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Kiyomori was dead, it was understandable that the estate was in such a fury. People running hither and thither, panic on everyone’s lips. Tomomori wanted none of it. The only thing he wanted, the thing—the person he most desired to see was gone. Fled into the wilderness, out of sight, out of reach.
Perhaps in an unconscious effort to try to connect with her in her absence, he wandered to a specific room. In the short time before he had begun her pursuit of her, he had already made preparations for it, set it up in seclusion from prying eyes. And in the time between her escape from his arms at Lake Biwa and their reunion at Fujikawa, he had slowly but steadily furnished it and populated it with fine silks and cushions.
He placed a hand on the silk wall, and pushed a small wave of fabric around with his fingertips, just to feel it under them. Anyone would goggle at the sheer wealth and finery in such a place.
And yet…
She would hate it.
He clenched his hand in the fabric, eyes narrowing. Why did that bother him so much? He knew when he made it that it would be a prison, an enclosure. She was to be his captive princess and eventually his wife. Who else could have been more suitable than a fiery enigma destined for and burning with the blood and scars of war? A furtive woman clad in the armor of men yet leaking pearls of moonlight from her eyes? She fascinated and engaged his interest like nothing ever could.
Did anyone ever ask a tiger if they could hold it hostage, admire its fine stripes?
He leaned his bowed head against the wall. His heart had remained cool and shuttered to even the most pitiable lives suffering under the Heike, so why had it lurched to life at the sight of her unexpected tears? Was it merely the tears alone? Or was it because she had cast off his hands and fled from him moments later (and taking those glittering tears with her)? The chase, the chase! Even he had told her that the chase was an allure in itself.
People…. Did not run from the Heike. They cowered and pleaded and hoped to skirt their gaze. They looked away and prayed that nothing would shake their little worlds while they eked our their piteous existences.
Even when he had held her fatigued body in his arms and escape was impossible, she had remained defiant. Defiant! At every turn, every meeting, every query, she had defied him! And in lieu of eliciting her tears again, that defiance was the most marvelous thing to prod out of her and see.
Until that first night.
Was it so strange to realize she could make expressions other than fury, terror, and despair?
When had the desire to catch her, observe her, pick her apart and study every single facet of her being become….
What? Become what?
He stared at his fist which remained resolutely silent on the matter. In a fit of pique, he yanked hard on the fabric. The silk tore loose of its fastenings, rippled down and exposed the bare wall while he stared blankly and unflinchingly ahead.
He had wanted to own her, possess her, and yet… when she fled from him, his father’s words clutching at her heart the way he had clutched her arm in the throes of death… Tomomori wanted only to take that away from her when he was forced instead to watch her go. He could have run after her, fought her, dragged her back to this silk dungeon. It would have been easy enough.
Physically, anyway. He practically dwarfed her petite frame, was far more familiar with the potent strength coursing through his blood than she with hers. He could catch her again like before, carry her away to his secret place.
But his spiraling thoughts must have been too many for his head alone and so they dwelled in his breast instead, building a fine stone there. A deeply unpleasant stone, he felt. Unpleasant and heavy. But it reminded him that she must be nurturing a stone in her breast too. So his stone held him back while hers had urged her to flee.
“Tomomori?”
He became distantly aware of his sister’s voice calling out to him, but did not turn to see her.
“Where did that… stranger go? The girl you had in our father’s room?”
“Ah. Called away, I’m afraid. Patients to attend to.”
“Patients more important than an heir of the Heike?” She tutted and he could hear the derisive sneer in her voice.
“Did I have a reason to insist she remain?”
From the corner of his eye, Tomomori could see Tokuko advance into his peripheral vision, clearly attempting to catch his eye. Her veil rippled slightly with the motion. Did Tokuko hide things under it the same way Yoshitsune had? A foolish thought perhaps. When did Tokuko ever have to pretend to be anything other than who she was? Spoiled child of the Heike, mother to the future emperor.
“Tomomori!”
He blinked and turned slightly to see his sister had made it all the way over to his elbow to scowl up at him.
“Hmm?”
She opened her mouth, but, noticing she had finally caught his eye, paused to school her expression into a pleasant smile. “I said that surely she wanted a reward for her dedication in helping my beloved brother return home.”
“I am not your shirabyoshi,” Yoshitsune scowled.
“No, and thank goodness for that.” He met her gaze with a lilting chuckle.
“She declined,” he said placidly, unconsciously reaching towards Tokuko’s veil. He pinched the end of it between two of his fingers. When Yoshitsune had donned the veil again, it was one of the few things she had conceded to him. Not because she had wanted to, of course. It, like everything else, was only on her terms.
Terms he found himself trying more and more to appease. He had called her a cat, but here he was, casting every shred of himself at her feet, pitifully bidding for her attention. The kindness she offered willingly in spite of her hate, the laughter that burst from her from a place with no fear. He was insatiably greedy for more. He would writhe upon the floor if such a thing could return her hand to his own. And yet he stood, surrounded by naught but baubles—cat toys collected en mass to be dangled before her, to glimmer and distract her long enough to be lured close enough for him to seize hold. Useless trifles of luxury. Nothing in here could possibly sustain the weight of her interest.
Not even him.
“She did not want to be spoiled.”
“What utter nonsense!” Tokuko spat as she grabbed his elbow, pulling it down towards her, “Why—”
“Forgive me, dear sister,” he grasped her slender wrist between thumb and forefinger and plucked it from his sleeve without even looking down at her, “but I grow tired.” Placing a hand to her back he guided her out. “I have been a long time from home and Father passed before my very eyes. I think that is deserving of some time alone before the needs of the Heike come clamoring to my door.”
He gave a courteous smile, but paid no more attention to her before sliding the door between them and turning away, he in the silk cage and she on the outside. He heard her indignantly stamp a foot after failing to produce words sufficient to voice her offense before finally storming off.
Returning to the oppressive silence and emptiness of his solitude, Tomomori collapsed into the pile of silk and drew it in around him with open palms. It felt a poor substitute for that hand he had held in his own for so many nights. He could not thread his fingers through it, nor did it imbue him with any particular warmth. Feeling a tad childish, he tried linking his own hands in front of himself, but very soon frowned at the effort. Heir of the Heike, heir of a sinking ship, a smoldering flame. Was he capable of nothing on his own that his chains did not will him to do? Or was this too an element of fate, that he should finally see something worth grasping and be doomed to either destroy it or let it slip from his grasp?
“Yoshitsune…” He turned his face into the silk, eyes drifting closed.
He hoped to find the world of dreams less barren and more hospitable in his misery.