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After so long, he saw them on the battlefield.

Before the invaders had set to shore; before they had set their swords to blood and their appetites to ravenous, Hinata had found himself face to face with three of whom his path had wandered from. It made sense for them to be here—a war on the threshold of their home; warriors called to arms to defend their home and their people—so Hinata had no reason to be caught off guard, and yet he was.
He’d been sent by Suga to make rounds on their men; to boost morale and set the example of a Samurai on the precipice of battle; to show that he is unshaken like his father and the other lords; a lord himself and dressed in armour created for him that shines like melted gold in the dawning sun.
He is Lord Hinata, adopted son of the Shogun, Lord Daichi: and the title alone shows to him how far he has come since he last saw them.

He sees Tsukki first, because of course he does; tall, towering and wearing the barest inflection of a smile that glows in the lambent firelight; Yamaguchi beside him talking animatedly about something or other. The business of the battlefield; the talk and chatter of the other men, the sounds of metal and horses, the flags snapping in the wind and the sheer distance between them swallows the warmth of Yamaguchi’s words; of Tsukishima’s laughter; of Kageyama’s confused question that is followed up by more raucous laughter, because Kageyama was smart and intelligent and the quickest marksman on the island, but the finesse of conversation illuded him, even still, two years later since Hinata had last set his eyes upon him.
Upon all three of them.

Once, they were as close as brothers. Closer.
But time and circumstance lead them on different paths, and now Hinata stands here, dressed in golden armour and beneath his own banner, watching his friends share a drink with soldiers that they will fight beside tomorrow; Hinata’s drink waiting for him back in Daichi’s tent, between his adopted-father and those that stepped in to raise him after he lost his family.

Hinata tightens his grip on the handle of his father’s sword. Not Daichi’s, his father’s; the same blade that he’d used to defend their family, the same blade that Hinata had taken from his father’s trembling hands; the same blade that he’d driven up into the gut of the man who’d taken everything from him.
Nearly everything.

Daichi had helped Hinata pick his life back up.
At his father’s funeral he was anointed as the Master of the Hinata Clan, and the day after, Daichi offered up his home and his fortress and his care for someone too soon to have become the master of his family name.
But that meant Hinata had left his friends behind.
And worse, without explanation.

The handle of his sword is firm beneath his tight grip; his tsuka ito rough beneath trembling finger’s that he holds down against the handle and cord, watching as Tsukishima can’t hold his phlegmatic character any longer and tips his head back, golden hair shining like a halo in the lambent firelight as he laughs; Yamaguchi leaning into him, nudging him with an elbow and sharing his mirth even on the precipice of danger.
Kageyama has a smile tucked away upon the shadows of his face, his mask breaking, but he hides it behind another mouthful of sake and a glance across the preparing soldiers.

Hinata stiffens where he stands, preparing himself to be spotted, but Kageyama’s gaze drifts towards rowdier soldiers that are taking the opportunity to drink and sing and forget that they are camped on the edge of the battlefield. Not many of them will see tomorrow’s sunrise, and they’re making the most of this night.
Hinata should take this opportunity to mend broken bridges.
Afterall, he might be one of those that will not wake with the dawn.

Jaw set, heart steeled, mind racing with thoughts, Hinata takes a step forward towards the soldier’s camp, when overhead the war horns sound a piercing cry ringing throughout the night sky.

The chaos and chatter of the camp falls silent beneath their wailing all at once. Even the wind seems to fall still; the stars holding their breath, the fires growing dim beneath the lamentful wail of the war horns announcing that Shiratorizawa’s ships have finally reached the bay.
Before anyone can move, another horn rises up beneath the first; higher, shorter, calling the Samurai Lords to the Shogun’s tent. And with them, Lord Hinata; turning from former friends to answer his master’s calling and to lead his soldiers into battle.

Hinata misses the sapphire-rich eyes that catch light of his golden armour beneath the light of the braziers. He misses the rush of words that whisper like the rushing wind; the pale gaze of the moon and the stars searching and finding nothing: Hinata already gone.

Daichi was had already given instructions to the other Samurai Lords by the time Hinata entered the tent; snapping back the canvas with precision and a steady hand that did nothing to betray his nerves; trusting Daichi’s strength, skill and resolve.
He was sat at the table where the map of the battlefield was laid out; Suga beside him, ever at his right hand while Lord Ukai, Keishin’s father sat to his right. Hinata recognised others; Lord Hana, Lord Takanobu to name but a few; all standing from their Shogun’s side now with instructions.
They each give two bows; for Suga and Daichi respectfully, and another to Hinata as they pass him to make room for him to join Daichi’s side.

Suga also steps back; placing a comforting hand on Hinata’s shoulder as he passes; catching his eye in passing. Chin up, he says, although he never utters a word, slipping into the shadows of the tent and then beyond, voice ringing out in chorus to those that have begun to draw order from the men, leaving Hinata to kneel on the edge of the tatami, his father’s sword laid before him, head bowed in a formality that the two rarely engage with, being family—ward as well as son—but tonight is different.
Tonight, the air is hounded by the mongrels of war; the camp uncertain and terrified beneath the expectancy of roles and honour; Hinata is as much a representation of the Way of the Samurai as much as his father that he plays his part for the sake of his men, even if no one can see.

Daichi is smiling when Hinata raises his head, but it’s not a happy smile. Warm, yes, but edged like a sharpened sword; hiding the worry that he undoubtedly feels, yet unwavering in the face of Shiratorizawa’s outnumbering forces.

“Are you ready?”

With the Lords as his witness and the war horns braying into the night sky, Hinata confirms that he is.
And when he does, there is no waiver upon his tongue.

The battle was carnage, as Hinata expected it to be.
He had charged down the beach with the light of the archer’s arrows at his back, and overhead, and arching down to impale the samurai that stood waiting for them; many arrows finding their mark, too many deflected, some falling dead, some to one knee and so much screaming.
Hinata has slain beast and man alike, he is no stranger to death.
But this is something else.

This isn’t a Lord’s skirmish or a bandit attack; this is a clan’s declaration of war and Hinata only just catches his attention to bring up his sword to deflect an archer’s arrow—the man himself falling to a flurry that sprout from his chest in rapid succession, none further apart than a hand’s breath—continuing the swing of his blade to jar against the body of a Shiratorizawa banner man that had been aiming for his steed’s legs.
He hears Daichi order for them to charge further along the beach; hears Suga’s echoing shout rise up Lord Tsukishima shout a cry of warning as a spark of black powder caught alight before the horses feet and Hinata didn’t even have time to register his alarm before it exploded in a blinding flash of light. His mare rose in terror, up onto her hindlegs and screamed fear as arrows struck her flank, causing her to throw herself backwards.

Hinata threw himself as side as not to be crushed, winding himself on the surf-soaked sand; the heaviness of his armour weighing him down, but he rolled to escape his mare’s hooves, watching as another black powder bomb exploded as she righted herself with great effort, haunches bleeding and stuck with splintered arrow shafts.
Hinata needs to get into her saddle. He needs to ride into battle with his father and the rest of the Samurai Lords, he can’t—

“With me!”

Voice rise up and ring out; Hinata turning in scramble for his fallen sword as he watches Daichi rise too; his own black stallion having thrown him when they were spooked by Shiratorizawa’s trick. Suga’s swan-feather haori shines like freshly fallen snow, splattered with blood as he cuts down another; the Samurai Lords rising to Daichi’s call and Hinata with them as he pushes himself to his feet.
Behind come the soldiers and the bannermen; Samurai warriors to fight for their master’s honour and to defend their homestead from Shiratorizawa’s invasion, just as Hinata will ride with them because he believes in Daichi and Suga and his extended family of Samurai Lords that have helped to raise and teach him in place of his blood-family taken too soon.

Behind a rallying war cry, Hinata steadies his blades and wets it with Shiratorizawa blood.
The skies break their banks and rain heavily upon the battlefield; soaking Hinata and the earth, the beach and stone and sand, but even as his feet stuck and slipped in the blood-soaked ground beneath him, Hinata remained solely focused on his Father’s command and the spearpoint charge that breaks upon the walls of Shiratorizawa’s defence and crushing them between the might of their strength.

The raindrops fell as violent as the bodies and the arrows that fell from the skies; barraged from both sides. One caught Hinata in the back of his right arm, right between the cracks of his armour, but he gave no more sign that he felt its piercing agony beyond a grunt; adrenaline pushing pain and ache to the back of his mind as he followed the lords and led his own men.

The tide was coming in now; the onslaught of rolling waves deafening beneath the screams and the explosions that rang out; Hinata’s head rattled beneath his helmet. All he could hear was the sound of his own blood rushing; the violence of his heart beating in his chest to remind him that he was still alive and that he was still fighting.
They could win this.

Everything became a blur; faceless Samurai stepping into his blood circle and falling out of it with a new wound; one less limb, one less body to get back up and keep on fighting. The war horns are still sounding, the screams and the crying and the begging all drowned out as Hinata swings wildly; exhaustion stealing form and grace; his armour holding out against blows that slip past his defence but none doing any more damage than that of the arrow imbedded in his right arm, pulling each time he lifts his sword, each time he deflects and parries and retaliates.

When he watches Lord Ukai fall, the blows begin to fall harder; a second of deadly distraction causing Hinata to stumble; a blade sinking in between the plating of his armour, catching on his underclothes and only drawing a sliver of blood.
When Lady Hana of Clan Jozenji falls to a rally of arrows--most catching her armour and doing little more damage than gnat bites, but one pierces her stomach, deep enough to splatter her clothes and armour; deep enough to pierce her soul—Hinata’s screams his outrage; his pain swallowed up by the crack of thunder overhead as Lady Hana falls and the heavens open.
Shiratorizawa does not to stop to mourn the fallen of their enemy and they surge forward, as relentless as the tide and Hinata rises up to meet them. He’s shorter than most around him but in battle that lowers his centre of gravity and draws his attackers in; unbalancing them in their need to defend themselves and he’s closer, closer still, ignoring the biting pain of a knife or a splinter arrow shaft imbedded in his arm.

Through the rain and the bodies and the chaos of the beach, Hinata can see Daichi crossed swords with Ushijima himself; Suga held back from the man’s wild-card righthand, Lord Tendo Satori. Hinata can’t see any of the other Lords, or any of his father’s bannermen or skilled soldiers, but he can see Shiratorizawa’s colours and he can see Ushijima steadying his blade. He steps in, sword angled down whilst Daichi’s is across from him, preparing to take the strike and parry it, but Ushijima turns his back and it throws the fight to his favour as his blade comes swinging in from the wrong side; cutting across Daichi’s unprotected left.

“Sawamura!”

Suga watches him stumble and then he’s there, Tendo deflected and Ushijima’s sword against his own, but he’s not strong enough to back the Samurai’s weight and Hinata watches—too far, too weak—as Ushijima forces him down to one knee with his weight alone; Suga struggling to hold him back with two hands gripping onto his sword; Daichi’s voice commanding he fall back, Koshi—

Ushijima snatched back his sword, then swung with the back of the blade, and Hinata has never heard a scream so feared, so pained, so anger-twisted-torn as Daichi’s in that moment, and then they’re both charging in to where Suga crumples to the sand beneath the colour of his own blood: Hinata a typhoon of fury as he charges through Shiratorizawa’s ranks and that of his own men—some crying, some bleeding, too many dead—as Daichi catches Ushijima’s blade with his own to halt the finishing blow against Suga, even though he’s already—

“Father!”

Ushijima and Daichi turn at the same time that Hinata finally breaks free from the chaos behind him; Daichi fearful, Ushijima confused, echoing the word as Hinata sprints on the rain-surf-soaked sand, his own sword in an unsteady grip and he’s not prepared, this is his first battle, this is the first time he’s been surrounded by so much death, but instead of thinking about that, all Hinata can think is that his father-figure, the man that took him in when his own family were slain, is in danger and it’s all he needs to carry him across the sand, as sharp and deadly as a lightning strike; sword arching up from Ushijima’s midriff and towards his throat.
Would’ve killed him too, if the bastard hadn’t startled; hadn’t had Lord Tendo and Lord Semi’s warning, or the accurate piercing shot of an arrow that whistled through the air as it arched overhead and sprouted from the chinks in Hinata’s armour across his back.

Another followed suit, and then a third and fourth; Hinata pin-cushioned by a volley before he crumples to his knees. The adrenaline in his system tells him that they’re nothing more than pinching aches, but the wetness soaked into his underclothes whispers of something more sinister.
Hinata can’t hear it though, when Daichi is yelling—not at him, at Ushijima and Semi and the Shiratorizawa Samurai that hold him by the arms—pain overtaking his mind and the lack of adrenaline that pours out of him along with his blood; sword turned down to the stone and he’s leaning against it, grip tight, using it to keep him on his knees.

Hinata doesn’t know when he fell to his knees, but they ache, just as his hands do, and his fingers; the rain cold, the rough sand biting and through it all Daichi curses and spits and does his best to lure Ushijima’s attention away from the samurai on his knees before him.
He can feel the man’s eyes on him; can feel the focus of his gaze as a rush of air blows in from the sea—salt on the breeze, the smell of black powder and the metallic tang of blood that finds its way to Hinata’s lips where he’d bitten his tongue at one point; no energy to spit if from his mouth, no energy to wipe it from his chin where it drips down to soak the sand at his knees—trying to ignore the darkness creeping in at the edge of his vision where adrenaline and exhaustion warred.

“The last of Chisana Kyojin’s line,” Ushijima says, his blood-father’s title falling from his lips in something not-quite reverent, but near enough that Hinata snarls and tightens his grip on his katana, but there’s no more fight when his chest heaves and his balance tips him onto the beach.
Were the arrows poison-tipped? A coward’s move, and not something Hinata would accuse Shiratorizawa of—a proud, supposedly-honourable clan—but war brings out the truth of character, no matter who they are and even Hinata is to face his own.

Weak.
Ill-prepared.

Dying.

“Satoru Hinata’s son,” Ushijima says, and this time there is contempt so clearly on his lips that Hinata doesn’t need to look up to know that Ushijima isn’t even levelling his blade at his throat. Neither does he instruct any of his generals to take up their swords, sheathing his own because despites Hinata’s anger and hatred and strength of will, his body is still tightly bound to the mortal realm and his exhaustion has him in a death-grip and he can’t rise.

Not when his father is pulled to his feet.

Not when Ushijima crouches to level him at Hinata’s height, not even bothering to disarm him.

Not when Ushijima tells him that he is a disappointment as his father’s heir and Daichi’s ward; that the tide can claim him if he does not fall to his wounds, not permitting a warriors death because he doesn’t think Hinata is worthy, Samurai or not.

Hinata can hardly hold onto his consciousness as the Shiratorizawa Generals and their Shogun draw back—Ushijima ordering for them to bring Daichi and “that one” – Hinata bracing for rough hands but finding nothing but the salt, the sea and the sweet release of darkness.

When Hinata wakes, he wakes to pain.
There’s a tightness on his chest that makes it hard to breathe, but that might be due to the wounds carved into his skin or the weight of tightly wrapped bandages, stark-white in contrast to the dark blanket laid over him; shifting now to reveal his bare (save for the bandages) chest and a poultice pressed to where a blade edge had found a weakness in his defence.
He pushes himself up further and it takes too long to realise that he’s not on the beach but in a house, laid on tatami next to the irori that has warm coals in the hearth and a pot suspended above, still warming.

On the far side, back turned, focused on a task before her sits a young girl, not too much younger than Hinata himself, but she’s petite and small and startlingly blonde. Hafu, if not an outsider, because she is dressed to suit the home in which Hinata finds himself and similarly beaten up to the torn screen and battered wood; shattered shelves and mess of the house that surrounds them.
Outside, the wind creaks the trees and howls, but beneath the seaward storm, Hinata can hear the sounds of screams.
Shiratorizawa have abandoned the beach then, and are pushing their assault in land.

“You’re awake.”

Hinata turns to find the blonde girls staring at him. She almost seems surprised to see him sat up, shifting closer at a crouch. Hinata’s hand reaches back for a weapon—his tanto often beside him in sleep to protect against any would-be assailants—even though the girl is unharmed and has shown him care in dressing his wounds and, presumably, carrying him from the beach and hiding him in her house as Shiratorizawa savage the village. The movement pulls on his wounds and Hinata’s tongue fits behind his teeth as a hiss rises from the back of his throat; a sharp burning pain blooming like malevolent cherry blossom in his chest; sharply contrasting to the dull, bone-deep ache of everything else.

The girl, noticing Hinata’s caution, halts her approach, promptly settling on her knees and bowing. “You’re safe, my Lord,” she says, when she raises her face again, not moving any closer even though Hinata can see the way her eyes shift to his wounds. “My name is Yachi. I found you on the beach, and with help, brought you here. You’re in Komoda village.”
“What were you doing on the beach?” Hinata asks, still a little dazed and off edge due to his pain. His mind scrambles for location between Kiyomori’s Landing and Komoda village, and realises that Yachi has made a difficult journey to carry him inland a great distance.
She, and, whoever else, must’ve snuck him into the village from a hunting trail of some kind, or they would never have been able to avoid the Shiratorizawa invaders on the main roads.

“I was looking for my brother. He is a Samurai, my Lord, and was on the beach.”
Hinata doesn’t want to break the news to Yachi that her brother is most likely dead, although there’s something in her tone the holds his tongue and he watches as her face hardens with determination. “I couldn’t find him, so I know that he’s been taken prisoner.”
A fools hope, but hope is the only light they have and Hinata won’t be so cruel to snuff it. He thinks of Lord Ukai and Lady Hana.

Of Daichi.

“My father has been taken prisoner too. I must rescue him,” Hinata says; then, seeing the truth in his words realises that he can’t just remain here, he has to get up, to procure someway from this village and rescue Daichi from wherever Ushijima has taken him.
“Slow down my Lord, you need to—” Yachi rushes in closer, forgoing politeness to place delicate yet fierce hands on Hinata’s shoulders, clear from his injuries, and push him back down to the sleeping mat. “You’re injured. You shouldn’t move. Not at least until I can check that your wounds are closing,” she says with the stern voice of a mother admonishing her child and it reminds him of Suga’s stern words when he’d sneak into the kitchens to steal himself sweets before meals, bringing tears to his eyes.

Yachi misunderstands his heartbreak for pain and withdraws her hands instantly, although only a breath, ready to manhandle Hinata back down if he makes to stand up again.
He doesn’t though; winded by the memories of Suga’s smiling face clashing with the scream torn from his throat and Daichi’s alike as the man was cut down; Ushijima’s blade malignant in the memory’s light and Hinata turns his face away, not to scrub the tears that threaten to spill over, but to try and force himself to his feet once more. He only gets to his knees before Yachi is with him once more, but she’s not manhandling him back down to the bed; voice softer, offering food, water, more medicine to help with the pain.

“I can’t sit here and do nothing. I have to free my father before Ushijima kills him. We will need Lord Daichi if we are to retake this island back from Shiratorizawa,” Hinata argues, too tired to keep the petulance from his voice; but it’s all forgotten when Yachi freezes, staring at Hinata in new light. “You’re Lord Hinata? Lord Daichi ward and son?”
And sudden, like fox-rain over the grasslands, a smile lights up her face as she clasps his hands, seemingly forgetting his injuries. “You know my brother! You can help me free him!”

Hinata mentally stumbles beneath Yachi’s sudden change in demeanour—surrounded by the ravages of war—and he doesn’t wish to hurt her with telling her that Shiratorizawa has no need to keep Samurai’s alive; that if he survived the beach, it wouldn’t be long till he was put to the sword if not as an example to the peasants, farmers and artisans of Tsushima, then at least for the entertainment of the Samurai that hold him.
“Yachi, I don’t think—”
“Tadashi won’t be as strongly guarded as your father, he’ll be in a camp, and once we rescue him he will help you to rescue Lord Daichi.”

“Wait. Your brother is Tadashi? Yamaguchi Tadashi?”
Yachi nods, excited, shifting closer on her knees.
“Then you’re Hitoka? But you—?”
“It’s been some years,” Yachi—Hitoka—smiles, something sparking in her eye as Hinata tries to connect the memory of Yamaguchi’s younger sister, teary, dressed formally and daintily as she watched her brother leave with the Samurai, with the girl that kneels before him now; hair shorter, lengths tucked into a ponytail; older, wiser and still an untouched innocence beneath the ravages of war.

“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at Sago—”
“I knew Tadashi would be fighting at Kiyomori’s Landing and I wasn’t going to hide and wait,” Yachi says firmly. “And now he has been captured and I will save him.” And then, once again, she folds down to her knees, “please Lord Hinata. Help me save him.”

Hinata’s heart aches to think of Yamaguchi a prisoner at Shiratorizawa’s hand—worse to think him dead on the beach; a thought that the hurries from his mind along with a crown of golden-wheat and crow-black locks—but not even he can so easily leap at the prospect of him being alive when the alternative is far more likely.
“How sure are you that your brother is alive?” he asks, hating that he must. But Yachi does not falter and she does not take offence. “I saw Shiratorizawa men rounding up survivors. They stripped them of their armour and forced them off the beach. The dead were left,” she says, unwavering, “and not one of them was my brother. Shiratorizawa are too busy with their war to bury dead enemies.”

She is certain.
And Hinata needs her hope right now, especially when his own is unsteady.
Ushijima bested him without even trying. It would be impossible to rally the people and take back the island from his clan without Father to lead them, but first Hinata must rescue him and must discover where Ushijima has taken him.
He won’t kill him. Not if he wants the people to comply instead of revolting, but once Shiratorizawa have complete reign over the island they won’t need Daichi and….

And Hinata can’t sit around and do nothing.
But he can’t do this alone.

“We will rescue Yamaguchi,” Hinata says, pushing himself more firmly upright. Yachi doesn’t fight him; something similar to relief flooding her features. “And then, with Yamaguchi’s help, we will free my father and we will take back the island.” He accepts Yachi’s hand as she leads him closer to the irori; two cushions pulled from the wreckage of the rest of the house to help support him while she checks the now-closed wound of a shallow scratch down his left forearm.
“Do you know where Yamaguchi was taken to?” If it’s at a nearby camp then that will be easier for Hinata to break him and others out from; a war camp disorganised despite its closeness to Kiyomori’s landing, but his hopes are dashed when Yachi drops her head. “From what I heard the last time I saw a patrol escorting prisoners, they’re either being taken south to the farms or north to the mines at Kubara Ridge.”
“Then we’ll find him, and plan our attack from there.”

Before that, they will need to save themselves; to escape from Komoda Village even as Shiratorizawa’s mean comb the streets. It will be hard, with Hinata injured, to fight his way through even a few numbers, but Yachi assures him she already has a way out, but first she wants to tend to his wounds in a somewhat-clean environment before they’re more than likely roughing it on the road.
All in all, the wounds Hinata sustained are far from life-threatening now that they’ve been treated. The wounds from the arrows in Shiratorizawa’s volley barely scratched his skin; the soaking feeling due to rain and surf rather than his own blood; the worst of his wounds from the arrow shaft that had pierced his right arm and pulls painfully each time he moves it too high or too fast.
But that means that he can’t fight with a sword until the muscle has been given times to heal—Hinata will give himself a week at most and that means more time for Daichi to remain as Ushijima’s captive, more time for Shiratorizawa to stake their claim on that which belongs to the Karasuno Clan, and more time for the invaders to haul Yamaguchi to whatever work camp they want.

As it turns out, Hinata didn’t need to worry about using his sword, but more hauling up his own wight as Yachi leads them, not through the door, but up the stairs and out of the window onto the awning. From the roof they can see stacks of smoke even in the dark of night; lit up by the fires of which create them, and it hurts Hinata to realise that the shapes within are frames of buildings; Komoda burning and ravaged when not but a month ago he had come here in celebration, before word of Shiratorizawa’s attack reached Tsushima’s shores.

“This way, my Lord,” Yachi says, as she leads him to the edge of the roof near to the neighbouring house just as a patrol of torch-bearing samurai in wisteria-soft purple come marching up the main road. “We’ll stay high, out of sight. Stick to the rooves,” Yachi urges, encouragingly, before launching herself to the thatch beyond the divide and Hinata is expected to follow. The force of his body—aching knees, bruised ribs, cut arms—slams into the thatch and it hardly softens his fall any more than it would be jumping onto tile, but Yachi is there to steady him, hushing him and holding them still as the patrol move closer but show no sign of having heard the two traversing the rooftops.

As they move, undetected, Hinata begins to realise that Yachi isn’t the child Yamaguchi had often spoke about, all soft and well-mannered. This Yachi that is helping him is far more; ruthless and cunning when she drops down near enough onto a Shiratorizawa soldier and Hinata has to hold back a cry of warning to her when she pulls out a knife and drives it through the plating, killing the man dead.
She’s bold, brave and cunning as a fox when they get to the walls and she charges straight through a patrol to capture their attention; giving Hinata enough time to work his way out of the gates, hobbling where his knees ache and his arms burn and his chest heaves even with small breathes as he makes his way to the stables.

They’d already made a plan to meet back up; for Hinata to steal two horses if he’s able, one if not, and it’s his luck that he’s greeted with more than enough saddled horses. They’re guarded by three men, two close, one in the stalls, and despite Hinata’s injuries, he’s prideful and he faces them head-on despite Yachi telling him not to strain himself.
She doesn’t understand. She’s not Samurai, but Hinata is desperate and injured and he mutters a silent apology to Daichi as his first opponent prepares himself and Hinata is already darting in; Katana limp in his right hand, tanto deadly in his left and it doesn’t take much, but Hinata’s energy is running on reserves and he’s panting heavily as he reaches the stables.
He takes two horses by the reins, but not before slashing the leather of the other’s and setting them loose to slow down any would be pursers and perhaps give Shiratorizawa a day or two chasing down the horses.

For now, Hinata has to catch up with Yachi, and from there, track down Yamaguchi, rescue Daichi and bring peace to Tsushima once more.
Kami bless him, Hinata was going to need all the good luck he could get.

It takes Hinata and Yachi a few days to move to somewhere safe—safe being a relative term when Shiratorizawa’s colours fly above every tent and from ever wall of inn, estate or farmstead that the two of them come across, and are forced to skirt around—and it isn’t until nightfall the following day that they finally allow themselves to rest more than a quick moment to water the horses and wish they had food in their saddlebags.

The only shelter the two of them are able to find is in the shelter of Kami’s shrine upon Shigenori’s Peak; Hinata and Yachi setting up rough camp beneath the rocks and saplings of plum blossoms because Shiratorizawa were at least respectful of the gods not to touch the shrines or desecrate the nearby grounds of their altars. There are fruits on the trees and kindling around their roots; a rock outcropping sprung up from the lush grass that shields them from the winds and hides their campfire light as they shelter close to the stone, tucked up in the same bedroll, back to back to conserve warmth and privacy.
There is a sapling that can weather Hinata’s strikes as he tests the measure of his wound and the weight of his mettle; a spring in the afternoon light and a copse of wild flowers that entice the rabbits up the slope to fill them come evening.

When the sun peeks across the horizon on the morn of the third day, Hinata wakes alone.
There are still two horses grazing in the plum shade and the campfire has been stoked recently, but Yachi is nowhere in sight and Hinata isn’t above saying that he worried for his new friend’s safety even if the same has happened eremorn and yesterday, although today Hinata isn’t struck with sudden wakeness; hand gripping his tanto and scanning the nearside hills for danger as he had the mornings before.

Yachi isn’t with the horses and neither is she at the spring, but Hinata finds her footsteps leading back to the shrine path, and with the horses on lead, Hinata ascends the final stretch of the climb just as the golden hour strikes and the peak is set ablaze in the dawn’s light.
Yachi is, as expected, kneeling before the shrine, hands folded in prayer. There are plums in offering and incense from the shrine itself; the soft smell of sandalwood filling the air along with burning candles as the plum blossom snowed down upon them.
She’s been heading out for the past few days, searching for word of captured Samurai under Daichi’s banner, or Tsushima prisoners that are being taken to work camps, and when Hinata joins her and sees something akin to fire in the spark of her eye, he knows that she’s finally heard something.

“There was a patrol of prisoners early this morning,” she says, when Hinata joins Yachi at the shrine, after having whispered his own prayer; his father’s name pressed between bloodless lips; Suga’s name in plead of peace and all those who else fell on the beach and those that might’ve made it off, same as him; Kami’s blessings begged for, if not a swift but painless death.
“Tadashi wasn’t with them, or… well,” she says, and Hinata doesn’t like the determination in her eyes, but he understands and says nothing.

With prayers given and the warmth of Kami’s blessing in the wind, Yachi leads them away from the altar and down to the bridge that connects the hillside with the shrine top. Both Hinata and Yachi had discussed burning it; to protect the Shinto Shrine from Shiratorizawa, but so far there have been no attempts to slight the gods in that regard, and it won’t do to separate the people from their altars.
There’s a stretch of stone and dust and moss that clings to the rock; yew wood growing sparse but strong and it’s a branch that Yachi takes as she settles on her knees and begins to draw in the dirt, mapping out the mountains, valleys and hills of Tsushima and where they were in correlation to the roads upon which she saw the patrol and in what direction they were heading to.
From here they can see north, to the forests, Yagata and Kashine; the farmstead that separates them and the three stacks of black smoke that tell of Shiratorizawa violence. Kashine’s hills stand to be the backdrop, hiding Komoda’s destruction and Toyotama from view.

“I heard that they’ve got enough hands at Yagata,” Yachi says, a finger gesturing to the mark on her map, eyes lifting briefly to look to the farmstead just north; easily seen by the low burning fire of a structure on fire—either rebellion, punishment or an execution— “so now they’re taking prisoners to Kuta Farmstead, on the east coast.”

That… might be a problem.

Kura farmstead is on the edge of the Kuta Grasslands and the coast, but it’s a high atop a sheer cliff meaning that Shiratorizawa have got the defence of an unclimbable rock face to their east and flat plainlands to the north, west and south, so even if Yamaguchi was there and Hinata and Yachi made their attempt to free him, they’d be seen coming for miles and that might place Yamaguchi and the other prisoners in danger.
Either way, that doesn’t negate the fact that they’ve got their first real lead; that Yamaguchi is still trapped; that his only hope lies in Hinata and Yachi’s rescue and that that is flawed when Hinata still can hardly hold his sword above his head.
It’s been three days since they left Komoda and Hinata is better than he had been, but sparring against the saplings is only doing so much for his rehabilitation and doing very little to hold his patience because his back still twinges and his arm still pulls when he lifts his sword too high.

Now with a destination and a goal to set for; Hinata and Yachi are able to set off once more. They preferring to wade through the wilds rather than using the roads and risking a run in with a patrol; hugging Izuhara river. They can’t cross into the Golden Forest and hide in her dense foliage where there are so many Shiratorizawa Samurai; forces amounting where they are using the Golden Temple as a foothold in the midlands of Izuhara’s territory.
The river bridges are all blockaded and Hinata isn’t nearly strong enough to take on a patrol all by himself. Yachi might be able to fight, but not in a head-on approach and she has no armour to cushion the blow of a sword or turn an arrowhead.

It’s a realisation that Hinata is painfully reminded of in the early evening, when they catch sight of Lake Izuhara’s shore late in the evening and are caught off guard by an arrow that comes hurtling from near the river where Shiratorizawa—or bandits—were lying in wait. Yachi screams, but she hasn’t been struck, just startled; as is her horse that rears and throws her; Hinata a few seconds behind that serves him the warning of incoming fear from his horse and he is able to keep his saddle; kicking heels to flank and wheeling his steed between Yachi and their pursuers.
She scrambles to her feet, and scrambles for Hinata’s horse, her chest on the horses flank before she’s yelling for him to go, hitting the horse in place of whipped reigns and they kick off at a gallop, to the river shore and along it, towards the lake.

But those giving chase have horses all their own and a horse carrying two is slower than a horse carrying one and they’ll be upon them in no time.
Even worse, they’ll be pincered, when the trading post looms up with Shiratorizawa banners declaring their claim.

“We have to cross the river,” Hinata says, reaching behind him to secure a grip on Yachi’s clothes and she barely has the chance to tell him that won’t work before there is water around them and the horse jars against the sudden resilience. The river lifts Hinata from the saddle; lifts Yachi and they slip off as the horse’s hooves kick river stone and carry him through and out onto the other side; panicked and mindless in fear that see him charge through the eternally-autumn trees while Hinata and Yachi scramble for the long pampas grass on the shore.

Shiratorizawa horsemen charge past them.

“They mustn’t’ve seen us fall,” Yachi whispers as a dozen horses stampeded the shores and through the river, turning the smooth water frothy and wild, chasing their riderless horse. “A blessing from Kami,” Hinata whispers, holding his sword tight in one hand, Yachi’s robe twisted up in the other, the pair of them laid in the long grass, panting, trying to stifle the racing of their hearts.

Slowly, quiet returns.

Thought, it’s almost, too quiet.

Hinata tips his head back slightly, to where the old trading post’s walls stand tall through the shifting grass. There’s campfire smoke; little flecks of embers and ash rising into the sky even this early in the morning—late lunch or early dinner perhaps—and there’s the sound of ringing metal, but not something that would remind Hinata of sparring, training or even a blacksmith hammer, but like windchimes caught in a breeze.

“What is it?” Yachi asks. She’s caught onto Hinata’s confusion, tilting her head the same, but where Hinata is confused and considering, she pales at the prospect of danger. “We should move,” she whispers, voice tight, but Hinata’s hand pins her. “Wait. Something’s not quite right.”
There’s enough trust between them, fragile as it may be, that Yachi doesn’t fight Hinata when he rolls over, slow to rise from his crouch but rising all the same, and makes his way towards the wooden walls. The platforms that have been constructed to raise archers above the walls are empty and there’s no one at the gate. In fact, the gates are closed.

“Maybe they’re out on patrol,” Yachi whispers as they creep closer, moving from shoreline to the small stretch of grass between them; a small out crop of rocks supporting a young gingko that provides cover as they push up so that they’re eye-level with the top of the walls, looking into what parts of the trading post they can.
They can’t see anyone.

“They wouldn’t leave this place unguarded. Come on,” Hinata says, having caught sight of a fence post out of place, near the back of a hut that wouldn’t be commonly seen and will provide them easy access. They slip in quietly, near to the well and quickly duck into the shadows of the small travellers inn that is as much a room for those on the road to take shelter for the night as it is a storage room for traded goods.
Only now, it’s been raided, looted and struck by violence.

“Why would Shiratorizawa do this?” Yachi asks, creeping over to wicker baskets of cloth; linen and silk that have been tipped over as if someone was hastily searching for something; a low table tossed and the food that had been on it spread over the floor; spilt wine staining the tatami.
“This isn’t Shiratorizawa,” Hinata said, moving over to the door frame the splits the building into two; hand reaching up to run the pads of his fingers over wood scored by a blade. “This was an attack against them.”
“Who? The traders?”
“No,” Hinata says, catching sight of something intriguing and stomach-churning out the window, abandoning all care for stealth as he marches to the door and—ignoring Yachi’s sudden surprise-throws back the door to reveal the court.
And a dozen dead samurai, all wearing Shiratorizawa’s garb.

Bodies lay littered across the dirt; trails of blood reaching out from the dead like an infection searching for another host or victim. Two were killed with their own weapons; a spear through one’s gut, the other with his sword still imbedded in his chest.
“Bandits?” Yachi asks, keeping her distance, focused more on Shiratorizawa’s food supplies that are empty; no horses in the stables; the blacksmith’s tools and iron taken from the small forge. It makes sense, with the looting and the chaos of the trading post’s courtyard, but Hinata doesn’t agree, leaning down to what appears to be a Samurai Lord.
He has an arrow protruding from his mask; not cracked through it’s shell, but having precisely struck through his sightlines.

“This was retaliation,” Hinata says, counting those that were taken by arrows; all clean kills with efficient shots that dug deep regardless of the armour that Shiratorizawa wore; the arrows all clustered neatly together and each and every single one of them fluted with crow feathers.

It’s a clear sign of Kageyama’s Way of the Bow, and that thought alone strikes Hinata with a strength he thought that he’d lost; his veins burning like they hold lightning instead of blood; the boy on his feet in an instant as he scans the destruction and all confusion-cautious-wariness is overcome with pride and exhilaration.

“It was Kageyama,” he announces, doing nothing to hide excitement from his voice; rushing to one of the archer’s podiums erected for Shiratorizawa to defend their post, ignoring the burning ache of his arm where he’s overjoyed that Kageyama survived the attack on Kiyomori’s Landing. “If we can find Kageyama, he will help,” he calls to Yachi as he reaches the top of the podium like he might just be able to see the Samurai archer astride his horse, riding away from the destruction and another battle won.
Yachi is less sure as she joins him, uncertain where they’re exposed out of cover, but still relatively safe behind “Shiratorizawa-claimed” walls, because even with an attack won, Kageyama hadn’t burnt Shiratorizawa’s banners, either for a reason or because something drove him from the trading post before he had a chance.

To the west lies Yagata, Kashine before them, and to the east, Kashine’s grasslands. There are horse tracks on the main road; divots dug deep from a galloping beast laden with a rider and Hinata begs that gods that it is Kageyama’s trail; chasing rather than fleeing and he points it to Yachi, repeating that they should follow, that they should find him, he will help.

“Will he?” she asks, and Hinata doesn’t blame her for her uncertainty, because the last time that she saw Kageyama—the last time she saw Hinata too—they weren’t close friends; more like forced allies learning under the same banner and he is quick to stomp down the sharpness in his voice. “For Yamaguchi, certainly.”
Then soft, and unsteady, “for me…?”

If it was just for himself, Hinata wouldn’t know the answer. But he saw Kageyama and Yamaguchi the night before the attack on Kiyomori’s Landing; saw the laughter and companionship that they’d shared around a drink. They were still brothers.
This time Hinata was the outsider; the one that had left, the one that hadn’t returned even though he had been able to; even if he had promised….

“Come on. We have no horses and Kageyama is riding. We’ll need all the light we can to follow,” Hinata says, turning back to the ladder. He had considered taking shelter for the night here, but plans are changing and changing fast; Yachi delaying them further when she wants to sweep the trading post for anything that could’ve been missed and is rewarded with bread, a gourd of sake and clean cloth that she will re-wrap Hinata’s wound with come nightfall.

Without horses their pace is slowed and now they’re forced to stick to the road so that they may follow Kageyama’s tracks. But Kashine’s grasslands are vast and the pampas grass is long so that whenever Yachi and Hinata catch sight of a coming patrol, they are quick to duck into the long fronds and wait for the Shiratorizawa Samurai to pass them by.
At dusk, when the sun sets the sky ablaze, Yachi and Hinata follow Kageyama’s tracks to the shore, pushing from the road to the lake edge for water and a chance to wash the mugginess of their journey from their skin, watching as the mist rises from the water and the sun’s golden light paints the pampas grass with rich light.
It's pretty, despite the reality of the war around them and the beauty is disarming; especially when Hinata dips a hand in the lake water and splashes Yachi with it, grinning, laughing when she splashes him back.

“We won’t be able to keep following Kageyama’s tracks for too long,” Hinata says, when they’re ready to move again, turning his gaze to Ariake Island that sits as a divide in the centre of the lake and holds the path that Kageyama took, into the golden forest.
“We will lose them if we turn back to find somewhere to camp now,” Yachi argues, having grown steadily eager for another to join their pair, pushing to stand and dusting herself off. “The golden forest is crawling with Shiratorizawa Samurai. We can use the encroaching darkness to move unseen. We’ll be slower following the tracks, but with their numbers, we’ll have to move slow anyway.”

She is determined, and Hinata longs for the comfort of a familiar face he can trust; growing weary of being on guard and being on the run for days now that he doesn’t dispute the decision and together the two of them cross Ariake and slip into the Golden Forest as the dusk grows softer behind them.
Kageyama’s tracks are easy to follow where they remain on the path; the pair not forced into hiding where the patrols must be sticking to the upper slopes and near to the temple, not skirting the edge, not anywhere near here even if Kageyama’s tracks are laid over the top of old hoofprints and human-prints; boots and wheels and the signs of Shiratorizawa close by—

A man steps out from behind a tree, then another, and another. Without realising it, Hinata and Yachi had walked themselves right into an ambush.

“Surrender, Samurai,” one calls, but Hinata has no plans to, and although his arm burns and he’s as weak as a child he once was, he is determined to face off against those that seek to take his home from him.
Instead of running for cover like she should, Yachi takes a stand beside him. She only has her hunting bow, and she’s nowhere near as deadly as Kageyama, but she’s not running and she’s not hiding and together the two of them face their attackers.

They surge forward like a tidal wave: Hinata the cliff face that they crash upon, holding them back with his sword. His arms burn and his back throbs but he does not buckle and though it is dishonourable and not the Samurai way, he takes his tanto from its sheath and takes his first opponent across the stomach while his right keeps his sword and hands pinned.
Yachi screams, but then so is someone else and Hinata knows that she’s okay, he doesn’t need to turn and look to see that she’s okay—can’t turn to look, when there is a spearhead coming at him that he must deflect, stumbling slightly, he forces his opponent back and frees them from the mortal realm with a blade to their unprotected throat.

Another, another, another.

The scream of horses hooves announce reinforcements and Hinata’s fear sky rockets. He is a Samurai, every step onto the battlefield can mean potential death but Yachi isn’t prepared; this wasn’t her Path, this wasn’t her choice and—

“Samurai!” someone yells and Hinata doesn’t understand—turning his head, just as he watches the man get charged down by another on a white stallion; charging through the ranks as arrows fly overhead in quick succession and come raining down on the two samurai that were chasing Yachi; giving her time to get away; giving Hinata the distraction he needed to make quick work of the last two opponents within his reach, turning to a third with a heavy sword and an arm that agonises him, but he’s stubborn and resilient and he won’t go down—

The man falls six feet from Hinata, killed by three rapid arrows to the chest.

The last man flees—the coward—but he won’t get far when the mysterious Samurai astride his horse chases him down; Hinata trusting of his new brother-in-arms enough to search for Yachi, seeing her deeper in the Golden Forest, shaken but unharmed. She had blood on her hands and blood on her haori, but none of it is hers and can be easily washed away in the stream.
But firstly, gratitude, and Hinata turns back to their saviour two with thanks sitting genuine on his tongue, but the sight of the archer before him stutters the words before he can speak them.

“Shouto?”

It’s Kageyama, and he looks just as surprised to see Hinata alive as he was to learn the same, except the pride-rejoicing exhilaration that had taken a hold of him is missing from the taller, something uncertain, something disbelieving taking the spotlight instead.
“Kageyama,” Hinata greets—breathes—and he watches the moment shatter; Kageyama slinging his bow a little stiffly, like he’s recovering from an injury too, but still staring at Hinata, deathly and pale, like the unwavering Samurai has been struck with fear at seeing a ghost or spirit; as if Kageyama believes Hinata to be a spirit; a shadow of the samurai he used to be.

“I thought you died,” he says, and his voice wavers with how hollow it sounds; withered, like maple caught by the frost. “Ushijima defeated Lord Daichi and took him captive, but he left no one else alive so we all thought….”
Kageyama doesn’t need to speak the words aloud for Hinata to guess to which he does not say, but before he can be the one to fill the silence, the sounds of hooves return and Hinata finds himself looking up into another familiar face; Tsukishima—Lord Tsukishima, now that his father is dead and Tsukishima has become the Master of his household—another who has survived the horrors of Kiyomori’s Landing.
He shares Kageyama’s surprise.

“We thought you were dead,” he says, where Kageyama could not.
“Yachi save me. She nursed me back to health,” Hinata explains shortly, briefly, ushering Yachi closer, who had been hiding behind a tree. There’s a shake to her hands and a tremble to her knees, but she recognises safety and reaches for it; Hinata taking her hand to help steady her as she recognises Tsukishima and is recognised in return.
Of course she is; she used to follow Yamaguchi to Tsukishima’s estate when they were younger and though she had no interest in fighting or swordsmanship, she loved her brother and his best friend; as much Tsukishima’s childhood friend as Yamaguchi and Hinata watches with a warmed heart as the usually-phlegmatic Samurai Lord all but throw himself from his saddle to wrap Yachi in a fierce embrace.

“But how are you here?” he asks. “Toyotama is lost—”
“I had already travelled to Izuhara before Shiratorizawa invaded. It’s a long story,” she laughs, wetly, relieved.
Tsukishima looks up, as if realising they’re not alone, but instead of the expected false disinterest Hinata expects him to portray, he simply tugs Yachi closer, brings his horse to his side with a shrill whistle and says “it’s not safe here. Follow us.”

Tsukishima leads Hinata and Yachi to his estate; at Komatsu Village, where he and Kageyama have secured the valley to shelter innocents from Shiratorizawa and to keep the invading clan at bay.
There are tells of battle and damage inside the walls that suggest that it was taken back rather than remaining untouched since the beginning of the invasion, but just to see Tsukishima’s colours flying; to see their people going about their daily lives with farming, trading, building tools and tending to livestock feels Hinata with hope.
Even more so, when Tsukishima leads him to the dojo at the back of the valley, looking out over the town and Hinata is greeted with Ennoshita at the gate.

“Shouto,” he breathes, with fear-surprise-astonish-relief and Hinata doesn’t care that he’s meant to have grown up and grown out of childish things like hugs, but Ennoshita is another face he never thought he’d see again, having shared a drink in the tent before the war horns sounded and losing him promptly after to the chaos of the approaching battle and it’s three and half steps, a heartbeat and a sob before Hinata has his arms around his mentor-turned-friend; Ennoshita surprised and stumbling on the stone, but quick to reciprocate.
“My boy,” he whispers into his hair, turning his head into his chest so that the tears he cry are hidden from those that he might not want to see, a hand in his hair and holding him as he takes his own shuddering breaths. “We thought you died. After Ushijima took your Lord Daichi—”
“I thought I was the only one too,” Hinata says, pulling back; not out of Ennoshita’s embrace, just enough to be able to meet his eye, cast back to a similar instance at Castle Daichi not two fortnights ago when Hinata had stressed himself over something nonsensical and Ennoshita had pulled him aside and helped him calm. He didn’t look so tired or worn then.
Neither was he supporting his weight on a crutch, or his right arm heavily bandaged.

Hinata blanched, realising that he had most likely hurt Ennoshita in his rushed approach, but the older didn’t say anything nor bring attention to it, too focused on staring at the boy before him, drinking in his image like he’d been told this was the last time he would ever see Hinata again. Like Kami had given him a second chance and warned him not to waste it.
“How did you make it off the beach?” he asks; to which Hinata smiles a little, tired but relieved, moving so that he’s helping support Ennoshita’s weight, turning to Tsukishima’s home and the samurai lord himself stood on the threshold in watchful eyes and invitation all at once.
“It's a long story. And you’ll have to tell me how you were able to retake Komatsu Village in return.”
“Over food,” Tsukishima says, lifting his voice slightly with something authoritative and prodding yet always kind as he steps aside to usher them into his home.

While Hinata and Yachi are provided a meal far more substantial than the food they have been able to scrounge for in the last few days, Kageyama takes Hinata’s armour to the armourer to be mended—he won’t let them take his father’s sword, he’ll take that later himself if he doesn’t first find a whet stone; Tsukishima and Kageyama sharing a look although they say nothing—while Tsukishima and Ennoshita take turns to catch them up to speed, not just with the dealings involving Komatsu Village and the surrounding prefecture, but with the invasion overall.
“Kamiagata is still under Daichi’s Flag by way of Ukai’s command,” Ennoshita explains, “but Ushijima has dominion over Castle Kaneda, Fort Ito and most of Toyotama meaning that we are cut off from one another. Ukai cannot provide us with reinforcements and nor we to him. They’ve taken over the farms and they’ve blocked the roads. We’re mostly trapped to this valley, I especially,” Ennoshita says, waving hand towards his crutch, “but Kageyama and Lord Tsukishima protect the valley and venture out each day to deal damage to Shiratorizawa Samurai and the encampments they’re making.”

They had made it off the beach by sheer force of will; the last few able soldiers rallying together to break through Shiratorizawa’s soldiers before they could be captured and slaughtered, but there’s something in it that scratches Hinata’s impatience, because he had fought to the end, “Daichi fought to the end. Why didn’t you—”
“Lord Daichi had already been taken,” Tsukishima says, cutting Hinata off firmly, meeting his gaze with equally-sharp steel. “You were thought to be dead. The men’s spirits had been broken, and Ushijima’s men were hunting down survivors to put to the sword. We pulled back to nurse our wounds and strike again when we were stronger.” He rose on his knees to serve more tea, eyes fixed to Hinata’s pointedly. “We cannot save Lord Daichi if we’re dead.”

Hinata understands, as much as he doesn’t like the thought that Ennoshita, or whoever, called for a retreat, leaving Daichi in Ushijima’s clutches. He doesn’t say anything, as he doesn’t mention that his first thought after waking and accepting Yachi’s help that he sought to storm Castle Kaneda, although by the expressions Tsukishima and Ennoshita exchange with one another, they already expected as much.
Neither of them say anything either.

When Kageyama returns, taking a seat and helping himself to a serving of food, Tsukishima urging Yachi to take more if she is hungry, Ennoshita turns the conversation in a different direction, wanting to know how it came to be that Hinata survived Kiyomori’s Landing when it should’ve been that Ushijima killed him along with all the other Samurai Lords that led the charge with Daichi.

“He didn’t grant a warrior’s death,” Hinata whispered with dark designs warming his throat and bringing a chill to the room, despite the irori that warms and the candles that give enough light to beat back the shadows of the growing evening.
Tsukishima and Kageyama look unsettled, either by his words, or the supernatural wind that blows above their head to trattle the roof tiles and shake the trees; the spirit that rose from the bloodied beach angered with such power that the world will feel it too, but Hinata just stares into the fire, into the glowing embers and dancing flames as he spills his tale and watches the memory of himself spill blood onto the sand; Ushijima walking away with his father in tow and the darkness creeping in.

Hinata explains that it was Yachi who found him on the beach, and that it was Yachi who took him to Komoda to escape from Shiratorizawa, but by that second day, and with Daichi fallen and the Samurai Lords supposedly dead, Shiratorizawa had free reign of Izuhara, which has made their journey all the more difficult, and their search for Yamaguchi all the more complicated.

“Yamaguchi?” Kageyama asks, incredulous at the same time that Tsukishima tips forward enough that he’s dangerously close to upending himself into the fire pit with something near desperate, “he’s alive‽”
“His body wasn’t on the beach,” Yachi confirms, and Hinata only hears the waver in her voice because they’ve spent days travelling together. Although, Tsukishima must hear it too, because he’s reaching out; the pair of them threading their fingers together where they’re not quite grieving for Yamaguchi, but held suspended on the thin line between wanting to hope and fearing they’re too late.
“It was why I was there in the first place.”

Now it is Yachi’s turn to talk; turning to Ennoshita and Kageyama to explain, that after the attack on Kiyomori’s Landing; after the fires had burned low and Shiratorizawa’s men were beginning to draw eastward towards Castle Kaneda, she made her way down to the beach to search for her brother, to bury him if needed; and this time, Hinata shares in the discomfort that his friends outwardly show when his mind presents him his friend dead and lifeless on the blood-stained shore.
Except that, when Yachi had been unable to find his body, so that must mean that he is alive and taken prisoner, and—gods, Hinata hadn’t thought about that, or given it any consideration at all, but Yachi had gone to beach expecting her brother dead. She had stepped over bodies of strangers; waded through the battlefield with only family in her mind, not even hope in her heart, and Hinata settles back into his shadow as he watches Yachi animate the story with her hands, the light in her eyes warm and sparking and hopeful, and he is reminded of her bravery.
Reminded that she is not a Samurai, and yet she has a Samurai’s heart.

“I saw him get cut down,” Tsukishima says, and his voice sounds deathly. “I thought that he was dead.”
Kageyama, at his side, settles a hand over his in a rare sign of comfort that wouldn’t normally be concealed behind “too much sake” or the privacy of the four of them up in the hills when they were hunting bears or bandits as Samurai apprentices; before they’d taken oaths and banners and Hinata a separate path.
“You couldn’t have known,” he says, and Hinata keeps his face turned away, his eyes closed, because it’s easier to pretend that that tenderness is for him once more, even if he doesn’t deserve it.

“We were on a battlefield,” Ennoshita tells him, ever the sensei, ever the kind, guiding hand. “Things were chaotic. Chaotic enough that Lord Hinata was left alive and that you missed that Yamaguchi was also.”
“We’re heading to free him,” Yachi pipes up, because she has found another to help her fan the flames of hope and she leans into this small group of warriors—of friends, both to her and her brother—and begs without so many words, “that’s why we were heading east, and why you found us in the Golden Forest.”
“Then you know where Yamaguchi is?”
“Rumours say prisoners are being taken to work the logging camps and farms,” Hinata says, in Yachi’s defence, and perhaps his own to something broken and fragile and forgotten, because Kageyama’s words sound a little too biting. Or maybe they’re not. Maybe it’s just him and his own fear.
“We’re certain Yamaguchi has been taken to Yuta.”

“A hard place to attack. There is no cover for miles, you’d be shot down the moment you got in range,” Ennoshita says, almost conversationally, like it’s a given that the attack will happen and now it’s just a matter of how.
And it is, Hinata realises, when Tsukishima sends for maps of the east coast and for his own swords to be sharpened; Kageyama drawing back now that he has a spear-point focus on the future and his comfort is no longer needed. He catches Hinata’s gaze as he does, not quick freezing, but there’s hesitation in the movement and perhaps a question in deep ocean eyes.

Hinata cannot be certain that the want he sees in them is of his own imaginings.

The road to Yuta is mostly on the road, all of it on horseback; Yachi and Hinata sharing a saddle once more as they take second in their small parade; Kageyama in lead with his bow settled in his lap already strung with an arrow in case while Tsukishima brings up the rear and holds their guard.
Ennoshita has been left in charge of the valley and his estate for the few days it may take them to free Yuta farmstead from Shiratorizawa; the four left to keep their eyes on the road and their mind on their task.
Hinata has taken a bow with him—not as skilled at archer as Kageyama, but he can still pin a rabbit to a fence post from across the field when he has the time to wait and line his shot; can still pin a man in the throat or the chest from a divide that wouldn’t be cut with a sword, and that’s enough to arm him—tanto and katana cleanly sharpened by his own hand because they are his father’s swords; not Daichi’s, but blood, and they’re all that remain of the legendary Samurai of whom Hinata was born.

Little does he know that there are whispers of him too, that circle the fires of survivor camps tucked away on hilltops and out-of-the-way caves and river inlets; whispers of a spirit that rose, bloodied from the beach and vengeful for brothers fallen; a shadow that haunts the edges of soldier camps and stands guard on the crossroads and bridges.
They say it is the spirit of Chisana Kyojin’s son; blood-born and demon-risen to drive the invaders from the shore.

The path takes them to the Golden Summit Shrine where the high-ground gives them a lookout over Yuta Grasslands and the tilled land on the coast, where the winds blow inland and the stacks of smoke rise in telling destruction of Shiratorizawa’s claim over the land.
There are bamboo-constructed cages that double as sleeping cells as well as holding cells, and Hinata feels a fire burn inside him where he can see, even from here, people thrown in by Shiratorizawa bannermen; his grip tight on his sword handle and something similar in the eyes of his friends.

Only Yachi remains desperate in her search for her brother, but they’re not going to be able to see him from here; only the patrols that run back and forth and the patterns that they fall into in the monotony of guarding farmers and civilians too scared for their lives to fight back. The worst they think they have to fight are bandits coming for food, or prisoners trying to flee, and not three samurai and a determined sister who leave their horses at the summit and approach on foot; weighted down by weapons and the fear of failure.

They have waited until nightfall; the moon the only light they need to guide silent footsteps through the pampas grass; rushing closer in the moments where the clouds scud lazily in front of her lunar beauty and cast a darkness across the night. Shiratorizawa’s bonfires beckon them closer as the four separate from one another; Kageyama moving northwardly with aims to climb onto one of the sheds where he can pick off his prey with deadly precision.
Tsukishima takes the south with Yachi, towards the bamboo holding cells that contain the farmers now that the day’s work is done, while Hinata moves steadily, surely closer, his eyes on the master’s house and the rambunctious laughter of Shiratorizawa soldiers inside; the ones that aren’t patrolling or keeping guard.

They don’t see him coming.
He is a ghost. A shadow.

A spirit.

It is not the Way of the Samurai, but it is Hinata’s Way when driven by fear and anger; his friends are in danger, his father imprisoned, his samurai family slain in the name of greed of a man that couldn’t even honour him with a warrior’s death.
What Hinata wrought upon Shiratorizawa would not be called honourable. A need, perhaps. A must.
Those were his people in cages—and hopefully, oh gods hopefully Yamaguchi too, because there were worse places to be shackled into servitude and though the sea wind is brisk and the rations meagre, at least he’s not in the mines or chained up for the amusement of the soldiers—and Hinata was loath to let them suffer anymore.

A spirit of vengeance indeed as he swept through the Master’s house with blood on his lips and darkness in the shadows of his face; scaring the women forced to cook the meals into the corners while he bled men with their swords and his own; moving on with the silence of a shadow and a man with one focus.

Hinata stalks the rice fields and stalks between the cages, cutting through the bindings of rope that keep them erect; slicing through the bamboo itself to free his people as they scurry to the safety of the master’s house that had once held such horrors and now stands to be a beacon.
He comes across men already slain, some by bow, some by sword and to be sure he drives his sword through their chests and pushes onward; the water and mud thick beneath his feet that will draw predators and disease from the shadows of the forest, but for now they let the demon spirit hunt in the moonlight.

Ennoshita had warned them of the danger of Yuta’s grasslands; of the open plains and no cover for miles, but as Hinata draws a breath and casts an eye to the moon-lit grasses the dance and shimmer and he amongst it; a blot on ink on the white canvas; a promise of something dark and deadly in the nightscape; a promise and a whisper and a terrified name shared as the last of Shiratorizawa’s cowards flee from the wrath of the spirit, Hinata thinks that it was in their favour.

He finds his friends the cages, between the fields and the grasslands.
He finds relief in the familiarity of Yamaguchi’s face; eyes closed and cradled in Tsukishima’s arms. He fought back, that much is clear, in open skin and bloodless lips, but there is a smile in the shadow of his face and he hushes Tsukishima’s apologies because he hadn’t known Yamaguchi hadn’t fallen on the beach, “if I had known—”
“You came for me. That is all that matters,” he says, with a finger that traces the curve of Tsukki’s lips, giving little else because he is exhausted, but he is safe in Tsukki’s arms and those of his sister, who hadn’t given up hope and borrowed her brother’s bravery to slay the men that guarded his cell.

Kageyama is with them too, arrow still nocked in his bow and blood on his knife where he finished the job where anger and rage had distracted the preciseness of his arrow’s flight and Hinata wonders if he is wearing the same longing expression; that the same want that beats in his heart shines with the same light that has yet to be corrupted by the bloodshed of the battlefield and the farmstead’s lands.
And when Kageyama turns, Hinata can see that there is something there; something fragile in his eyes. Something too much like hope, but the kind that hurts where it has grown heavy in gentle arms.

Hinata doesn’t deserve that hope. He doesn’t deserve that same fragile love that flutters between Tsukishima and Yamaguchi in whispered promises and apologies—cannot have that love when he was the one to leave in the first place.

With both difficulty and ease he doesn’t want to think about, Hinata turns away, giving mind to the other prisoners and those that had been rallied by Yamaguchi’s defiance and hold their own wounds; finally able to tend to them in the Master’s house where the fires have been relit and the women who had been forced to be house servants have taken charge. The injured lay on bedrolls while those that are able tend to their wounds or tend to the fire and the vegetable broth warming over the flame, but they all halt their work when they see Hinata in the doorway, not quite entering where he’s dressed in his armour and he wears the price of freedom.
Still, he is regaled, and all those that are able bow low; others nodding their head and closing their eyes in reverence, like Hinata has performed some great feat. For them though, he has granted them their lives and their freedom, so he doesn’t belittle their reverence by brushing it aside.

They share whispers amongst them, but Hinata doesn’t have the mind to listen. “Is there anything that you need?” he asks the nearest, hands swaddled with blankets, having been directing a more able-bodied man that holds a hunting bow in his hands and the beginnings of a snare.
“Nothing that we aren’t able to take for ourselves now that you have freed us,” he says, while she bows her head and says, “Yaku is going hunting. What the injured need it meat and rest. You have already done enough my Lord.”
“I am still able. I will come with you,” he says, reaching for any excuse, any distraction, when Kageyama enters with Tsukishima and Yamaguchi in turn; Yachi and another ushering them to an open bed before settling at his side to watch over him.

It will be too crowded with Hinata there too, and so he joins Yaku to the hunt and says little to his thanks and praise. He learns that Yaku is from Nekoma, in the north; that the soldiers in his village were taken prisoner as Yamaguchi was; that he was seeking to rescue them when he was captured himself and shipped south to work the lands rather than the mines.
Hinata makes another promise, just as Yaku knows that Castle Kaneda lies between where they stand now and the mountain range that sees Shiratorizawa mining ore to smelt into more swords and arrowheads to hold their claim on the island.

Together the pair of them hunt rabbit and boar and songsters until the night grows long and the morning early; Hinata finally drawn back to the master’s house by his exhaustion; offered a bowl of broth and shown to a bedroll on the second floor where he is reunited with the familiarity of Yachi tending to wounds once more, both old and new.

“They’re calling you a spirit,” she says, while he can hardly keep his eyes open, mechanically feeding warm soup into his mouth and chasing off sleep for as long as he is able. “They say that you are legend like your father; that you have returned from the beach to take back the island from Ushijima.”
“My father was a legend. I am just a Samurai. Not a spirit, or a demon,” Hinata says, tired and aching; the wounds that bleed him not so easily patched up by Yachi’s tender care and a night’s rest.
“Perhaps,” she says, and she’s choosing her words carefully. “But you cannot deny that you saved these people. That you saved my brother. They might only be farmers, but they are willing to fight for you. To fight under your name.” She takes his now empty bowl and hovers for a moment, but whatever she wants to say, Yachi diverts.

“Tsukishima says that we cannot hold Yuta for long. Those that escaped will return with others and we’ll be overrun. By midday he wants us to have returned to the road.”
“But the farmers—”
“Will be coming with us. Tsukishima is offering them protection in the valley. There is room, and they will be safer there than on an open farmstead.”

The injured will struggle on the road, and they’ll be forced to go slow, but Hinata understands that Tsukishima is right.
With the dawn’s light pouring in through the window, he knows he only has a few hours to rest before they’ll be moving on, and the old aches of his arm or no, he will be called upon to protect his people once more. And Yamaguchi too, who is with them once more, a little beaten, a little bruised, but alive and healing.

It’s nearly been three weeks since Ushijima’s invasion.

The news of Lord Hinata surviving Kiyomori’s Landing has spread throughout the island with the ferocity of a wildfire, as has word of his seek for vengeance and bloodlust that have been leaving Shiratorizawa’s camps bloody and empty; patrols struck down on the road; captives freed to regale others with the tale of the flaming-haired spirit that strikes with a deadly fire in his eyes and something fierce between his teeth; his sword sharp and his revenge sharper.
Only he seems to be the one to mind.

Tsukishima and Kageyama are fond of sharing the joke that Hinata is a vengeful spirit sent by Kami to wash the lands of Ushijima’s filth; teasing and jibbing and dubbing him Onryō, a vengeful spirit; Akai yoake no akuma, Demon of the Red Dawn, and goad him for tatari, as if Hinata is capable to bring a natural disaster to Izuhara and chase the Shiratorizawa soldiers away. He rolls his eyes and turns his back to their jibes, except when it’s Yamaguchi who calls him it in banter between them, because while Tsukishima and Kageyama are teasing, Yamaguchi only ever sees it as a title of pride and that something Hinata should be proud of.

Yachi and Yaku have been spreading their own rumours that Kageyama, Yamaguchi and Tsukishima must be spirits as well; that all four Samurai survived the beach unharmed (relative when Yamaguchi is still learning to hold his spear and he gets breathless if he’s on his feet for an entire day) and that they will reclaim the island back from Ushijima.

Over dinner one night, when Yachi fails not to bring it up again, Ennoshita says that perhaps it wasn’t so much of a bad idea not to play into the ruse slightly where it was obvious that the tales surrounding the young four was giving the people something to believe in. Not to mention Shiratorizawa were avoiding the valley so as not to incur the spirit’s wrath.
“We don’t need to be spirits for the people to believe in us,” Kageyama said, perhaps a little pride-beaten where his efforts and hard-work have been passed off as supernatural phenomena rather than the hours of blood, sweat and tears he’s put into perfecting his Way with the Bow.

“I don’t see why you’re bothered about it, whereas I am Lord Daichi’s ward and son. My reputation reflects on him,” Hinata says with perhaps a tongue slightly sharper that necessary, bowed slightly over his bowl, hiding the way his hand still ached on the awkwardness of holding chopsticks; an ache in the back of his mind and an awkwardness to want to pull the taller aside and understand the meaning behind the eyes that follow him around the estate and valley, and watch him now from across the small circle that the seven of them make.
Now they roll in contempt; ocean-blue shadowed in obsidian and he spits words with the precision and power of arrows released from his bow; “of course your only care is for Lord Daichi.” And though they are a drawl, they are inches from Hinata’s skin, straightening. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” he hisses back, defensive.

Kageyama has shown great awe of Daichi in the past, but there had been something in the days leading up to his departure that had sharpened his tongue and shortened his temper. Hinata had seen it then and he sees it now, though Yamaguchi, at his side, is the one to place a hand on his chest and keep him settle. “He didn’t mean anything by it,” he says, in Kageyama’s stead, before turning to him with a lowered voice, “Tobio, don’t.”

Tobio?
When did Yamaguchi and Kageyama get so close?

Then again, Hinata thinks, watching the way his friends are sat close together; the three sat closer to one another than what they probably need, and he, opposite, situated between Yaku and Ennoshita to eat his meal; it has been two years.
And Hinata was the one that left. He has not right to complain as to who Kageyama grows close to in his absence.

Tsukishima takes reigns of the conversations, forcefully steering it towards the next step in their plans, because Yamaguchi has been freed, but not to mention, also have many warriors and farmers that will raise up sword and blade for Onryō as much as they will stand behind Lord Hinata. They’ve been training in the valley between jobs and chores; the people somehow finding the time to climb the path to lead to the dojo courtyard in the early afternoon after they’ve tended to the crops and animals or spent the morning helping to rebuilding and resow where Shiratorizawa’s violence had burnt through the valley in those first few early days of the invasion.

Now, Tsukishima asks Hinata if he has put any more thought into plans to rescue Lord Daichi.
It catches his focus and growing irritation, channelling his attention elsewhere. “I have the advantage of knowing Castle Kaneda’s layout, but as to how to get in,” he says, trailing off where he bends back down over his food, staring at the fire like it will whisper its secrets to him.

But there is no easy answer, and with Ennoshita’s help and Yachi and Yaku’s outsider perspective, the seven of them juggle ideas and suggestions over the course of five days, during which the people of their valley still train; Shiratorizawa soldiers push their forces into Toyotama and Ushijima taunts Hinata from afar with the capture of his father; the man that took him in and raised him into the warrior who he is today.
And each day, Hinata hates himself that little bit more for not having been strong enough on the beach, and not strong enough, even now, where he’s training in the courtyard, still feeling a strain in his right arm as he cuts a blow across the chest of the training dummy and doesn’t cut cleanly all the way through as he should be able to.
If he were stronger.

There’s a restless within him: an unease he cannot shift with sparring and patrolling and watching alone.

With Yamaguchi’s return, there has been a shift in Tsukishima and Kageyama both and Hinata finds it awkward around his three former friends. Well. Not really former; it wasn’t as if they fell out, they simply grew apart.
Or, Hinata was the one to grow apart from them.
Because the three of them are closer than ever; especially now with Tsukishima and Kageyama tending to Yamaguchi’s every need when they’re not out patrolling the low-lying hills or chasing down Shiratorizawa soldiers that prey too close to the walls. The pair, so often before having been at one another’s throats for any reason; always through up arms to spar or wrestle their disputes can now be found in the courtyard of Tsukishima’s dojo, or simply talking things out with level heads over drinks, as they had done on the night of the battle while Hinata was with the other Samurai lords.

That thought sees Hinata swing at the training dummy again and this time, he lets out his frustration with a cry, a shout of gnarled emotion and frustration that levels itself alongside his blade and carves cleanly through the straw and wood, the head dropping and rolling into the dirt, coming to a stop at Yachi’s feet. “Onryō strikes again,” she teases, but Hinata has no patience and he dips his head in greeting and turns to the next training dummy, lining himself up to take another swing.
He doesn’t get far, however, as Yachi had come to talk, not to simply watch. “I know that everyone has been focused on Yamaguchi these past few days, and Ennoshita’s knee that is finally beginning to heal enough for him to bear weight, but I feel like you’ve been slipping away before I have a chance to check up on you.”
“Your brother should come first,” Hinata tells her, as his katana neatly plunges into the heart of the dummy, killing it dead.
“Tadashi has Kageyama and Tsukishima bending backwards over him when my own back is turned,” she says, stepping close enough that Hinata would be unable to continue his attack once he dislodged his sword.
Instead he sheathes it, and faces her.

She’s seen, more than he wants to have let on, and Hinata allows himself to be led to the bench on the edge of the courtyard, beneath the red maple that casts its leaves that get caught in the wind and pulled to dance as Yachi breaks his world a part with a few simple words.

“I know you love him.”

Yachi says it like it’s a fact of the world around them; that the maple will grow and shed its leaves in the autumn; that the sun will fall and the moon will rise and fall again; that the river will flow to the sea.
That Hinata loves Kageyama. Always has. Always will.

“I’ve seen you,” she says, in their corner of the garden, free from the war and the weight of reality if only for a brief moment. “I know that you love him the same way that Tadashi and Tsukki have always loved one another, and the way….” There are words that even Yachi can’t say, it seems, as Hinata stares at his feet and tries not to crumble under the same shame that had nearly shattered everyone bone in his body, that day all those months ago when Kageyama had asked him to stay, asked for something more—something Hinata wanted just as much—only for him to have to deny them that chance when Daichi was taking him North, to his castle, to be his son and ward.
Hinata had broken both their hearts that day, and spent the following two years he was whole.

“I know, “Yachi continues, “that there is no greater weight than regret.”

She reaches out to thread their fingers together. They’ve grown close enough in their friendship that she feels the confidence to do so; that he readily accepts her comfort whereas before he’d turn from it and throw himself at the sparring posts to hone his skills and sharpen his frustration into something that wouldn’t turn on him so viciously.
From the beginning he has loved Kageyama, as he has loved Tsukishima and Yamaguchi too, in his own way; turning the fondness of memories into something that fuelled his sword and sparked his battle cry.
Now all there are, are tears he cannot shed.

“I was given a second chance to apologise to Tadashi and you were given your second chance on that beach,” Yachi says, firm, like how a mother might admonish her child. “It is yours to choose what second chance that might be.”

She leaves him then, to contemplate in silence, beneath the shadow of the maple; freed from the weight of the war that looms beyond the territory of the valley for a moment longer. In this moment there is only him and his still-healing heart; all the regrets of having been the one to leave Kageyama, Tsukishima and Yamaguchi when he lost his Father; taken to Daichi’s fortress and in all the months that he was surrounded by Lords and Sensei’s to help teach him, he turned a blind eye to the aching in his heart and the aching he left behind; having made no effort to reach back out.
The last time they spoke was painful. Since then, things have been easier, and perhaps Hinata is still hiding behind Ushijima’s war, but he knows otherwise that he’s not strong enough.

Strong enough or not, he can’t be the coward that runs.

With a fire under his feet, Hinata kicks himself off of the corner bench. In the time taken to speak with Yachi, someone has come to clean up the courtyard leaving him with no chance to delay, and no more time to second guess his actions. He’s going to find Kageyama and he’s going to speak with him; to clear the air between them, to apologise for his actions—or inaction, if that is the case—and to at least return to the friendship they had once coveted.
Kageyama isn’t in the house, nor is he in the archery range and from here, on the road, Hinata can see his black stallion in the stables so he hasn’t left the valley, but there aren’t many other places he might be; Hinata’s feet carrying him up to the shrine on the valley hills to give him a view that might allow him to spot the raven-haired—

Clipped, hushed words rings out from the path ahead and Hinata lifts his head in time to see Kageyama and Tsukishima inches apart.
They look like they’re fighting, having hidden their argument from the others by taking it up here, at the shrine; Hinata’s question choked and twisted on his tongue when Kageyama grabs a hold of the taller with one hand; the front of his robes all bunched in one fist, and Hinata has never seen him get physical like this before; never seen Tsukishima lean his head back against the shrine like he’s fully prepared to take it; but the rising shout that works his way up his throat dies behind his teeth when Kageyama tightens his fisting grip and yanks Tsukishima forward into a searing kiss.

Hinata is not a part of the kiss and yet he can taste it, like poison against his lips, fire in his throat, lightning in his veins, but he is struck fast and struck still when Tsukishima tips his head to give Kageyama better access, shifting their bodies until it’s Kageyama pressed flush to the back of the shrine and Tsukishima penning him in, all strength and surety and a passion that burns.
Hinata watches silently, as Kageyama’s eyes flutter open, and they fall upon Hinata where he stands.

They stare, the pair of them; Kageyama still caught him in the voiceless promises that Tsukishima whispers into his skin; Hinata feeling the wind blow ice down his spine and he’s hovering on a sword’s edge, waiting for Kageyama to do something, to say something, to pull away and….

The inaction, the gaping absence of guilt or shame or embarrassment should be something enough, but in that moment Hinata blames shock-heartbreak-hurt for the way his feet are glued to the path, for the way he cannot make himself turn heel and come back the way he came. Not, at least, until after Kageyama dismisses him with the simplicity of closing his eyes, hands coming up to catch Tsukishima’s head and hold him.
But Hinata isn’t fast enough and his feet falter when he hears them break apart, something desperate in Tsukishima’s voice, “so scared, I can’t—can’t lose either of you,” and Kageyama’s calming, “sssh Kei, I’m right here.”

Hinata carries himself back down into the valley, both bone-brittle and seething. He feels unsettled and angry at the dismissal, like he were a child tugging at his mother’s robe; anger to Kageyama and Tsukishima both, the pair of them, and yet only unto himself and that brings suffocating confusion that sweeps him off his feet and drags him down the path, back to the courtyard.
For months, years even, he’s known that the best thing for him to do when he’s agitated is to train; to hone his energy into something useful, something productive, something that will better his situation instead of setting him adrift on a tide he has no chance to control or tame.

But Hinata has already spent the morning training, already trying to shake the unsettling feeling of emotions reawakened by his proximity with a boy that made him burn with eyes alone, and now he realises those eyes are turned to another; hardly the time to think of matters of the heart when his home around him is in the clutches for another, and Hinata’s anger only spikes, only grows, only burns brighter like the blood-red dawn that sets fire to the sky in calling of a new day, and he’s hardly thinking of his feet or where he’s going as he marches out the courtyard and down the streets.
Villagers and farmers bow in awe and respect; Hinata’s name a whisper on their lips, as are the titles that Yachi and Yaku have been spreading as of late, but he ignores them for more worthy battles; all but ignores Yachi and Yaku themselves when he reaches the stables and finds them there, brushing down Yaku’s horse where they have returned from chasing rumours and spilling their own.

“Hinata,” Yachi greets, but falters when she sees his expression. He wonders if he looks closer to the demons in her stories like this; brusque, angry, unthinking as he gives a shrill, sharp whistle to one of Tsukishima’s war-trained horses and the mare, having grown dutiful and loyal to him over the past few days, steps out of her stall, eager to run.
It takes little to saddle her; muscle memory and something fierce and furious the fuel that lights Hinata’s fire where his skin itches, not just for something to pump his heart and exhaust him, but something to sharpen his teeth on; to break his claws on flesh; to drink his fill of Shiratorizawa blood.

“Did you speak to Kageyama?” Yachi asks, brave enough to try.
“No,” Hinata answers truthfully. They didn’t talk.
Still. Enough was said.

Except it’s not enough for Yachi and she follows as Hinata leads his mare to the village gate.

“What happened?” and there’s something unnerved, something near-panicked in the way she asks. Hinata’s anger must look terrifying then, he thinks, and there’s something gratifying about that, and the way Yaku pulls back, not quite brave enough, not quite familiar enough with Hinata to question his actions unlike the spitfire blond that had pulled him from the beach.
“I’m heading to Isonade Coast,” Hinata says, speaking the idea as soon as it ignites like a spark in the back of his mind. He hadn’t known, between the courtyard and the stables, but he knows now as he pulls himself up into his saddle, ignoring the burn of his right arm and the ache of wanting food where he’s grown used to the security of three meals and the certainty of food while he was still recovering from bone-deep wounds.

Now, Hinata rides with a bloodless heart and shattered trust.
But there are worse armours one can dress themselves in, and he will make do with what he has.

“There’s a ridge on the cliffs that will allow me to map out patrols and numbers from. Tell the others to meet me at Fort Nakama in three days for a pre-emptive assault,” Hinata says, wheeling his horse to face the front gates as those that have been stationed to man them for the hour rush to open them for his Lord. Spirit. Demon.

Yachi nods, “we’ll meet you there.”
“You’re under no oath—”
“You saved my brother,” she says, somehow even firmer, reaching up to curl her fingers around his mare’s reins, holding him stead. “We both owe a debt to you.” She means it, with every fibre of her being. Samurai at heart, if not by trade.
But then, if they can throw Ushijima from their lands—preferably his head into the ocean—maybe there is a chance for Yachi to take up the sword, or bow, or spear.

Hinata should write a letter.
To leave a note, so that his wishes are met.

He’s not certain that he’ll see the end of this war.

“Then, for me, keep them safe. All of them.”

Hinata intended to ride for Isonade Coast and climb the cliffs to overlook Izuhara clearing the land before Castle Kaneda, but when he’s on the road, and he’s picking of Ushijima’s men as he goes, he doesn’t find that he’s the one that chooses his path.
Not when he’s distracted by every action he takes; first using his bow to pick them off before they have a chance to return fire, or even notice it is an enemy coming down the path; but each time he pulls the string taut, each time he steadies a breath and steadies his aim, he is reminded of how Kageyama taught him how to shoot; how his fingers would dance along the bow and the arrow to adjust Hinata’s aim, the teasing remarks, the soft low praise that would colour his lips when Hinata’s arrow met it’s mark.

The wind rushes with him as Hinata slays with a volley of crow-feather arrows, but he falters his last shot when his imagination burns too bright and it is almost as if he can feel Kageyama’s hand beneath his own, lifting his bow where weariness has let it drop and when the next arrow meets its target, bloody and ruined, impaled in the neck of charging soldier, Hinata physically recoils away from the wind that whispers with Kageyama’s voice in gentle congratulations.

So Hinata slings his bow and he pretends he doesn’t see the half-empty quiver of arrows hanging from his saddle, charging instead to a spearman and catching his weapon out of hand, turning it’s point and using it to lance his next opponents, but it just reminds him of Yamaguchi, and when he throws himself from the saddles and charges their ranks, his sword in hand and furious swipes remind him of Tsukishima and a poisonous kiss and tears that couldn’t be shed but are shed now.

When the last falls to Hinata’s blade, he’s not looking this way. His katana goes through his back, through his chest, and through his screams.
It reminds him of Yachi, rescuing him.

Sometimes the convoys hold prisoners.
When they do, Hinata hears the whisper of Onryō, of “Akai yoake no akuma”, and by the time the dusk rises up to claim the world; by the time Hinata crosses the threshold of Fort Nakama, overrun by Shiratorizawa invaders, himself bleeding and altogether bloodless, he realises that, should he fail this battle he has brought upon himself through impulsiveness and thoughtlessness, then he really will become a ghost; a spirit.
He prays to Kami to be merciful with his soul; to let him become Onryō until this war is ended and Ushijima dead, or to bury him in the afterlife with his forefathers.

Yachi is right.
There is no greater weight than regret, but Hinata can’t turn back now.

He blockades Fort Nakama and burns her walls. Fire purges Shiratorizawa’s inner filth, but Hinata has already moved on, allowing the light of the hilltop fort to turn Ushijima’s eye and draw his forces from within Castle Kaneda and sneaking past when the thundering of the horses hooves have hit dirt and are racing to the burning beacon that stands were Fort Nakama once did.
Inside the walls, Hinata casts all abandon to the wind. He doesn’t think about Kageyama’s hands over his as he draws on his bow once more; doesn’t think about the pain in his arms or the burning of his spine, or the way his chest is tight or the thin line of blood running from his forehead and down his cheek.
He doesn’t think about the way it feels like it’s Tsukishima beside him when he raises his sword, or it’s Yamaguchi opposite him when one of the soldiers bears a spear and it’s his voice reminding him of his foot work, how the quick-step-dodge-block is the best defence. He doesn’t think about Yachi’s voice whispering him to stay low as he hauls himself up onto the roof; he doesn’t think about he had walked these grounds with Daichi and Suga not long ago; how his father had brought him here when he was still a child and too small to ride a horse.

Hinata no longer fights like a samurai, he’s a spirit now, using what Yachi taught him to sneak and keep above his pray before dropping down from his advantage; using Tsukishima’s swordsman skills and Yamaguchi’s spear-driven strength and the preciseness of Kageyama’s aim.
He picks of the soldiers slowly but surely, accumulating wounds with every soldier fallen, but he rides the current of fire-burning-anger-hope-war and keeps moving. Keeps going.

But he cannot fight Shiratorizawa alone and as he reaches the main courtyard before the castle, he finds himself surrounded. Bleeding, heavily; worn and exhausted and too close to collapsing where he stands as he wields his katana in one hand and holds the cut of a blade with the other.
His muscles burns, his open wounds sting like poison, but he is standing with a broken heart and nothing can be more painful than losing everything he held dear.

May Kami bless him for Onryō’s blessing if he doesn’t make it out alive, but that doesn’t mean Hinata is going to give up, to lie down and embrace Death with open arms. He’ll face her himself if he has to; blood on his teeth, claws sharpened and vengeance sharper.
But it isn’t Lady Death who steps up when Hinata is on his knees, refusing to yield, arms held out on either side of him and pulled back just enough to burn along his muscles; a hand around his throat and his swords out of reach; a fist in his hair to keep his gaze trained on Ushijima: fitted in his glorious armour that hardly looks war-touched, and beside him, struggling against his own bonds by the hands of Semi, is Daichi.
Beyond greasy hair and a paleness to his skin, he looks unharmed and Hinata’s heart sings with relief for only a moment before the soldiers behind him pull roughly on his body and his arms ache beneath Daichi’s demands for Hinata’s release, beneath a score of curses and insults forged in righteous fury that Hinata has never heard from his father before, and Ushijima demands them both to beg, to sweeten his victory of holding, not only Lord Daichi but the Demon of the Red Dawn; Akai yoake no akuma.

He holds his victory in two hands and demands more.

Hinata wasn’t strong enough.
He is weighed with a thousand regrets, a thousand words left unspoken, a thousand promises shattered, a thousand sunrises unseen.
He is to meet Lady Death soon, and to be swept up in her arms, but that does not scare him and it does not waver his resolve as Ushijima demands and Hinata spits his defiance on the ground between them, bloody and pathetic, but defiance all the same.

“I won’t beg,” Hinata snarls, vehement. He might be on his knees but he has been born a demon by his people and his revenge; and should he die upon this mortal plane then he will return stronger, greater, and he’ll finish what Ushijima started when he brought this war to Hinata’s home.

Daichi, forced to his knees, and held simply by Semi’s tanto levelled to his neck, pleads silently as Ushijima turns his attention to him; to his fire-spirited anger and calm acceptance. “I won’t beg,” Hinata repeats, and takes his own sweet victory from the way that Ushijima’s expression falters, trying to conceal his own emotions. “I won’t beg, and this time, you can’t rob me of a warrior’s death like you tried to do on the beach,” he spits, Daichi watching with wide, terrified eyes as Ushijima draws his own sword, but Hinata is spurred on and he smiles a bloody smile.

“Disgusting,” Ushijima drawls, but Hinata can see his resolve shaken; can see the uncertainty in his eyes, the fear that maybe he has awakened a vengeful spirit, a demon to hunt him to the ends of the earth.
Instead he turns to Daichi, levelling his blade, but he’s too far to strike. Still, Hinata struggles against the hands that hold him, fighting his own weight of exhaustion, but it’s not enough to distract him from Ushijima’s words.

“You can save him if you surrender,” he says, and his voice grates from the propriety and self-importance held in those few words alone. “You have shown no care for your people but I wonder if that same discourtesy doesn’t extend to your ward. Son only in name. Or perhaps….”
He gives and idle wave of his hand without turning, and Hinata hardly has the chance to react; hardly the warning given other than a tightening on his arms before they’re pulled roughly behind his back—forcefully—and he cries out in pain; the sword wound from the beach like poison in his veins.

Ushijima gives another wave and the tension slacks instantly; Hinata slumping forward slightly, gasping for breath, tears streaming from his cheeks. He’s distantly aware that there are no more hands on him, that his sword is on the ground ahead of him, but when Hinata reaches for it, when he tastes blood on his tongue and screams on his lips, his hand is pinned beneath the weight of a boot and speared by a sword’s tip.
They are his own screams that pour from his throat; Daichi’s demand to stop, Ushijima’s demand for surrender as he stands over Hinata and pins him by blood and blade. The draw pulls at limbs and tendons and Hinata can’t stifle his cries, but he’s always taken his pain, his anger, his frustration and channelled it into something worthwhile and it’s this that sees his feet skitter on the dirt, his lunge stumbled, but his left hand holds his sword—right bloody and useless, from both the burn of his arm and the wound Ushijima inflicted—and it’s arcing upwards, hardly holding his full swing behind it, but it’s enough to startle the Samurai Lord and—

And four black-tipped arrows sprout from his chest like man-made flowers; a bouquet tightly grouped and damaging, stumbling Ushijima and distract him from his pray, looking up to the gatehouse and it’s archer stands that house, not Shiratorizawa colours, but another; a spirit that made his way off the beach just as Hinata did with the fury of the wind behind the flight of his arrows.
Beneath come the stampeding of horses hooves, and beneath him, charging through the gate house rode Tsukishima and Yamaguchi both; Tsukishima’s swords shining and sharp, splattered with blood as the pair of them lead the charge, Yachi and Yaku riding behind, followed by Tsushima’s people, armed with little more than farming scythe’s and hoes and pitchforks fighting back against Shiratorizawa’s soldiers.

Hinata can still fight too. His right arm, right hand isn’t strong enough to hold his sword, but he still has his left and though he’s not steady on his feet, he’s not going to wait on his knees for a stray sword to cut his story short, and he fights alongside his people to free his father and take back their home.

With Tsushima’s people rising to fight back against Shiratorizawa’s soldiers, they managed to take back Castle Kaneda; Ushijima, his Generals and what remained of the forces stationed to hold the castle fleeing North, holding off their pursuers by burning the bridge that connected Izuhara and Toyotama, as it stacked Castle Kaneda’s defences and halted Ushijima from regrouping and turning back on the charge.
It gave Hinata a chance to catch his breath.
On his knees, sword lack is his grasps, heaving on ragged lungs.

The rain and blood on his skin feels like the ocean spray; the dirt beneath his knees like the beach he had knelt on all those weeks ago, weakened, disparaged and afraid.

He’s not afraid anymore.

Even as hands cup his cheeks and his eyes are lifted to meet ocean blue misted with rain; tears in Kageyama’s eyes and the same sullen sadness in Tsukishima’s, and something terrified in Yamaguchi’s.
He’s not afraid anymore.

And just strong enough to hold on; to hold the hand that holds his, to lean into the hands that keep him upright, to smile above the tears and to apologise, deafly, for having leaving first, for having let his emotions consume him and for having gone on ahead.
“Impulsive fool,” Tsukishima says, his voice tight.
“We should’ve expected it,” Yamaguchi adds.

“Bastard,” Kageyama hisses as more tears race down his cheeks.

“You could’ve gotten yourself killed. We could’ve… we could’ve lost you permanently this time,” he whispers, and it’s Kami’s wish that Hinata is able to hear him over the cacophony of the battle coming to a close; Daichi, Ennoshita, Yaku taking charge of the people to round up any surviving enemy and keep them and its Yachi who races over, to rescue Hinata a second time.
He’s not strong enough to hold on for too long though, and as the night grows stronger around the edge of his vision, Hinata apologises again; Kageyama’s hand coming up to brush his fringe from his face, to wipe away the blood that mars him, whispering, “you don’t have to apologise, we should’ve known—”
“No,” Hinata says.

And maybe it’s the blood loss. Maybe it’s the cold creeping chill, or maybe it’s the feeling of Her hand on his shoulder, giving him a moment before they must leave that gives him the confidence to speak these words when for so long; “I’m sorry for leaving without giving an answer.”

It takes Kageyama a moment, but understanding crosses his eyes and Hinata knows that he’s understand. And sees that he has long since been forgiven.
“I was scared that I’d lose our friendship,” he continues, as if it doesn’t take all of what little strength he has left to speak, looking up at all of them. “And yet, I lost it anyway.”
“No, you didn’t,” Kageyama says, his grip biting and painful.
Desperate, almost.

Then, he softens, like a stone worn by the tide. “The question still stands,” he says. “I never got an answer, so the question still stands.”
Hinata feels his brow furrow more so that actively questioning Kageyama’s words, glancing to Tsukishima and Yamaguchi crouched with him, both clearly within earshot. Both holding onto their own fear and guilt, but Tsukishima doesn’t look like the same man that he’d shared a moment behind the shrine has just offered up his heart to another.

Hinata reminds Kageyama, (in few words, for Yachi’s sake) where he had caught the raven-haired, and even through the light rain he can see his cheeks darken. He bows his head, but his voice doesn’t waver when he says, “and I’m still waiting for you, if that is what you wish. In the years where you have become Master of your house, it is true, I now have Kei and Tadashi both, but not in the ways that you think. Not in the way that I want us to be,” he says, and damn Yachi’s watchful, knowing gaze as he threads their fingers more sweetly together until Hinata’s cheeks match the colour of Kageyama’s.

“But it’s always been the four of us,” and there’s something to be said that it is Tsukishima who is the one to say it. “And we want it to be the four of us again.”
In turn he and Yamaguchi hold out their hands.

Hinata feels Her hand soften on his shoulder until her own hand is extended in offering too, but instead Hinata reaches for the two that belong to the physical plane. He will take her hand when the time comes, but that time is not now.

“I’m not sure how,” he says.
And in return, they say, “we will show you.”

On the dawn of the second month, Izuhara is completely freed from Ushijima’s control; the Samurai Lord himself having fled into the northern reaches, claiming Castle Daichi and the lands of Kamiagata. This time, when Hinata rides to face him, he does so with the blessing of his father; he does so with his friends, his Samurai brothers, and his lover.
The four vengeful spirits who fell on the beach and rose from the blood that soaked her sands.