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[meteorrains]

[It seemed as if the world was spinning impossibly fast, twirling rapidly around it's axis in such a way that made time seem to move much quicker than average. Somehow, without truly realizing it as he had lived it, the entirely day had passed within the blink of an eye. Party after party, all which absolutely required his attendance. Each with a multitude of people who had not seen in years, all welcoming him home, all congratulating him on leading their army to victory. All praising him for managing to make it through a nasty war which had claimed many lives unscathed.

Learning that he was being gifted his own household located in the city as a present from his father had come just as dinner was about to begin, everyone raising a glass and cheering as the news was announced. He had nodded in acceptance, had thanked his father profusely for this grace and generosity, had listened to endless speeches of how lucky he was to have such a noble and wealthy family.

All he wanted in the entire world was a soft place to lay his head, to sleep knowing that peace had fallen over the land, that despite the previous years of suffering, he was finally safe.

Slipping his shoes off, he placed them upon the mat directly inside the door, closing it behind him and moving further into the house his father had chosen. It was well decorated, tasteful and bright, perfect for someone who would soon be searching for a wife. His chamber was easy enough to locate, the door slide back into place carefully. Each garment was peeled from his body slowly, until nothing the pants remained. Something cracked along his spine as he moved, muscled sore and stiff and for once, he wished he had stayed at his fathers estate. At least there he would be able to take a warm bath, or have one of his fathers servants message the area for him.

Sighing softly, he lifted a hand to rub gently at his neck, stretching slightly, before resuming the motion, trying to ease away the ache.]

Comments

here. have a book

[lostheart]

[Her name was Willow. Once upon a time, the way all good stories start, it had been something else. Something else that had fit a wispy, barefoot farmer's daughter that wore her hair loose and believed in promises made by a thready boy with a heart much bigger than his thin body. But war had come and the thready boy had left and then war had spread and touched her village with its reaching fingers, leaving only ash in its wake. The teacher that had spirited her away to the capital had known her old name. And the woman that owned the okiya that had agreed to take her in, seeing enough promise of eventual beauty in her wasted face to take the risk of training her in the geisha arts, she had known the girl's old name. But Willow had left it behind when she'd entered the doors of the okiya, along with her past and what she might have once dreamed. She'd was only Willow now. And old names could stay buried along with the other bodies in a hollow village of ash.

The woman that had taken her in though, she never could have expected Willow to blossom into what she had. By her third year, Willow was one of the most celebrated geisha apprentices in the capital and by the time she was preparing for her graduation into becoming a true geisha, the Flower and Willow world that supplied the entertainment, and refinement, of the capital, was already whispering that she was the next Onono Komachi. Or, for those that knew her better, perhaps the shadow of Tomoe Gozen. Her coming out ceremony and her subsequent first tour to the tea houses and parties of the capital was highly anticipated. She could have set her hourly price at almost anything.

Instead, like the smoke from a blown out lamp, she'd disappeared.

No one in the hidden world truly disappeared though, not with that many curious eyes and ears. Besides, the point wasn't to make her disappear. No one paid off a debt like hers and then added more and then more again in their bid to buy her contract unless they wanted everyone to know it. The amount of money offered had been staggering and yet, even then, Willow sometimes thought, if she'd asked at just the right time and in just the right way, the woman that ran the okiya that had taken her in would have turned it down. The old woman had loved her.

But Willow hadn't said anything and now she had a danna of her own, and his household to run as if it were her own and he was, even though he didn't know it, yet, the most talked about man in the Flower and Willow world and beyond.

Cloud Strife.

His name had enough fame on its own, he didn't need the addition of hers to it, to make him sought after and talked about. But hers was gentler than his, more - civilized - and his father had thought, perhaps with cause, perhaps without, that he would find it useful as he adjusted to a life without war. Willow wasn't sure what that meant for her. Just that, because she was geisha and no secret was really secret from her, she had found out who was bidding on her contract when the negotiations had started and she had known the name and the ashy ghost of a little lost girl had risen up in her mouth and she hadn't said a word to stop the conclusion after the months it had taken to be settled.

Cloud Strife.

And her heart took a tumble in her chest and yet felt vaguely queasy at the same time each time she heard it. Thought it.

Cloud Strife was her danna and she would care for his household and him until she died. Or, more likely, until she grew too old to be beautiful and he gave her a reward for her years of service and set her up in a comfortable and retired household of her own, in some small village far from here. He might never know who she really was. There was no way he remembered the brash little girl she'd been, not after all these years, not after so much clouding the time between.

Everyone knew that promises were only future karma, only ever paid off in some far distant lifetime when no one remembered it. He certainly wouldn't recognize her. Not the adult she'd become and not under the heavy white and red of her the makeup she wore like a mask and the layers of silk that were her armor. Kneeling in the room on the polished wooden floor, waiting, she knew it. And she was glad of it.

She heard the clatter of horse hooves outside in the courtyard, scattering the carefully raked stones and she heard the slide of wood on wood as he let himself into the quiet house. She was sure every single servant in the house heard him arrive. And waited, just as she was.

It was a gamble she'd taken. According to ceremony, his entire new household should have been outside to meet him, no matter what the hour. Rows of backs showing as they all crouched on their knees and pressed their forehead to the gravel. Greeting home their new lord and the one that would have the power of life and death over them.

She'd sent everyone to their beds instead.

It could result in all their deaths.

But... she remembered a quiet little boy with a stubborn streak and a bent toward loneliness and she already knew how many ceremonies and celebrations he would be going through since coming back. His moments alone or in quiet would have been all but non-existent. He would have changed since that little boy but she thought, she gambled on the fact, that he wouldn't have changed that much. Her job was to take care of him. And that meant giving him peace and quiet when he needed it. Hearing him make his way through the house to the bedroom, hearing the fall of cloth and the sigh, she thought maybe she had been right.

It was time to see if she had been right one more time. Finally moving from her perfect stillness, kneeling on the floor in the room that held a bath full of hot water and several buckets of cold to rinse himself off with first, she only made enough noise, intentional, to let him hear that she was there, before, still on her knees, she leaned forward and slide the door between the rooms open, lowering her head so that her forehead touched the floor in the same motion, as graceful as the bending tree she was named after.]

Welcome home.

That was an incredibly good book

[meteorrains]

[Muscles tenses impossibly further as the soft creaking of wood gave away some sort of movement behind him, taking place in another room separate from his own. Instinct, developed over years of facing battle after battle, war torn village made of ash after destroyed lives and broken masses, told him to prepare, to make ready to attack before his opponent could be allowed the upper hand that surprise awarded. Rational thought, intelligence that had only flourished under those difficult circumstances, sense that had allowed him to know, inherently, where there was a threat and where there was nothing more than a whisper of harmlessness, reminded him that his father had been fully intent on setting him up with a proper household. Likely, it was nothing more than a servant, coming to welcome him, to ensure that he had all that was needed for his coming rest.

There had been no one too meet him, no endless lines of bowed backs pledging their loyalty to him as he passed along in front, supreme ruler over their universe, this man who, for years on end, had been in command of an army of a far different sort. Despite the break in tradition, despite how horrified such news would likely make his father, he was thankful for the peace it had provided. There had been an endless, never ending parade of such platitudes since he had arrived back within the walls of the city. He did not wish to hear them from those who would serve him.

Pads of fingers pressed a particularly sore spot, sighing at the relief the pressure brought. Wood slide sharply against wood, signaling the expected arrival, long before those simply spoken words were uttered.

Clear sky blue irises peaked over his shoulder, loose blond strands slightly obscuring his view, the sight before him both surprising and yet -

And yet, how many of his fathers friends had approached him, eyes twinkling with some sort of mischief he didn't care to try and understand, loudly proclaiming how lucky he was to have such a beautiful household to come into, how he should be grateful for the lengths his father had gone through to ensure his only son would be well taken care of and happy. A proper household needed someone to be in command, to bear the brunt of that weight and leave the master free to do as he wished. Needed someone to handle that which was improper for him to do himself.

She was beautiful. Like a breath of fresh, spring air suddenly flowing into the lungs of a dying man. Even as his hand fell away, body twisting around more fully, allowing himself to take in the long, lean line of her as she bowed low, forehead pressed firmly against the hard, cold wood floor.]

It is is good to be here. [Truthfully, his return had been more than his wildest dreams had ever allowed him to begin to hope for.] Where is everyone hiding? [Surely there were more of them. The house had appeared quite large, even the stark, inky darkness.] Surely you are not the only one.

:3c

[lostheart]

[Her eyes lifted at his question, under the black of her lashes, and this was the true test. As her danna it was as much his job to take care of her as it was hers to take care of him. As a geisha she walked somewhere outside of every other social status and the rigid rules that went with each one. She was allowed to step outside of boundaries, to do things that went against accepted social standards - as long as she did them with grace and cleverness. How much he was willing to let her dance outside of the lines with his household though - well, this was the first test. She straightened, still with her legs tucked under her, slow grace and the very tips of her lips smiled, visible against the white of her painted face, upper lip painted blood glisten red, the lower lip as white as the rest of her makeup.

As if it were a game between them and not a deadly dangerous question he asked.]

I sent them to bed. I thought you might want a night alone for yourself and the moonlight after days of people and noise. [Her dark eyes watched him in the bone mask of her face and one hand rose, just a little, a gesture that whispered silk against silk across her bent thighs from the sleeve of her dress.] I have made the hot bath stay awake for your arrival though. It has been keeping me company while we waited. It promises to be silent for you however.

[meteorrains]

[If he were someone else, the news of her taking it upon herself to make such a decision in his place, to wield the power that was meant only for him would have sent him into a rage. Would have been cause for all of them to be released, or worse, be sent to their deaths.

But years of wading through blood and muck, of seeing the terror in innocent eyes as they stared upwards at him, as they begged for a show of mercy they didn't think him capable of had calmed him, had undone the rules in which his upbringing had instilled. Everyone, despite their station in life, was a person, someone who once had come from somewhere else. Someone who may have had a family, someone who may have been the entire world to another.

And so he had started, silently, carefully, allowing them to go, whispering hushed, quick instructions to hide, to play as if they too had perished, followed by a route in which to take that would lead them away from the battle. Had started thinking more and more about the lives that he was taking, had started contemplating the reasons why they were fighting at all. Each side believed, desperately, that they were right, that their opinions, their beliefs were true. Believed so deeply that they were willing to fight and die for their cause.

Perhaps that's what made him different, what had set him apart and had allowed him to rise so quickly. He would fight for his cause, would be brutal and unforgiving. But he refused to die for it. The price of freedom was steep, but it was one he was unwilling to pay.

Too stubborn to die. That's what his commanding officer had always said. Too determined. Sometimes, he thought he was only alive out spite, as a means to laugh in the faces of all who had tried and failed.]

I would like to meet them. In the morning, if you please. [If the circumstances had been different, perhaps he would have told her to rouse them, to have them line up in the large open room near the kitchen so that he could tell them what was to be expected, what he would and would not allow. How they were a representation of him, and how they were to conduct themselves with respect and honor. How, so long as they were in his employ, they would be treated well, so long as they were loyal.

But she was well and truly right. Bone deep exhaustion had settled in and taken a hold. Dawn would come soon enough.] For now, I would very much appreciate the bath. And perhaps some tea, for after.

[lostheart]

[So much could be decided in the first few moments of anything and she would have held her breath if she'd been any less well trained. These few moments spun out not only what kind of lord he would be, but what kind of man he was. And how much he would trust her judgement.

She had remembered a thin boy with eyes like fire, stubborn and proud and always a little alone. She had remembered him with scraped knuckles, dirt on his knees, messy hair. She had remembered thoughts that stretched out beyond their village, even his father's lands, and spread wide falcon wings to travel. She had no remembered cruelty.

But she had known other boys that had grown up to be hard men and seen the swallow quick swoop of a sword for the offense of being lower rank and not bowing quickly enough or deeply enough. She had seen war and what it did to the people that survived it.

His eyes were still fire. His hair was still messy, if longer than she remembered. She was relieved enough that her eyes blinked a little slower than normal to hear there was no cruelty. At least not for people that would serve him.

And then one edge of her painted lips shifted up, just a hint more and her eyes curved. 'if you please'. She liked the sound of that, even if they both knew there was not necessary for him to use it.

Like snow melting and breaking off into streams, she stood up, a long, lean unfolding that sent the waterfall of silk to settle in new lines around her and she bowed from the waist. He would not be looking for a lost village girl buried too deep to remember and she didn't look anything like that ghost anymore. But, still, she played her part as if this was their first meeting.]

Will you want to see them before or after breakfast?

[meteorrains]

[Silence falls over them for a moment as he hesitates, as if attempting to decide between the two options that lie before him.]

Before. [They would begin the two, fresh day together, the rising of the sun symbolizing the end of one lifetime and the beginning of another.] I would like for everyone to dress simply, in black and white. I will provide an adequate amount for the proper garments to be purchased.

[Never before in his life had he cared much for appearances, for what other's thought of him. But everything had shifted, had become different. No longer was he expected to be nothing more than a mindless warrior, a one man machine of war. Now, he was expected to be a respectable man, who would follow in his father's foot steps and become a well loved figure of the community.

He couldn't think of anything that terrified him more.

Other's would form their opinions no matter what he did, and perhaps many already had. He wanted his household to be well dressed, wanted those who served him to be happy. Happy people were loyal]

You may continue to dress as you wish. [She was meant to be shown off, like a shining, brightly colored jewel sitting upon his newly gifted crown. It would be foolish of him to try and dull her, to not allow her to live to her fullest potential.] I would also like for you to join me for breakfast. There is much that we will need to discuss.

[lostheart]

His silence told her much and she was glad. Both cor it Nd fod what it told her. That he wasnt sure and that he thought things through instead of just reactingt to react. She felt thd little swell of pride in him in her chest. He had grown up into someone worth being proud of. She had always believed he would. It was simply restoring to see it was true.

And it was alright if we didnt know how to live in this world where war was a memory. That was what she was for.

A dip to her bow and she straightened.

He had earned his place and she would keep it for him.

"I will fetch your tea. It will be ready when you finish your bath."

[meteorrains]

[It felt strange, to ask something so simple of someone else, to ask for something he could so easily make himself. But he was no longer expected to do such things, to make his own meals and fetch his one tea. In this world, everything was to be done by another, and he was to do little more than sit back and baskin the attention, in the relaxation and peace such luxuries brought.]

Thank you. [There was a soft bow of his head in return, although he knew neither the words nor the action as needed. But if you wished to be respected, truly, and not feared, then you had to show it in return.]

What am I to call you?

[lostheart]

His question stopped her and she paused. Somewhere inside of her it felt as if a pebble had started falling down some great hole and she wondered if it would ever stop. A ghost whispered behind her tongue wanting to be remembered.

"Willow." Her lips offered it and the small private smile and she was glad for the heavy makeup.

And then she bowed again and let herself out of the room, leaving him to his bath, sliding the door silently shut behind her.

Something in her chest like a moth and she ignored it. He had asked for tea and she would bring it and a bit more. But first she would tell one of the servants their new masters requirements for the morning. And assure them that all was well.

time skip!

[lostheart]

[She didn't remember the last time she'd been so exhausted.

Which spoke itself, considering the fact that most maiko and geisha always ran on the edge of exhaustion. This had been her first large social even though, something most geisha relied on teahouses and their staff for instead, and she had been determined to make it worthy. Of both her name... and her danna's. A great deal rode on that for both of them. Tomorrow's gossip would seal the fact but, standing with her shoulder against a porch pillar for support, Tifa thought that they both had every right to feel satisfied with tonight's outcome.

The party had been simple. The way silk was simple. One of her favorite rolls in her profession was layering subtlety and she had been given every chance to push her skill at it to the limit with this party. Everything, everything from the garden to the food to the entertainment to the decorations had been created to bring up simplicity and yet to hold hidden richness. From the simple rice balls that had turned out to be packed with a delicate and exotic flavored paste to the entertainment that had been 'peasant dances' that had really been fellow geisha dressed in expensive 'commoner' costumes elegant and graceful as cranes, every hint of everything she had laid her fingers to had been the simple that was promised for his father and the elegant that was his father's heart's delight.

Tifa had been, and still was, impossibly grateful for the help from her danna's father's geisha. The woman had kept her sense of refinement and elegance through the years and her insight and understanding into both the household she lived in and ways to ease a celebration into being had been astonishing. There had been on shame at all in learning from her. But the party itself - that had been Tifa's doing alone and every single one of the household servants and the tea house workers brought in to help and the geisha and the entertainers and the landscaping down to the very patterns raked in the pebble garden had been hers.

She had never been so warmly proud of the people helping her or so contently tired at the end of a month's worth of nothing but preparation and training.

Absent, she pressed her fingertips to her palm, gentle pushes and releases of pressure. The tips ached. She'd played a mix of village songs on her kyoto as part of the entertainment and between picking and practicing over the month, she'd bruised even her calloused skin. It had been worth it though. She hadn't made a single mistake and she'd moved the audience to silence. Not that any of them would recognize all of the songs. Some had been Nibelheim born and who was left alive, beyond the lord's family that remembered those? But hearing them from the koto instead of in peasant chant had made them elegant and sad and celebratory and sweet, she thought. Simple - and elegant.

For a moment she closed her eyes, listening to the sounds of broom bristles sweeping the wooden floors clear, blessed silence compared to the constant low murmur of the night until now and she exhaled, letting the tension go. It had been a good night. A good party, she thought.

All she needed was to hear if her danna had thought as much as well.]

[meteorrains]

[It had been a good night.

Never before had such a small affair generated so much gossip before it had even taken place. Weeks of quiet whispers and gentle prodding, trying to gain information as to what was being planned for his father's birthday celebration. It was an important year, and the celebration must match the prestige of making it to such an age.

There had been offers, of course, from men who were looking to make a strategic match for their daughter, from women who tried to use their wiles to make sure their child would be chosen as his partner for the evening. Wouldn't that be wild? Being introduced for the first time as the woman Cloud Strife was currently courting at such an important affair? Being seen by half of the city on the arm of a man who had fought battles and won wars? A man who had political pull and the wealth that came along with being born into such a family.

None had been accepted, and his solo attendance had generated more talk and discussion and gossip then any other would have.

There were a number of women in which he had danced with; mother and daughters and wives of important dignitaries and the men his father worked with, ones who would expect and appreciate such respect and chivalry. There had been whispered inquires, spoken in hushed tones to his own mother by other's, asking if a marriage had already been arranged. And she had responded in kind, stating that her son was newly back from war and was taking much needed time to adjust to a more civilian life style.

And so that rumor had begun to circulate, and by the end of the night it had become the acceptable explanation. Couple with the plethora of topics provided by such a spectacular affair, and it had bought him more than a little time before the worry would be brought back up.

He would be sure to thank his mother for his quick thinking and wit when he next saw her, perhaps with the new string of pearls she had been lamenting over needing for most of the evening.

Each member of the staff had already been thanked in kind, personally and with the generous bonus that would be accompanying their weekly allowances. Everything had been utterly perfect, with nary a noticeable slip or misstep. Those who had been hired on for the night had been well compensated, each musician and geisha receiving twice what they normally would for performing at such an affair. Another rumor which would no doubt spread, and likely his generosity would earn him a certain level of respect among the more kind hearted.

The night had played out perfectly, dealing more than a few cards into their hand. Ones that could be kept and played when most needed.

Something had caught his attention, had struck him in the middle of a conversation and left him spell bound and silent. It was entirely possible that she knew of his place of birth - it was public knowledge, his father had never kept it a secret that they were from the infamous village, had never been silent about how much the burning of it had affected them all. It was just as possible that his father's geisha had mentioned it, had brought up how his father would enjoy hearing some of the more tradition songs, transformed into beautiful, haunting melodies by her hands.

But it was a thought that had stuck with him, one that he was unable to shake, even now that the festivities had ended and there was only the sound of wicker against wood to remind them that it had ever happened at all.

Still dressed in the formal kimono that had been specially tailored for the occasion, shades of dark blue and rich black displayed perfectly against pale skin, playing up the lighter colors of his hair and setting off the deep intensity of his eyes. Even that had been a product of her hand, both in the finding of the tailor and in the recommendations she had made.

This night was his triumph, but purely in name alone. This battle had been won by her.]

It was a good night. [Voice light as he approached her, smile far brighter than any he had offered before. Her grace and wit had more than earned it.] I am afraid that, since you have yet to make me laugh, I can not offer you the obi that would please you most. But I do hope that you will accept this, as a token of my thanks.

[In his hands was a small, ornate wooden box, formed of warm, dark oak and adorned with bright depictions of willow blossoms. Inside lay a pendant, threaded upon a thin gold chain, cradled within a sea of rich blue velvet.]

[lostheart]

[He walked lightly but she still heard his approach across the nightingale floor and she turned her head to watch him come, hands tucked up into the sleeves of her komono, brilliant autumn leaves across a background of amber and red, something that complimented his clothing and those of his servants while still being unique enough to draw attention.

She had been right...

The thought drifted down through her tired mind like petals falling in moonlight. The right tailor had turned him from handsome to dangerous and even the way he moved had changed. He had been graceful before. Now that grace held a dangerous smooth edge, like a knife wrapped in silk. The tailor she had suggested might have been out of favor with court for loving his unadorned lines and for his ronin status after his lord died honorably - but not after tonight. Not after the guests had seen the way the lord's son looked in his own clothes.

His eyes had always been the most polished and shifting shade of beautiful blue.

It was his smile though that warmed her down to her bare toes, filling her all the way up like warm sake down through the blood and she inhaled, waking to it, her own lips softening and curving and real just for him, unguarded and unaffected. His first words told her everything and she was safe to relax into the warmth of a job well done without stipulations.]

It must be a very great obi for the price I am paying for it.

[But the teasing was soft and her eyes were warm and laughing. And curious as she reached out to take the box from him. It was his first gift to her and she was curious as to what it would tell her.

It told her he had peeked under the white powder of her mask and her face softened even as the female delight at a pretty thing washed over it. The box, also a gift, got set reverently on the railing as she lifted out the pendent.]

oh danna... [She sighed it as if it was his intimate name, stone cradled in her palms. Dragons for power and strength, wisdom and blessing. Her thumbs stroked over them. She didn't miss the fact there were two. But the stone itself was the color of her eyes and she held it up to her snowy cheek before raising them to look at him without lifting her face, tone somewhere between chiding and pleased.]

You've been paying attention, my lord.

[meteorrains]

[A soft bubble of nervous energy boiled to life within him, deep and intense, threatening to burn him from the inside out.

Giving such a gift had been a gamble, had been judging the odds and tempting them to play out in his favor. An expense expression of his appreciation. It was far from a typical gift, far from what would be expected. Instead of sparking ideas of feminine wiles or overt practicality, it suggested something far more meaningful, something he was certain she would understand.

Would speak of the power they could wield together, of the strength they both held to walk the path that fate had chosen. Of the wisdom of the workings of proper society that she lent, while he carried knowledge of the workings of the world. Of the blessings that had brought them to this moment, had brought them together, had formed this partnership and made everything possible. Of the ones that would continue to grow and thrive because of it.

And dark, swirling, beautiful amber, an exact match to the coloring of her eyes. Captivating, like endless pools that were meant for a man to become lost in. Ones that spoke of hidden secrets and mysteries that one could only hope some day have revealed.

She breathed his name and that tight coil of tension unwound.]

So I have. [It's a soft admittance, not quite giving away just how closely he's been watching, just how much attention has been given to each detail, to each facet of every thing, from the day to day occurrences and happenings of the household to preparations made for this first public celebration. Nothing has managed to slip past his notice. So much time had been spent ensuring that this night would be perfect, that it would flow from beginning to end without a single hitch.

It was a feat that deserved compensation, that deserved some sort of recognition, a physical manifestation that could be shown off, that could be accompanied by bragging and boasting, both of her own skills, but also of the kindness of her danna.

But some pretty bobble wouldn't have suited her, wouldn't have had quite the same effect. And so he hadn't gone with his first instinct to simply buy whatever was easy, whatever stuck out at him first. Had spent countless nights thinking and planning, had spent endless hours with his fathers own personal jeweler, discussing and creating, until what was once nothing more than a figment of his imagination transformed into solid reality.]

May I? [Reaching out, an unspoken offer to aid her in trying on the pendant, silently eager to see if it truly would look as stunning against the pale white of her face as he had once pictured.]

[lostheart]

[She did not take his gift lightly. She would not have taken any gift lightly but this one... this one was a weight in her hand, filled with so much more than a stone and some metal. It was personal and private and promising, beautiful in its craft but unique entirely. She had never seen a setting like this one and she thought it felt new. Just for her. And that... that filled her heart all the way up to overflowed.

So her eyes were still a little young and warm and without covers when she lifted them to him and smiled at his request, somewhere between a little innocently playful and a little softly seductive.]

Please.

[She offered it back to him and then turned, head bowing a little to expose the back of her neck to him. Her hair was already up in its elaborate coiffure and so there was only the slender column of her throat and a few small wisps of stray hair, dark against that snow pale. The way she turned but her easily in the circle of his arms if he stretched them out and her dark lashes rested on her pale cheeks, waiting. Tonight she had been everything that had been required of her, worn dozens of faces for dozens of people and now, tired and satisfied, there was very little mask left to her. Just - her. And the quiet, pleased, content peace of both a job well done - and a gift given from the heart from someone she cared deeply for.]

[meteorrains]

[It always seemed that just when he thought he had seen every side of her, had learned each facet of who she was, something else would come to life and surprise him. This time it was her eyes, deep, swirling pools of warm, dark amber, paired with the playful seductiveness of her honey rich voice. It made the air around them crackle with a hidden intimacy he hadn't realized was present until that very moment.

Was it meant to be like this? Was there meant to be this electric spark that flowed more intensely with each moment that passed? Was his heart supposed to be pounding within his chest while thousands of butterflies danced about his stomach?

Nimble fingers carefully undid the clasp, closing the short distance between them, front almost flush against her back. Taking a deep inwards breathe and holding onto it, he laid the pendant upon her collar bone, dragging it back to secure the chain, fingers brushing against bare skin for a moment too long before retreating. It looked as beautiful against the paleness of it as he had imagined.

Nothing would ever come of this moment. Nothing ever could. There were certain lines that were not to be crossed, certain boundaries that had to be respected.

But here, in the dark of night, it was easy to forget exactly what they were.]

It looks beautiful on you.

[lostheart]

[She inhaled when he came to stand behind her, and she could all but feel the heat of his body through the fabric of their clothes against her skin, he was so close. And yet, exquisite, not touching, spider web strand distance between them. It plucked at a cord deep in her center, something that shuddered and sang like one of the cords on her koto and she accepted that and let it be.

It was a dangerous thing, for a geisha to love one of the few Great Lords.

The play writes wrote beautiful, aching tragedies about that kind of thing that always ended with falling snow.

His fingers brushed her skin, the dark note to the light stroke of the necklace across her collarbones, juxtaposition.

And despite herself, her lips smiled for him, wished a formless secret, something quiet and subtle and tugged at the edges of bitter cherry and snow.

She did not try to move away from him. Did not lift her eyes or open them. She intentionally stayed in the shadow of his warmth. One hand did come up, pale long fingers, to rest over the new weight at her throat. Warmed by the touch of his hand and her skin.]

It is a beautiful gift, danna. [Subtle and lingering in the night, intimacy in the shadows at the end of a long day. Her fingertips stayed on the charm against her throat. Read what was there in his gift.] You did not chose it lightly.

[meteorrains]

[It was a strange thing, how one could allow themselves to be swept away as if by the oceans current, entranced entirely by a singular moment that would never again repeat. Time stood still, leaving only the soft glow of the moon above and thousands of tiny pin pricks of light as witness. Nothing remained between them but the night, a precarious position, intimate and private and easily mistaken by wondering eyes.

But all those who remained knew their place, knew what benefits would come from their loyalty and closed mouths. And so this pocket of peace and calm would remain between only them, like a secret that would be buried deep once it had passed.

It was a dangerous thing, for a lord to fall in love with a geisha. For a lord to fall in love with anyone at all was dangerous. Those who you loved were weapons who could be used against you.]

It seems I am not the only one who's been paying attention. [Voice a mere whisper, akin to a soft caress pressed close against her ear, meant entirely for her.] Dragons are cunning and intelligent, powerful and strong. It is a blessing to be within their presence. And they will devour anything which stands in their way.

[Upon each of the swords he had carried into battle was the image of a dragon, the same in which appeared upon the crest which bore his name., conjuring fear, respect and pride.

One dragon was an immovable, unshakable force. Finding another was as if a hurricane had run headlong into a volcano.]

[meteorrains]

[It had been so long ago.

Seconds had turned into minutes which had transformed into hours which had given way to days which clumped together into years, until more than a decade's worth had passed between that moment and the present.

Slowly, the march of time had begun to heal wounds left by fire and steel, and started to wash away the sound of desperate screams, pleas for help and begging to let it all end.

Scorched earth had been cleared of it's ash, of charred remains of the place he had once called home. Memory faded until minute details that had once been crystal clear were lost within a thick fog.

It had been so long ago. Who was left now to remember but him?

Yet there were times when he would close his eyes and the scenes would replay. Scenes of his mother's terror as she shook him awake, panic stricken as she lifted him from the warmth of his bed, had shoved a rough woolen cloak into his hands and told him to run. To run into the woods without stopping, without looking back.

Scenes of the entire world being on fire, of brilliant oranges and simmering reds, deafening crackling and popping of wood playing like a bitter background sympathy. Clanging steel, blood splattering across the frozen ground, thundering hoofs of six dozen horses all pounding together at once.

A woman had run towards him, face half melted, screaming in agony and horror. An arrow, perfectly timed and precisely aimed had her thudded to his feet, sputtering and clawing, until nothing was left but the cold, dead hollowness of her stare. Dull brown and bright crimson splashed across the clean expanse of his clothing, across the exposed flesh of his cheek, and it was only the hand of his moth gripping his own that had finally broken him away from the devastation.

Living next to the swallow stream had always been out of convenience, awarded to them by his fathers high station. Now it would become their savior, darkness providing enough cover for two young, quick thinking women and one shell shocked boy to slip away, to escape complete catastrophe and annihilation. Endless days would be spent searching for safe haven, to bring the news of the destruction of the small, isolated village to the outside world.

Only his father had been spared witnessing the horror, having been safely away at court when the tiny outcrop had been ransacked. There were no survivors, save himself, his mother, and the young geisha who had been left behind to act as their servant.

At the very least, none that he had ever found. Word nor knowledge of another had never managed to reach him, despite how many inquiries he had made.

Now, in the after math of war, they were finally attempting to rebuild.

Traveling to each of the temples that resides within his fathers land, to speak of and aid in the preservation of scared artifacts, to brings gifts and promises of future prosperity. To make his name and face known, to ensure that he would be loved and respected by all those who would one day serve him. To have blessing places upon him. For success. For triumph. For protection. For love.

Following an old, barely traveled path leading away from the gilded prominence of the eastern most temple laid a clearing, the banks of winding stream and thick woods boxing it in from each and every side. There was little to be found, a few hastily built houses, a barely stable structure for thinning livestock and sparse crops.

It had been so long ago.

They were expected, word having been sent to a elder weeks ago telling of their arrival, and a tent made from rough, patched burlap had been placed near the water, as requested. No one was quite sure what was to come of this visit, if it was simply being used as a way point between two places, or if the lord himself had asked to return.

Bringing her along had been his idea, both for want of having her close to him, and for need of her sharp wit, stunning intelligence and cunning attributes. That she was beautiful and graceful and pleasant only aided in his cause, dignitaries, priest and common folk alike instantly falling in love with her. And with each, he was complimented and congratulated on having found her, on having her within his employ, at his side.

As his twin dragon.

It had been easy to focus upon her, to let her lead when he began to falter, when those memories surfaced painfully, like a sharp knife twisting within his chest and he was no longer able to continue. There was to be a generous donation, to be given in increments over a series of years, to help aid in the rebuilding of the village. To ensure that it would properly reclaim it's former glory, and that nothing should ever tear it asunder.

It had been so long ago, but as he stood now, bare feet resting in cool water, ice blue staring out over the now open expanse, torn and frozen in time between the past and reality, it seemed like it had only happened years ago, months ago, hours ago, seconds ago. Like it was still happening at this very moment.]

[lostheart]

[She went where her lord went.

Anywhere he went.

To the heights of sacred Fuji, to the depths of hells.

Where her lord went, she went. Her destiny was tied to his, by her own choice, but so much closer than he would ever know.

And - today - she followed him down into hell.

She knew where they were. She always knew where they were. Her education in geography and star reading was acute, just as carefully trained into her as he knowledge of the myriad of houses and clans and lords and alliances for each part of the world they traveled in. If she was to be his matching dragon, his mirror and his shadow and his reflection, she would not fail him through lack of awareness or knowledge. What she gleaned, through history, through gossip, through observation, was all his, provided with his tea at night, the clop of their horse's hooves as they road, the creak of old wooden temple beams in the late afternoon sun.

And - she had nothing to tell him here.

She did not want to be here. She very much did not want to be here. Because the air tasted like ash each time she inhaled and her throat felt the heat of flames. Each time she blinked, her lashes felt the singe of flame and her chest - oh how her chest ached, her pale hand stealing up to it again and again when no one was watching to rest over the gaping wound she could still feel all these years after, pouring out her heart's love until there was nothing left of who she had once been. She should pray. Her parents were out there, somewhere, in the ash. Lost haunting ghosts with no family to honor or feed them, left behind by their only child when she had allowed herself to be adopted by the geisha that had run the house that had trained her. There were no deity that would look kindly on that kind of familial sin. One day, the ghosts of her abandoned parents would catch up to her.

They would have to outrace the memories of that night first though.

She has no idea why her lord is here. A place of nightmares and horror and death. Her eyes don't see the new green or the healed fields or the small new homes. All she sees, as far as she sees, are ashes and bones and ruins of a child's world and why her lord wants to stand and watch the bone thin wind blow past all of that - she doesn't know.

She does not want to be here.

But her lord is. And so she follows him. Down to the tent far too shoddy for his birthright, down the small inclined path that leads to the stream's edge, down to the very edge of the water. He is so still, like carved bone, in the water, eyes seeing somewhere else when he looks. The field beyond the stream must be full of lost and damned ghosts... But... where he goes...

She follows him down. Slips off her shoes and waves away the attendants. And then she ruins her very expensive dress to step into the water and wade out to where he is, so much more surefooted than anyone but a child of this valley has any right to be on the familiar, round stones of the riverbed. She does not say anything as she comes to a stop next to him. Only stands at his side and watches for ghosts with him.]

[meteorrains]

[He knew she was there. Could feel her unique presence so acutely that he didn't have to lay eyes upon her to know she was beside him. It was almost strong enough to chase away the long forgotten ghost of those who had been lost, of those who no longer had anyone to honor them. Of a young girl who's face hadn't faded from his memory, even if the edges had begun to tatter. Remnants of an old life that no longer existed to anyone but him.

Even his mother now hesitated to speak about that moment, choosing to leave it well and truly buried within the past. It was best to forget that which was lost, to count their blessings and thank whichever deity's had chosen to spar them and move on. To embrace life.

A blessed life, filled with blessings and pleasures and wealth and power and promise.

A life bought with the ashes of lost souls who deserved it far more than those who were left behind.

Knowing mass devastation at such a young age had instilled a deep respect for life, of those who were innocent, who had not asked to swept up into someone else's war. Perhaps that compassion made him a less effective soldier, choosing mercy over annihilation. There was no guarantee that those who had been saved wouldn't still suffer such a terrible fate. War was a savage beast that ravaged everything within it's path.

But enough had died by his hand. He refused to have more blood spilled upon them.

He should speak. Should say something. Should tell her to go back, to not worry over him. That it's alright. That he's alright.

But the words become trapped within his throat like a immovable lump, lodging it's self firmly into place. Chest tight, lungs burning, eyes sweeping in wide berths back and forth across the valley. Ghost danced among the ash, shuddering and wailed and begged for their agony to finally cease.

They were only figments of his imagination. Figments that she couldn't see. How could she possibly understand that he was still haunted by things that had happened so long ago? That he could still see them burning each time he closed his eyes?

It was impossible to know how much time had passed, how long he stood there, silent and still. Until the water and air no longer hold any chill. Until the sun was setting low in the sky behind them, bathing rolling green hills and dark, hidden woods in eerie red and orange light.

Normally fire bright eyes had dimmed with the pain of remembrance, of loss, brilliant color dulled from a exhaustion so deep it had seeped into his very core.]

I did not know how else to honor them. [Voice barely above a whisper, as if he intended it only for her, as if he did not want the sound to be carried on the wind towards those who were still alive, caught up in the bustle of preparing the nights meal.

As if he did not want to disturb the ghost who will hovered near by.] There is no one else to remember them. No one who wishes to remember. [It's said almost bitterly, resentment at years of having his pain and grief being shoved down and away by force. Until it had hardened within him, settling like a weight inside of his heart that he would never be rid of.]

It had to be impossible. That everyone I had ever known could be gone. That we were the only ones to escape. There to had to be other's, hiding away somewhere, waiting.

[A deep intake of breath, eyes shifting downwards and falling closed.]

But there wasn't. There's no one left alive who claims being from this place. In all of my searching, no one even remembered it's name.

[lostheart]

Nibelheim.

[It comes out, smooth pebbles dropping into dark water, falling from her lips, said the way the people that lived here used to say it, amoung themselves, late at night around cook fires and barefoot children. She can taste the ash against her tongue.]

It was Nibohime.

[The second time her soft voice carries the word its the way it was called in the capital a lifetime ago, rounded and elegant, far more than the cozy little village had deserved but that was the way the consensus takers and tax collectors and the nobles that had lived above the village and known it only as a source of income and prestige had pronounced it. His father said in such a way.

Her dark eyes stayed on the field across the stream and for just a moment, she could almost overlay the familiar houses that had once been there. Could almost see the main street and the silly little 'inn' and the iron smith and the - she could almost see her own family's house. But there was too much ash in her minds eye and the house was gone and even the new houses that had sprung up, sparse and small, weren't there. Just - ash. So much ash and she would never be able to sift through it all to find the haunting bones of her parents to try to lay them to rest.

She wondered if the plows ever turned up bones when the fields were tilled. If there were skulls hidden in people's vegetable gardens, eye sockets full of beet roots.

Her face gave nothing away, calm and distant as the moon and her eyes were obsidian.

Her lord should not be here. Mourning ghosts. If they knew they would try to visit him tonight. She should be the only one with lonely ghosts whisping about the edges of her world, always seeking a way past the person she had become that did not belong to them anymore. She swallowed, pale throat moving, eyes on the field. He came here to mourn them at least. Something lords did not do for fallen peasants. What punishment was there for a daughter that had never even done that?]

Come away, my lord.

[She should remind him that their world was full of ghost villages. That this one was not the first to build on top of the ash of another and that, in time, someone else would build on top of the ash of this one. This was only one of a hundred others that had disappeared, wiped off the map like a careless ink spot, lost to time and finally only memory. War never left their shores for long. This was not a spot that knew pain any more than another.

But it did. It was her pain. Her heart's blood. The little girl she had been had died in agony here. And... it was his pain too. She had not expected him to remember but - he stood all day in the ice of the stream and watched for ghosts. He remembered their name when no one else would. He still tried to be their lord even in their death. It was his pain too. Twin dragons should not share heart's blood - but they did. Her head bowed, slipping midnight hair across pale moon paint and she turned. But her geisha voice slipped across her.]

A shrine would house them. The fields are cold in the winter. A shrine would give them a warm place to rest.

[meteorrains]

[A shrine.

A shrine would give them a warm place to rest, a place tucked away from the icy chill of the winter wind. Away from the pain of remembrance, or ash ans soot and dirt.

But how could they build a shrine when there were no bones? When there was nothing to place within it except the memories of one singular person? Did he even recall enough to be worthy of such a thing? Would he be able to some how, some way, draw up each of the names of those who had been lost so that they could be honored? Now, after so long, he could often only remember the barest hint of their faces, blurred and marred by fire and heat.

Everything within him wanted to protest, wanted to reply with biting words that would allow her to see her folly. But she did not know. She may have thought she knew, may have thought she had learned enough from the stories and tales of others, but she would never truly understand. How could she possibly?

It wasn't her fault, and so she did not deserve his anger, his bitterness, his anguish and loss. She had stood there waiting, feet covered up to the ankles in the same icy waters as he had, suffering in silence, all to pay penance for the loss of those she had never even known.

And so he only lowers his head once, a soft sort of nod that's an unspoken agreement to her suggestion.] See that it is done. [It is not a command - never a command, not with her. Nor an order. But he knows that they share the same vision, their hearts and minds intertwined so perfectly that she is the only one who he can trust with such an important task.] It should be simple, small, and the stone a brilliant white. With a fire that is never allowed to go out, so that those who look upon it will remember, and will not fall to the same fate.

[It's only once he has finished speaking that it feels as if the dense fog that had surrounded him since the very moment he had set foot within the village lifted, ghost seemingly satisfied with his offering leaving him in weary peace. And it's only then that he finally turns to her fully, feet barely able to move after standing upon them for so long, stiff and cold and blue. But he moves across the slippery bed with the practiced ease of someone who has visited those rocks before, of someone who once knew them intimately.

It's only once he reaches her that he offers her his hand, intent on helping her back to the shore line, not realizing that she too had moved with the same practiced grace.] Come, let us eat together.

[lostheart]

[She will have to guard his sleep tonight, put up wards around his room. Ghosts are hungry things, when they are lost and the ones that lived here must be so very ravenous after so many years with no acknowledgement. She would not be surprised to hear that the village built on ash has more than its share of hungry whispers in the night and unsound mortal sleepers. The shrine will help, give them shelter, give them a place to go, give them the food and remembrance their lost souls need. She would not have asked him for it, a cut off ghost herself - but

but it is more than she has ever done and it will give him peace as well as them. She remembers the names. Each and every one, burned across her soul like a hot brand on a traitor's skin. She will make the list for the priests to call in each night. Give the dead back their names and perhaps his gift will give them the release they need to start the Wheel and be reborn into life again.

Perhaps her parents will forget enough and forgive...

She only bows her head to his words though, acknowledgment that what he asks will be done and done by her hand, in her design, to his specifications. The fire is a sweet touch. Though they died by it, so much of peasant life revolved around the hearth fire. It would comfort them to have one again.

Her eyes lifted, saw his offered hand and her own slipped into it, slim fingers curling, cold as ice. Here, in this place, in this time, she wondered, again, if she had really survived when everyone else had died. Or if she was only a ghost cut loose and unaware she was dead.

She would not sleep tonight.

Better to not take the risk.

But she stepped forward when he did, feet sure on the rocks, hem of her dress held out of the water with her other hand. Ghost or not, she had no where to go but forward and her lord needed warmth and life and food to drive away the soul cold of his vigil. She had always known he was different. More. From the time they were children. No matter what the wars had done to him - he still was.

And she was grateful.

And yet, like a loose thread on a silk coat, she could not help but pluck, just a little, because different or not - ]

Why this village, my lord?

[meteorrains]

[It was not an unexpected question, yet it was one that seemed to force time to stand still when it was finally brought forth. Why this village, out of all the other's that had suffered the same fate? Or had suffered far more, far worse, had been left with nothing and no one who remembered their true names? Why in this village had he stood silent vigil for hours upon hours, until the sun had sunk low into the valley beyond and the air had taken on it's icy chill?

Was there any possible way to answer such a question without some semblance of the truth? Would it be possible to force out a lie when his entire being was screaming at him to finally allow it to be heard? How long had his mother and his father forced him to forget, to not mention it by name, to not mention them, to not think of their faces, to not picture them within his mind and dreams.

To not look back on that little girl with whom he used to sit for hours in blissful silence, who smelled like sun and rain and happiness?

Only once they reached the shoreline did he begin to form any sort of answer, to contemplate each and every story he had ever told about his origins, how they all weaved together, how each one contained some piece of truth. If anyone had ever bothered to put all of them side by side, light would finally be shown upon the darkest of secrets.

And yet he could not bring himself to tell her the same lie, to use one that had already been given, or to come up with some new ordinary tale. He had once visited as a young boy. He'd had a friend who once lived here. His father had business to attend to and would often bring him with.

Fingers squeeze the ones they held gently, carefully, before slipping away, taking a calculated step to the side, putting a sense of distance between them as his eyes peered out over the bustling village, once more full of life and laughter and joy.

It felt so wrong.]

I was born here. [It sounds so simple, so plain, like the beginning of a tale that will lead to nothing.] My father was once the lord of this land, although he is content to forget it's existence. I - myself and my mother were witness to the fire that destroyed it. We were lucky to have lived near this river, and that my mother was quick thinking and brave. I do not think we would have survived if it had not been for her.

[lostheart]

[She did not press her question, once it had been hung, suspended between them in the cold evening air. She would not ask it again either. Whether his silence was refusal or simply a gathering of his thoughts, it was his right. As it had not been hers to ask. Not because she was his geisha - but because she was one of his ghosts.

He did answer though, after that brief squeeze to her fingers, answer as much in the respectful space he put between them as in his words.

She was not sure what she'd expected to hear.

A lie.

A truth.

A denial.

A dismissal.

He gave her a truth.

And her heart, selfishly, fell. She caught it before it could fall far. Chided it back into place for being so foolish, so childish, as to think he would ever remember a little barefoot nobody child out of the dark ash of the past. Of course he would remember the fear and the terror and his mother and the day of death much brighter and sharper. She supposed she did as well and one hand rose, pale, to press light against the center of her chest. Old ache, old scar. Her eyes lifted as well, looked at the village as well. Reminded herself she was here for him, not for her own old dreams.]

It must have been a very dark night for you. Childhood does not forget terror as quickly as we wish it would as adults.