.

“Ah, master, I’m sorry--” Kimura starts, but stops when his Saniwa offers him a haunting, placid smile.

“Goodnight, Kimura,” Miyoshi says with some finality. His eyes are empty. He does not hold his smile for long.

“Good...Goodnight,” the Artifact responds, shaken, his words barely audible.

There is some loneliness in his Saniwa’s gaze that Kimura doesn’t dare dwell on. In some atavistic part of his brain, he knows how his master must feel. An old anxiety swirls in his mind again, and he finds himself at an ancient loss.

Reclining on his bed, he listens to the rise and fall of Miyoshi’s breathing, to the beating of his own heart, and to the silence that reinstalls itself after all life ceases to exist.

. . . .

Miyoshi knows that Kimura Asagi isn’t asleep, and is listening to him. It’s been this way since as long as he can remember. Kimura watching. Waiting. Listening. But it doesn’t matter what Kimura hears. In the morning, he would reprimand his Artifact for a larger grievance, nevermind his own "spat" with Claire.

They were being watched today, or rather, listened to, Miyoshi is certain. There was a man seated behind Hélène, speaking to no one in particular. Although the man had been facing away from them, his body language gave him away. He was gone before the train pulled from the station. Neither Claire nor Kimura seemed to have noticed. Miyoshi curses Kimura Asagi’s loss of focus. In the Artifact’s concern for his Saniwa, he kept track of less. No. This wasn’t Kimura’s fault. It was his own.

Who was the man? Judging by how spooked Hélène looked--something had occurred while he was absent. Did the man return? Had the women seen him? Would Hélène speak? Would Amelia let her? Would he ask Amelia?

No.

The question is--would Amelia trust in him?

He thinks of the knifelike Frenchwoman. Unreadable eyes. A manicured appearance. In his brief moments of meeting her, he recognizes similarities between her psychology and his own. She wouldn’t easily give if it meant that she had nothing to take. The thought that Amelia might try to dominate his authority on the mission would normally have angered him, but he recognizes her manner and ability as helpful to his goals. Truthfully, he is glad she isn’t as transparent as Hélène, lest he’d have to seduce her too to test her predictability. Intellectually, he does not think her beneath him.

No matter. He would work around her. On his own, be it through violating Richter, Neumann, Hélène--or all three of them--he’d get to the bottom of their spy. Whether he and Drusilla are related, he would find out.

There are only three answers, and depending on the course of his interrogations, one would surface to be the truth. It wouldn’t matter for long regardless. The mission ends in Vienna.

From the folds of his jinbei, he palms a small omamori, and sleeps with it close to his skin. Its very smell is like that of a corpse, a tomb, the heavy inertia of soul. Always, he carries it beside him; it is hidden, but ever-present. Unlike most omamori, it promises death.

Gammond would die tomorrow, and Miyoshi is glad.

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xA/N: I was fed some lines by Eva for Claire; she allowed me full control over his character for this scene as well. Therefore, this doesn't count as a collaboration post. Additionally, Alligot also fed me a line for an interaction with Amelia.

Snippet #2702502

located in The Joffre, a part of The Weight of Soul, one of the many universes on RPG.

Setting

Characters Present

Footnotes