Chapter Text
When Kujou Sara comes to him with a request, she should know better than to expect compliance—and yet, time and time again, she makes the same mistake. She barges into his office with the haughtiness of a god, demanding this and that from him as if enough urgency will make him any more inclined to act with the mindless obedience typical of most others in the Tenryou Commission.
“No,” Heizou says, cutting her off and kicking his feet up on the shoddy desk of his office.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m not interested in chasing him down. Therefore, I won’t.”
“He’s an accomplice. He came to the aid of a man who challenged the Raiden Shogun.”
“Good for him,” he says.
“I’m not making a request of you,” Sara says. “This is a demand.”
“And yet, I refuse.”
“You can’t.”
“I am.”
Heizou looks away from Sara and down to his hands. He scrapes out some dirt from beneath a few nails, and then goes about pushing down his cuticles. If she’d like to waste her whole evening driving a bargain that Heizou has no stock in, she’s welcome to—Heizou cares little about how she bides her time, if she wishes to spend it wisely or let it waste. It’s of no consequence to him; she may be talking, but he’s certainly not listening.
After all, he feels strongly that he has more important cases to tend to than one like this, where the damage has already been done.
The man who challenged the Shogun… Heizou can safely assume that he’s dead. He’s likely to become a martyr, which is a far more dangerous thing than a surviving accomplice. What tale is there for that victim to tell, other than one that affirms the fatal fury of a goddess?
“He’s of more use to you alive, and free. He’s probably terrified. He’ll likely spread the very terror that our Archon needs to keep the Decree in place.”
“You’re close to speaking ill of the Almighty Shogun, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You’re not,” Heizou says with a shrug. He holds out his arms with his wrists pressed together, presenting himself for handcuffs. “Are you going to arrest me for treason now?”
“Just find him, Heizou,” Sara says. (She speaks with finality even though, once she drops a file onto his desk, she walks off to find a more willing worker to task with her request.)
He sends a burst of Anemo across the room, shutting the door as soon as she’s passed back over the threshold and—alone once more, just as he likes it—he swipes up the folder left for him with a smug little look. It’s a remarkably thin file, considering those of past cases handed to him; he’s often handed last-resort jobs that come with pages upon pages of gathered evidence and theories and dead-ends. This case must be brand new, handed to him first because of the need for it to be solved and closed within the week.
For this reason alone, Sara was right in coming to him: he could dawdle with this case and still manage an efficiency far greater than anyone else.
The folder is filled with nothing more than the bare bones of a case. There’s a police report, the ink still smudging beneath a pass of his finger from how recently it’d been penned, and a few lackluster quotes taken from guards who had been on-site. There is a generous bounty proposed for any leads, too—but the only thing of any true interest to Heizou is the portrait of the suspect. Clipped atop the papers is a charcoal sketch of a young man, his likeness hastily assumed using bystander descriptions alongside a rougher drawing of his outfit and stature.
I wonder if this artist did you too much justice, Heizou thinks. You’re pretty for a rogue.
He leans back in his chair and thumbs at the paper, staring at the soft-eyed, lean-jawed face of Inazuma’s newest criminal. The corners of the parchment run soft with the oil of his fingers by the time that he makes up his mind.
The task is simple enough. He anticipates being accused of acting willfully obtuse—but Sara will be just as guilty of language lacking precision, and one day she’ll learn not to give him instructions that flaunt their loopholes. Satisfied with his scheme, he writes a note that states his intentions:
I’ll find him.
“No more,” Heizou says, “and no less.”
That evening, he ascends the stairs of Tenshukaku. He’ll meet with guards who had witnessed the scene tomorrow, when their minds might have settled enough from the chaos to recall the event with greater clarity. For now, he requires an hour alone in the courtyard where the confrontation had occurred—though from what he’s gathered, confrontation is a generous term for what had happened. The duel between the Shogun and a common man had been no more than the deft strike of lightning in a storm, quick and sure.
Confrontation connotes strife, but there is no strife to be found here.
Tenshukaku is calm and unperturbed. The sand of garden grounds are raked to perfection; birds chirp in the corner-tucked sprawl of sakura trees; soldiers diligently strike and lunge through rote combat practices; and whatever had been left when all was said and done is handed to him by a guard—a blue scarf patterned with thick hatch-lines, worn by the man who’d been struck down.
“I wonder what it was that he came here for,” Heizou says. “Maybe he found it in death, as it’s clear that he found no answers in life. I can’t imagine that he came here with the hope to walk away.”
“I couldn’t say,” the guard tells him. “I think I could guess the intentions of the man you’re looking for, though—the one who fled.”
“Care to share?”
“The man who died had a Vision, and the other man fled with it. He snatched it up without a thought. I think it was some scheme for power.”
“How much do you know about Visions?”
“Very little.”
“I can tell,” Heizou says. “The Vision he took is worthless beyond sentimental value. It’s more informed to guess that an important relationship brought the vagabond here. I’d wager that he would recognize this scarf as well as he’d recognize his own face.” Heizou pets the soft, well-worn fabric. “You’ve at least brought me something useful.”
The guard is all too eager to turn on his heel and leave when Heizou dismisses him.
Come the following morning, the rest of the guards prove to have nothing else of aid. Meeting with them is fruitless, and Heizou loathes to admit that he’d been too optimistic by believing that they’d have any information to share beyond what had been handed to him in the case file. At the very least, there are no more formalities that he feels the need to abide by—so he tucks the scarf into his bag and prepares to leave Inazuma City behind.
He receives just one more piece of information; Sara intercepts him on the way out of the Tenryou Commission Headquarters, grabbing him by the arm.
“His name is Kaedehara Kazuha,” she says. She starts to say more, but Heizou shrugs out of her grip and makes his own conclusion. “Based on his lineage—”
“So he’s a swordsman and well-versed in wandering,” he deduces. “Don’t tell me you were going to advise caution.”
“As if,” Sara says, folding her arms across her chest and angling her eyes away. “Telling you to be safe is the same as advising you to go against your nature. I wouldn’t waste my breath on such sentiment.”
“Hmm.” Heizou looks at her and determines that she’s told a lie. “Farewell, then.”
“When can I expect your return, detective?”
“Don’t bide your time waiting, Sara,” Heizou says, walking off with a lazy wave and a bit of a bounce in his step. “I’ll be back when I’m back.”
Kaedehara Kazuha.
Heizou has had a plan to find him since yesterday. There are few definitives known about him, but enough is known to make a handful of educated guesses—if the threadbare state of his clothes as are mentioned in the case reports are anything to go on, paired with the fallen clan of his name, Kazuha is probably nomadic. Heizou does not go as far as to call him homeless, though; to survive so long in Inazuma suggests that surely, Kazuha has found something akin to a home for himself.
Heizou too supposes that if Kazuha was able to flee the scene and evade capture for a day following what turned him criminal, he is intimately familiar with the wilds. The soldiers of the Tenryou Commission are not the most independent of individualistic, but they’re not entirely incompetent, either—a goddess could not lay and keep her siege without them—and to avoid their blades and eyes alike is no minor feat.
The tease of a good case runs through him and he shivers, shuddering like a leaf in the summer breeze, eager for a case worth his salt. It is not often he’s handed something worth finding, let alone something that makes the most of his merits. Via the Tenryou Commission, he’s typically handed mysteries akin to dross. There’s nothing for him to learn from cases that take only a day or two to solve, and no satisfaction to be found. A job is a job, though; he’s paid enough for a life he otherwise does not mind, and on occasion has the pleasure of an outing like this, one that takes him beyond the city’s gray-slate run of rooftops and humdrum of uninspired street talk.
He’ll return in due time.
For now, he hopes Kazuha is already on another island; he hopes Kazuha has sprouted wings and found new places to hide; he hopes Kazuha is willing to hold his breath and hide beneath waves.
I hope you wish to hide as well as I hope to find.
(For Heizou, hide-and-seek is neverlasting. It is, truly, childsplay. He always finds.)
For the early morning, he keeps on a steady path to Konda Village. He meets with anyone who is willing, running his questions by them and biting his lip to keep from smiling when they have little to offer him. It really is no wonder that none of them claim to have seen Kazuha—in the warm colors of his garb, he would have blended in well with the colors of wheatgrass under the sunset, fields of which run for miles out from this settlement. It’s possible, too, that Kazuha did not come this way. In the off chance that his presence at Tenshukaku was calculated, perhaps a humble raft waited for him just north of the city, on the quiet shore along the foot of Narukami Island’s cliffsides.
Implausible, Heizou decides. All witnesses describe him with elements of haste and desperation, and guards said that they chased him well into Byakko Plain. He was well on his way here, under the guise of night.
“Have you noticed any missing goods?” Heizou asks an elderly couple. “Stolen harvests, or robbed clotheslines?”
“Nothing of the sort. There’s not a thing out of place.”
“And you heard no commotions—no yipping kitsune or clashing blades?”
“Not a disturbance in the world.”
“How unfortunate,” Heizou mutters. He offers enough Mora to accumulate a weight in his palm for their cooperation, but they refuse. Sucking at his teeth with the press of his tongue, he pockets his coin again and carries on down the main run of the village. In just under an hour, he’s spoken to everyone that he can see—ample time to ask all of his questions, and he’s gained not even a single point of interest.
If it’s true that Kazuha had not raided this place for anything—neither food nor clothes—then Heizou can conclude this: either he feels the urgency of his plight, or has no need for stooping to petty levels of theft.
Heizou kicks a rock down the path to the edge of the village and sits by the riverside; a modest run of water meanders alongside the houses, less of a river and more of a brook. Some washing boards are propped up against rocks with a few baskets, empty save for soap bars.
Two maple leaves are caught in the water, the current pushing them up into a rock that the water sweeps to either side of. Heizou eyes them with a tilt of his head, failing to recall a single maple tree in the surrounding area. Perhaps it’s his memory, nearly eidetic in nature, that suggests the maple leaves are of any importance. With a slow and small smile, he recalls the sketch of Kazuha’s outfit attached to the police report: a haori with maple-leaf patterns along the sleeves, and a curious adornment—a circle, drawn quick and sure onto the paper—fixed to the back of his shoulder.
“I see… You have the wind at your beck and call, don’t you?”
He reaches Chinju Forest just before midday; as the sun peaks in the sky—a blue and cloudless canvas today, stormless, but still an endless roll of eternity—he enters the gloom, a shiver racing up his spine and cooling his sweat. One day he’ll unearth and present an explanation for the way this forest rests in an eternal crepuscule (as he remains unconvinced of theories suggesting that ghosts are responsible for the in-between feel of these woods, as he is not convinced of ghosts to begin with), but today is not that day. Rather than searching for graves and ghouls, he keeps a close eye on the ground for more maple leaves.
With a fair amount of confidence, Heizou can determine that Kazuha must have come through this region. From Konda Village, his only options onward were north, where the land stretches flat and barren, or to turn back east after crossing the river, where the cover of foliage would give him a place to hide and rest. Not many wander this wood—though harmless, some wish to avoid the trickery of tanuki; others have no desire to part with sunlight; and the excuses go on, none of them understood or shared by Heizou.
Regardless: this is a good place to lay low, albeit obvious.
You would be a smart man to come here, but not necessarily cunning.
He pauses his searching in favor of grabbing for a lavender melon, low-hanging on a nearby tree and firm beneath a light squeeze of his fingers. It’s perfectly ripe, and the flesh parts cleanly on the blade of his jitte , a little blade kept on his hip that sees little action beyond being shown as proof of his station. (Even then, it’s not very useful—people see the rounded youth of his face and frown, unpersuaded.)
He savors only a small slice of fruit before a tanuki reveals itself to him, a rock in one moment and a creature in the next. Only for a moment does Heizou consider shooing it off, or at the very least, not sharing his food—and then he notices that the leaf atop its head is not the usual cut or color, pointed instead of rounded and red instead of green, and Heizou rethinks his options.
“Did someone play with you?” Heizou wonders aloud. He crouches down, and cuts another slice of melon from the fruit’s pit. He offers it to the tanuki; it sits on its rear to reach with its front paws and Heizou tuts, pulling back the slice before it can be taken. “You’ll have to show me where you led him, first. Don’t you think that’s just? A favor for a favor?”
But before a bargain can be struck, someone speaks.
“Tanuki aren’t fond of being teased.”
With a dramatic flair that Heizou hadn’t expected of a criminal, Kaedehara Kazuha drops down to the forest floor. Heizou glances upwards to where he’d been hiding, tucked away into the dense canopy of a nearby cypress, before looking him in the eye.
“Well,” Heizou says, “neither am I.”
Kazuha has the gall to smile.
“I apologize for startling you.”
“You’re not sorry, and you didn’t startle me.”
(Kazuha does not point out that Heizou’s heart pounds with the same ferocity of a solitary deer that’s heard a twig snap. He also reasons that there are multiple reasons for a jackrabbit-heart, though Kazuha cannot fathom what else would prompt his heart to race.)
“Perhaps a different apology is in order, then,” Kazuha says.
“If you can offer it with any sincerity, maybe,” Heizou mutters. He wipes his dagger clean on his thigh, the leftover juice of fruit leaving a mess on the fabric of his shorts. After a quick series of spins, he homes the blade back into the sheath at his hip—while he’s not adept with any sort of sword, it’s not a poor idea to give a swordsman the impression that he’s skilled. Heizou, in his years as a detective, has learned that the element of surprise is always a pleasant companion, so long as he is the one to yield it. As much as his pride suffers with the judgements people derive from his youth, it’s always returned to him at the end of his work; at the end of his cases, the underestimation often allotted to him yields a satisfying end.
He almost thinks it’s unfortunate that his reputation precedes him, nowadays. New clients are surprised by his youth, but trust the results he’s capable of obtaining.
“Allow me to prepare a meal for us to share,” Kazuha proposes. “You’ve traveled a considerable distance to capture me.”
“That’s not an apology.”
“I was raised with the notion that actions speak louder than words.”
“I’m not hungry. Find an alternative.”
Again, Kazuha smiles. It’s a faint look, the smallest curl of his mouth with no space between his lips for teeth to show. It’s a learned look, Heizou thinks. Animals don’t smile. They perceive bared teeth as a threat—the look of wolves before they chase.
“Bargaining with a criminal?” Kazuha asks, and Heizou feels his heart start to sink.
Oh, don’t do this, he thinks. Don’t make me like you.
“You’ll be bargaining with me for your freedom, in due time,” Heizou says, figuring there’s no reason to pretend that he’s not been sent here on the grounds of arresting him. Then again, Kazuha’s not entirely correct; capturing and finding are two separate tasks—but for now, while Heizou decides if the former must be done, Kazuha needn’t know this. “Consider this a moment of empathy.”
“Is it not an apology, but a show of gratitude, that’s required from me?”
“I don’t need anything from you,” Heizou groans. “And by the way, compliance will grant you no favors in this case. Punishment will strike swift and true for your conspiracy against the Shogun.”
“And you’re the hand that’s been extended to assure my punishment is given?” Kazuha muses. He looks at Heizou for a long and quiet moment before leisurely pivoting on his heels and walking farther into the forest. “Your lacking haste rivals that of the kitsune around the Great Narukami Shrine. I expected a man of the Tenryou Commission to be more absolute in his dealings.”
“I’m employed by them, but nothing more. I’m not a walking embodiment of their methods.”
“Do you endorse my capture?”
“I’m here, am I not?”
“I’m no less free in your presence.”
“There’s a matter I’m trying to make sense of before putting us on disagreeable terms by apprehending you,” Heizou explains, finally moving to follow Kazuha. Why did you let me find you? He’s assessed enough to be certain that he is not running into a fatal trap—if anything, it is a psychological maze that Kazuha means to lure him into. It’s entertaining, the most intrigued he’s been in some time; Heizou is powerless to resisting.
“I’ll do what I must to maintain my freedom.”
“You’re warning me?”
“Harming people is not in my nature,” Kazuha says with a nod, “but self-preservation is. I will draw my blade on you, should you draw yours.”
“I already figured as much. Small-talk is a common evasion tactic. This may be your first eve as a criminal, but this isn’t my first as a detective.”
“I wonder if you’re as cunning at kitsune, too.”
“You’ll find out—”
“—in due time?” Kazuha guesses, and Heizou wishes that smiles could be swallowed.
“In due time,” Heizou affirms.
“I still can’t convince you to join me for a meal, can I?”
“You don’t have a chance of it.”
“Then I’ll be on my way. A new dawn beckons me across the land to some place with a clearer horizon. Already, I can hear the cry of gulls.”
“I’ll be on your heels before long, so enjoy your freedom while it lasts.”
Kazuha is a quarter-of-an-hour gone by the time that Heizou feels like he’s breathing right, by the time that he realizes he’d been breathing wrong—pulling in shallow inhales because Kazuha’s fearlessness had been a thrill, his earnesty a delight, and his beauty analytically impossible and inexplicable.
Stumped, Heizou slowly sets up camp for the night. He kindles a small fire for himself and spreads out a bedroll a few feet away, sitting atop it and biting at the nail of his thumb, staring into the flames and wondering what it is that he wants.
Kazuha is not a criminal—not by Heizou’s standards, anyways. So long as Kazuha can make something valuable of his liberty, assuring that Heizou’s perfect case record is not tarnished for nothing, he supposes that more bargaining can be done.
There’s a price for freedom. All you have to do is pay it.