The Day of Thunder

Falling Petal Village was nestled in a valley, right at the junction where two rivers became one. Hikaru had passed through it, years ago, in his wild search for a cure for Lady Doji’s condition. He remembered little enough of it, the sound of running water, a warm room, laughter coming from the nearby common-room, the small kindness of fresh washcloths and a hot meal brought to him by smiling peasants; small, and yet not small, because it meant something to him, and to them. That was a year ago, not long before that fateful winter, when the truth of Hadananzi had been revealed.

Now, the village was enshrouded by fog. Cresting the hill and walking down into the valley, Hikaru found himself surrounded by the stuff almost immediately, cold and chill. Silent. He could hear the running water now, the sound bringing memories with it, but the only other sound was the soft pad of his footsteps, one after the other. The small footbridge, when he came to it, seemed to appear suddenly out of the mists, as though his memory had conjured it, or like something out of a dream.

Perhaps this was a dream. Taking a deep breath, Hikaru walked on.

His steps carried him to the village square, now empty- no, not empty. A woman, drawing water up from the well, as carefully and quietly as she could. Her eyes met Hikaru’s, dozens of emotions flickering through them in an instant. Fear, relief… recognition? Did she know him? Did he know her?

Slowly, the woman let her gaze drift. She looked significantly towards where he knew the headman’s house was, then back, meeting Hikaru’s gaze once more. Slowly, he nodded. This time, it was one emotion that he saw flashing in her eyes. Hope. Turning, she retreated, bucket in hand.

He walked on. He’d come this far. His cloak might be dirty, and his feet sore, but he was Lady Doji’s retainer. Mud could not stain dignity. Soreness could not damage courage.

What was a dream without a dreamer? As he came to the headman’s house, the large structure almost seeming to lunge at him out of the fog, Hikaru thought that he came upon some, fast asleep despite the late hour, two of them stretched out by the building’s entrance, lying in perfect symmetry. A second glance confirmed an all too perfect stillness, a pallor to the stiff features. How long had they lay here? Hikaru’s jaw tightened as he took the last few steps to the doorway, pushing aside the cloth and stepping inside.

“Hikaru-san…”

Hikaru knew the voice. Just as he knew the figure that stepped out of the darkness and into the candlelight. How could he not? He’d trained with him, after all. He’d been there when he’d been gifted the porcelain mask he now wore, a scarce few months ago, when the Raven Watch had been created.

Except it was different.

The candlelight cast flickering shadows over the pure white of the mask, leaving it half in darkness, but there was still enough light to see the exquisite designs that had been traced over the smooth surface in bright crimson. So intricate, and yet without a line out of place, perfect patterns that seemed to draw the mind as easily as they drew the eye.

It was only after noticing their beauty, when an all too familiar scent teased at his nostrils, that Hikaru realized the bright crimson was fresh blood. His pale eyes widened. Beneath the fresh blood, he could make out dried blood. How many layers were there? Blood dried so quickly, and there was no way Hikaru’s arrival could have been predicted. An image seemed to flash before his eyes, the figure bent over the mask, tracing and retracing the pattern, endless hours, spilling more and more blood…

“Akira-san.” Hikaru responded, his tone even, his own handsome features masklike.

The figure stepped forward. They were alike in size, in build, they even wore the same colors, whites and blues and greys. They wore the same swords; Hikaru’s left hand shifted closer to his now. He knew by the brief pause that Akira had seen the motion. They both stopped there, more than a sword’s length apart.

“I wondered if it would be you, Hikaru-san.” Akira’s voice was soft, yet only just barely muffled by the mask. Without seeing the other man’s lips move, it almost seemed that he was imagining the voice. “I hoped it would be.” Even as he spoke, Akira turned, just a little, angling his body. Hikaru’s sharp eyes caught the motion, understood its significance. He shifted his weight in response.

“Why?” Hikaru’s voice was just as soft. Could Akira hear the sadness in it? The porcelain mask gave no clue. Instead, his old comrade chuckled, shaking his head.

“Because. I thought you might understand. I thought you might join me.” The voice seemed both seductive and taunting at the same time. Akira held out his hand, palm up. “Will you join me, Hikaru?”

“I will not.” Hikaru said. Now his voice was firm, his answer immediate.

There was a brief pause. Akira withdrew his hand; Hikaru saw how close he kept it to the hilt of his sword. “Why not?” Now Akira’s voice was almost plaintive. “Do you not wish to be stronger? Do you not seek perfection? I have found it. Or so close I can taste it.”

Slowly, Hikaru shook his head. “I strive for perfection. I do not seek it.”

Both men moved at the same time. They did not strike, but two hands went to the hilts of two blades. Weights shifted as they lowered themselves into their dueling stances. The world seemed to still. Even the shadows seemed to stop flickering.

“Show me, Hikaru-san.” Akira hissed.

And so he did.

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Freshly bathed, freshly scented, and in his finest, cleanest clothing, Hikaru knelt before his Lady. And yet, no matter how much he bathed, could he ever approach the perfection of a Kami? Was he ever truly worthy to be in her presence? Taking a slow breath, Hikaru pushed down the anxieties that he felt. At least if he kept his soul clean, he might just be worthy enough.

Still kneeling, he bowed. With both hands, he held out a small box, already open. He could hear Lady Doji sigh as she took it with both her hands. A shiver ran through him as he felt the slightest tremor in her grip as she took hold of it. It had gotten worse in his absence, Hikaru could tell.

Inside was a porcelain mask. It was broken in half. But it was clean.

Lady Doji knew what it meant immediately, of course; the understanding of Kami went beyond mortal men. But she waited for Hikaru to speak anyway, and so he did. “I regret to inform my Lady that Doji Akira is dead.” He said softly.

“I see…” Lady Doji sat back, sighing. Silence fell. Hikaru knew that she only had a few minutes a day to tend to worldly matters. Much of it was spent with her family, of course. But she’d wanted to hear this herself. As the silence stretched, Hikaru’s lips pressed together, then softened. He took a deep breath.

“My Lady…” Hikaru began. He straightened, lifting his gaze, not quite to meet hers, but nearly. He could still feel it when her eyes fell on him. “I have continued to work on the poem we discussed. I think I nearly have it, but one line troubles me.”

Only those who knew Lady Doji well would even notice. It was no more than the tiniest curling up of those perfect lips, the slightest brightening of those heavenly eyes. But for Hikaru, it was like the sun rising.

“I see.” Lady Doji said, the tiniest of smiles still gracing her features. “Speak it then. We shall work on it together.

And so he did.