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Having been raised by a shinobi-turned-sculptor and a genius inventor, Lady Emma was no stranger to peculiar shows of affection. As a young girl, she never received flowers or vibrant clothes. Dogen, in his own strange way, chose to raise her not as a future courtesan, but as his own apprentice. In place of a musical instrument, she learned to treat ailments of the human body. In place of dance, she learned to swing a sword. While other girls her age were songbirds, Emma was a crane—elegant, certainly, but with a great degree of practicality and plainness too.
Despite the peculiarities of her upbringing, Emma felt no resentment. Quite the opposite—she saw the love displayed by both of the odd men that had taken it upon themselves to raise her. Although he never put his fatherly affection into words, Dogen taught her every bit of knowledge he knew, including trade secrets that he swore he would carry to the grave. And the Sculptor, though he was gruff by nature, would always spend hours teaching her how to carve little baubles and toys for her own enjoyment.
She smiled now, at the thought of it. She truly was surrounded by men who expressed themselves in unusual ways. As a matter of fact, if a potential suitor came to her professing his love through deeply emotional poetry, she was sure she would have no idea how to respond. That was why, despite herself, she was drawn to the shinobi who had also fallen into the care of the Sculptor. As the days passed, she was learning his nuances. She could not make him more talkative by nature, just as she could not have formed Dogen into a man no longer concerned for his work. But she could do her best to meet him where he stood.
A heavy cough broke Emma from her reverie. She had been watching the falling snow from the warmth of the dilapidated temple where she now made her home. She turned quickly, facing the sculptor who was in his usual place on the floor, carving away.
“Sculptor,” she said. “Has your cough returned?” Her gentle voice echoed in the cavernous room.
“Hmph, no. Just wondering if you were ever planning to leave that spot,” he mumbled, never once turning his head in her direction.
“Was I distracting you from your work?” She asked, with a hint of wry humor. He didn’t answer, nor did she really expect him to. So many men of so very few words, she thought to herself. But she had indeed been in her spot for quite a while. Now was as good a time as any to take a short stroll before evening fell.
As she made her way on the small, snow-dusted path that wrapped around the grounds of the old Buddhist temple, Emma caught movement toward one of the old gates. A figure approached, clad in familiar shinobi garb. She paused on the path, waiting until the visitor was close enough to greet.
“Wolf,” she said, while glancing him over with her sharp physician’s gaze. Dried blood on the right shoulder. Diffuse bruising of the jaw. Gait steady. Breathing even. “I was just beginning to wonder when you would return.”
He said nothing to greet her in return, but instead held out an unadorned sake jar for her to take. “For you. And the Sculptor.”
Emma gave him a small smile. “Well now, this is unexpected. Thank you.” Ever a man of few words, he continued walking past her towards the temple. She made to follow him, smiling a bit more broadly when she saw him pause in his step, just for a moment, to listen for her footsteps and ensure that she was following close behind.
At the Sculptor’s behest, the sake was served immediately. The three began in silence, each lost in his or her respective thoughts. But as the night darkened outside, the Sculptor continued to refill their cups, and he and Emma began to reminisce. He spoke of her as a child, and the imaginary companions she created to join in her games. And she spoke of Dogen and his endless ideas for machines that would put out fires, or fly like birds, or any other number of things. The Wolf sat in silence, quietly sipping his own sake. But she saw, or perhaps imagined, a softening of his features in the dim light.
The Sculptor was in the middle of telling a particularly regaling tale about his days as a shinobi when Emma realized she had perhaps had a bit too much sake. She did not make a habit of drinking to excess, but tonight it seemed as though her cup had refilled each time she set it down. She glanced over at the Wolf, who had also fallen victim to the Sculptor’s excessive generosity. Even in the warm light of the temple interior, Emma realized the stoic shinobi was now incredibly pale. He was staring straight ahead with an expression of distinct discomfort. She reached out and gently (or perhaps a little bit less gently than she intended, given her state) touched him on the shoulder. He turned to face her, his dark eyes struggling to focus.
“What…what is this?” He asked her. He swayed slightly, and steadied himself on the floor with his good hand.
It was then, of course, that Emma realized the shinobi had never been drunk. “You are feeling the effects of one too many cups of sake,” she said, attempting to give his shoulder a reassuring pat. But Wolf did not seem reassured—quite the opposite.
“I do not like this feeling.” He set his cup heavily on the table, jostling the larger jug that stood there. It toppled, and was revealed to be entirely empty. The sound did not wake the Sculptor, who had apparently fallen into a slumber in the moments that Emma had attempted to gather herself. “I never want to feel it again,” he mumbled, and then fell heavily against her.
Emma was prepared to steady herself, but found the shinobi far lighter than she expected. She held him awkwardly, not wishing to send him crashing to the floor. He made no attempt to put his arms around her, or reposition himself for that matter. She would have feared him unconscious if she did not feel his steady breathing against her neck. Tentatively, Emma glanced down at him, and saw a picture of distress: brow furrowed, eyes squeezed shut.
He’s afraid, she concluded to herself. She thought of the same Wolf, three years ago, who would not heed her pleas to rest and wait for danger to pass. His body—his will, those were the things he could control. And now he was experiencing a new sense, thanks to the sake, of losing that too.
Selfishly, she did not want to move. Although she was not particularly comfortable, she nonetheless felt a small spark of happiness in her at his closeness. But her physician’s sense, coupled with the sense that the Wolf would not desire such closeness without the influence of sake, won over. Murmuring words of encouragement, she helped him to stand, and together they moved to his sleeping mat by the hearth. Emma eased the Wolf back into a sitting position, retrieved the water gourd from its place on his belt, and held it up to him.
“This will help,” she said. “I assure you that despite how it may feel, you are safe here, and no harm will come to you.”
He took the gourd and drank heartily, tilting his head back to catch whatever he could in his mouth. Water ran in escaped rivulets down his neck, leaving trails in the ash and dried blood on his skin. When he finished, he locked her gaze in his own.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice holding the slightest hint of breathlessness. She gave him the smallest of smiles in return.
“You are most welcome, master shinobi. Now, I would recommend you rest for a while, and you should wake feeling a bit more like yourself.” She paused. “And, if you should like, I can sit beside you for a while, to ensure that you are safe while in this state.”
“Please,” he said, and lowered himself to the mat, curling up much like a stray dog would next to a source of warmth.
Emma held vigil over the shinobi, and soon realized she was fighting a losing battle against sleep as well. Her eyes grew heavy, but she did not feel right leaving his side after the reassurances she gave him. So she left in search of another mat, and returned to the floor near him to sleep. There, she drifted into a fitful slumber, with the sounds of the Sculptor’s snoring and the crackling embers of the hearth to lull her.
She was the first to awaken, as the pale morning light was beginning to make its way into the temple’s dim interior. The Sculptor was still snoring away among his carved Buddhas, and she caught the quieter sounds of the Wolf’s breathing from his place on the mat. Emma eased herself into a sitting position, wincing at the stiffness of her limbs from the unforgiving stone temple floor. Her eyes were drawn to the sleeping shinobi, who now appeared peaceful and relaxed. The furrow between his brows was still present, but perhaps less so than before. Ever so gently, and without really thinking, she reached out and gently brushed a stray hair away from his cheek.
His hand was around her wrist in an instant, holding it in a vice-like grip. The eyes that opened to meet hers were more those of a feral wolf than a man. Her breath caught, and her other hand instinctively moved for the sword at her side that wasn’t there. But as soon as he saw her, his hold relaxed, though he did not release her wrist.
“I am sorry,” she said softly, allowing herself to relax. “I should not have done that.”
“Done what?”
“I, ah…” she laughed a bit—a nervous habit. “You had hair over your face. I thought I would move it for you.”
“There is no need,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of confusion.
“I know. I apologize for startling you,” she responded. He still had not released her wrist. His skin was cool against her own. Instead of answering, he moved his gaze over to her sleeping spot on the floor.
“You stayed there?”
“Yes. It seemed to bring you comfort last night, to have someone nearby.”
To her surprise, he said, “I remember.” At last, he released his hold on her, and hoisted himself up into a sitting position to mirror her. With complete sincerity, he met her eyes and said, “I will not be drinking sake again for a very long time.”
The seriousness in his tone caught her off guard, and she was laughing before she could stop herself. She covered her own mouth, attempting to hide her impoliteness, but found that the laughter kept bubbling up despite her efforts.
“What is so funny?” He asked, perplexed. This did not help Emma’s efforts. Finally, she was able to gather herself.
“I am sorry. It’s just…for all of your skill in battle, you have the innocence of a boy.” She reached out again, this time placing her hand over his. “I know that you do not need my protection, and yet I feel an urge to protect your soul nonetheless. You have so much light in you, Wolf.”
He seemed surprised at her statement, and continued watching her with those dark, dark eyes. Very slowly, he lifted his other hand—his prosthetic hand—and brushed a stray hair from her cheek. And then, without another word, he stood and made his way outside, no doubt to practice with Hanbei as the sun took its place in the sky.
Emma watched him go, feeling a bright warmth in her chest. He would never tell her what he was thinking. That would not be Wolf. But his actions—those little nuances, were enough. She stood, took a deep breath to clear her mind, and prepared to start the day.
Fin