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Uruha feels the touch of the brush on his eyelid.
Normally he would not let anyone else paint it — it was a tradition he had to do himself; it was the way his master did it, and it was the way of someone who had trained the old man himself as well. An old ritual that equated the swinging of the sword to the way performers of the old traditional dances threw their hand with a fan forward, because combat is nothing but the truest of dances. But his master is long dead, Uruha is the last of his school. First, his quiet life was taken away by war, forcing him at a young age to accept the majestic gift of the kami of blacksmithing himself, and then his deity died too, leaving Uruha with a hole instead of a heart.
He doesn't know if he felt a real attraction to Rokuhira-san, or if it was all the sacrament of his old swordsmanship school, where they were told — fall in love with the god of war to survive, open your soul to him. As shamanesses and miko perform the dance of oracular divinification, so you on the battlefield are only a shell for the deity, only a vessel for it. And then Uruha did it — he opened his soul to Rokuhira Kunishige, and the latter gave him the Kumeyuri, a divine blade, one of six. One that allowed Uruha to feel like a true god of war on the battlefield. Ah. How incredible that feeling was.
It was afterward the sixth sword was created, and Uruha remembered that he was only a mortal with the weapon of a deity.
But Rokuhira Kunishige is dead. Uruha's heart is empty.
Traditions die...
Therefore, there was no point in imitating the dead masters of the desolate school anymore. If Uruha had wanted to, he could have taken on apprentices, if he had wanted to, he could have become anything but he did nothing, and as a result, now he can't even die like a true samurai who would open his stomach after his master's death, because that would dishonor Rokuhira-san's death even more. Misaka was already killed, now he must live no matter what. A dead student of a dead fighting school. Only his heart beats.
The tip of the brush traces along his eyelid and then abruptly rises upward, completing the sloppy drawing. Uruha slowly opens his eyes.
In front of him sits the head of security, the young man (young?) he met a year ago when he was hidden from the world with Samura and the others because Misaka was killed. Because their lives are now incredibly valuable, or rather not lives — but a lifetime contract. And so, as long as it's still active, they can do whatever they want, safely hidden from the rest of the world. This young man is obliged to protect Uruha with his life, which the latter considers the greatest stupidity. He's always had problems with Kamunabi, though.
At first, they don't get along, but then they become friends. There's no choice. A year later, he says:
"We're putting on a little show to raise morale. You're in, it's out of the question."
Uruha is distraught. Mostly because of how brazen an offer is.
"What if I don't want to?"
"You do want to," the bodyguard says. Uruha knows his name. He knows his name perfectly well, but he's too angry and doesn't want to say it. "Because we're doing the best we can for you, so you'll help a little."
"There's fourteen of you guys, why do you need a show? Who's going to organize it?"
"It's entertainment for us," the bodyguard snorts, and when Uruha tries to escape, he grabs his wrist. "Don't run away like you usually do."
His touch is hot, hard. The hands are calloused. They're the hands of a hard worker who watches day and night to make sure one of Rokuhira Kunishige's treasures doesn't fall to the enemy. It's easy for Uruha to imagine his bodyguard conquering the career ladder and climbing higher and higher in the Kamunabi, earning the fame he deserves, and all it takes is fieldwork. Except he can't leave here, because otherwise Uruha's life will be jeopardized, and with it, the blade as well. The situation is stalemate. In exchange for his successes, the bodyguard is forced to sit here, locked in with a moody old veteran.
... sometimes Uruha remembers that this is exactly what he is.
He presses his lips together and sits back in his seat, and the bodyguard tells him:
"I hear you dance beautifully with your sword."
Uruha is instantly wary.
"Who told you that?"
A chuckle comes next.
"So it's true. No one. I saw you practicing, then I looked up your style. You know, there's a whole page about you in the internet encyclopedia!"
Uruha makes a sour face.
"I know. And I don't like my picture there!"
Sometimes he's so tempted to delete this article, but the site moderators still won't let him do it. Of course, the information there is pretty vague — mostly just what the public knows, including the nickname, a blurry wartime photo, and few known facts. To civilians, they will forever remain six ghosts of terrible times and nothing more, just unknown soldiers labeled as urban myth. You can't see Uruha's face in the photo, but anyone familiar with him will recognize him easily.
And yes. It says about the fencing school because Uruha got drunk one time and blabbed about it. Gossip lives a long time.
He rubs the back of his head, then groans.
"But why? Don't you have anything else to do?"
"We can't work forever. And you can't drown in your grief for eternity," the bodyguard continues to squeeze his wrist, and the touch makes his skin warm. A pleasant warmth for a cold evening. "It's just an entertaining evening. You'll show the youngsters your style. They haven't seen much of you."
Have you, Uruha wants to ask, seen me? But he swallows the question and frowns his thin eyebrows.
"All right, just once. What kind of dance?"
When he heard the agreement, the bodyguard instantly revived and briefly told him his idea: he said that he had met a colleague who had been on a business trip to a neighboring country, and there he had seen a performance and had created a dance based on it. It seems that Uruha had heard the name of this acquaintance — a prominent person from the theater. No wonder, after learning about Uruha's skills the bodyguard decided to use it; like two birds with one stone. And the name of the play on which the dance is based...
"The Hegemon-King Bids His Lady Farewell."
"I know it," Uruha remarks distantly, raising an eyebrow. "It's about doomed love."
"Well, yeah?"
"And why should I play in it?"
Is it a mockery of his love for Rokuhira Kunishige?! Uruha wants to get angry, but he doesn't have time because the bodyguard smiles guiltily.
"Uh, no. That's just all I can remember from his chatter."
Anyway, no malicious intent. Too late to say no, Uruha agrees, and as is usually the case, he gets the female part. He doesn't mind, only snorts when he learns that it's the bodyguard who will perform the king's dance, but there's something ironic about it as if he's deliberately setting up this particular performance. It's hard to tell: he's not the kind of man who's good at showing emotion, everything human in him was killed by the war and then by Rokuhira-san's murder. But perhaps it's flattering. It's their mute attempt to say something to each other, except...
... what?
But Uruha agrees. He sets up the dance himself, based on the video. He trains the bodyguard on his own.
The story tells of tragic love. In the end, the concubine kills herself. Uruha thinks in the beginning — yes, I understand the feeling perfectly. But now, after so much training together, after so much time together... He's not so sure anymore.
Eventually, they sit in his room. The performance is in a few hours. Everyone is excited — at least some fun in this dull routine — and Uruha hears one of the guys playing guitar. It's terrible, and he imagines they'll all tell the poor guy that he'd rather fight than be a musician, for which he'll try to throw them all into a hot spring. No, this evening was a good idea after all. And he will finally do something.
As the bodyguard puts the brushes away, Uruha watches as he carefully cleans each one from the paint.
"Why did you decide to perform with me?" he suddenly asks.
When the bodyguard raises his eyes to him, Uruha sees some excitement glint in them.
"The guys already know what I'm capable of. This is going to be boring. Today we're showing off unusual talents, and not many people know about you."
"Did you intentionally read an article about me on the web?" his smile grows involuntarily.
The bodyguard makes a very thoughtful face. Oh, it's a game. He's embarrassed.
"Well... Maybe! I thought it would distract you. You're certainly not as gray as you were in the early days, but you're still pretty distant from the boys. It's bad for team spirit. The guys will like it better if you show yourself too."
"Ah, so it's a concern for the guys."
"Why not for all of you?"
They're smiling back at him.
Touché.
As props, they are given practice swords. Of course, no one will let Uruha perform with a real weapon, even though everyone realizes he won't cut his own throat. But it's safer this way. He looks at that sword lying in the distance and remembers the feeling when he first picked up Kumeyuri, the shiver that ran through his hand as his spiritual energy became one with the steel. He remembers the sensation of blood gushing. The way his blade cut through flesh. The hunger of battle. He was so young. That war had broken some core in him but rebuilt and hardened him like good iron. All of them, the six chosen ones, were nothing but swords born thanks to Rokuhira Kunishige. No line can be drawn between him and his blade.
The bodyguard grabs his chin. Despite the strength felt in his fingers, he holds Uruha gently, as if afraid of injuring him, as if they are both not former soldiers and he is but a porcelain cup in the man's hands. The new brush touches his lips, coloring them scarlet. It tastes like cherries.
"Don't lick it!"
Uruha stretches his lips wider.
The bodyguard is doing his best. He's not very confident in his abilities, evident in the slight trembling in his fingers, but Uruha lets him take full control. Only when he finishes, critically inspecting his creation, does he allow himself to ask:
"Is that the only play you remember?"
"Yes. I remember it... for some reason," the bodyguard picks up the whitewash. He apologizes for the possible discomfort and continues: "Probably because I hate stories with bad endings."
"Really?"
"You see, there's such a thing in writing as drama for drama's sake. A writer who forces his characters to go through a bunch of agony and then to death is a bad writer. I know it's considered honorable in the classics to have your character dead, but... That's not fair! Everyone deserves a happy ending. We deserved it when the war ended."
Uruha remembers that day. The roar of the fireworks. How he and Samura and Misaka drank themselves to sleep. Loud laughter and tears.
And now came that “happily ever after” that they don't usually show. And it's pretty tragic.
"That's why I think this story is crap. But it's still beautiful, and I don't remember anything else... Although we still interpret everything freely, we don't have Beijing Opera here," the bodyguard looks at him tiredly and then puts the jar with whitewash down. "I'm sorry."
"For what? For talking? No, it's a good topic."
"No, I'm terrible at makeup."
Oh, he's talking about whitewash.
Carefully, Uruha picks up a mirror and critically examines himself. Then picks up a brush of scarlet paint. A little correction here and there, but, on the whole, not too bad. The main rule of theater in any country is bright colors because any spectator must see the performer as the man in the front rows sees him. He smiles at the bodyguard, and the latter exhales, realizing that he will not be scolded. Though it would be fun to try. Usually so confident and collected, he's nervous about something completely unimportant.
How is that not a better confession?
People often lose their masks when they become sincere.
Uruha smiles. He moves closer to the bodyguard, and the latter freezes, as if not yet sure what to do. Today, it's Uruha who feels like the one in control, and it's a funny feeling. He exhales:
"Would you like to find your happy ending?"
"Who doesn't?"
Indeed. As Uruha lowers his head, he feels a touch on his hand, looks down. Once again, that warm, broad palm takes his wrist, but this time more tightly. There is a sense of confidence in this gesture, unlike the way he held the brush, and it makes Uruha chuckle again. He looks at the bodyguard, and then out the window.
There is no moon visible behind the clouds. Tonight they will perform under the lights.
"A year ago, all I wanted to do was to die," he admits. Silence hangs for a moment. "And I still want to. They say time heals, but I still feel that dull ache. But in the last few days, it's gotten a little quieter."
"A little quieter? Why?"
Does he not understand? Uruha looks at the bodyguard — he's still too annoyed to call his name even in his thoughts — and smiles. When he pitches forward, the man freezes, not expecting this.
"Because... there is no point in this concubine to die, after all, the king's journey is not over."
He leans forward.
The moon will not witness their kiss tonight. The bodyguard's lips are cracked, tasting something sweet, and Uruha sinks his teeth into the sensation, trying to squeeze out the rest of it. He feels himself pressing harder into his guardian's lips, and as the latter, slowly, as if hesitant, places his hands first on his shoulders and then lower and lower until Uruha is wrapped in a tight embrace. They don't break their kiss. It is a truly magnificent feeling, a triumph, and Uruha thinks — ah, how long have I desired this, how much I wanted to be loved. But his deity has turned away and will not look at him again. His blade has been stolen. Now Uruha is no longer one of the six gods of war, but simply a nobody, an empty shell.
He steps away and rests his head on his bodyguard's shoulder. The latter continues to clutch him in a hug, stroking his hair and neck with his other hand. Today, no more words are needed. Today they can become different people: not the blade wielder and his protector, but just friends who have finally opened their souls to each other. It was good that Uruha had gotten it right. It was good that he had felt that longing himself.
Would it be considered betrayal? But of whom...? Rokuhira-san had never liked him in that sense.
Without crime, there is no punishment.
Tonight's dance will be special. It will not be a return to the beginning, but something new. Uruha recalls his teacher's words that he must find his own style, and add something different to what he has been taught, and only now does he seem to understand the meaning of these words. Only the teacher had hardly suggested such methods.
"Sorry," the bodyguard says suddenly, and Uruha looks up at him.
"Why?"
"The makeup... smudged."
Is that all he's worried about right now? Uruha starts laughing — louder than usual, he pushes the bodyguard's hand to his chest and keeps giggling, and the bodyguard chuckles back, and they both keep laughing, forgetting the whole world, not paying attention to anything, because this world can wait for now, because Uruha finally finds the answer to his old question, finds his much-needed peace of mind.
What to do next?
In the past, he would have said — to exist.
But now he says to live.
When the moon slowly appears from behind the clouds, Uruha doesn't care anymore. He can enjoy the direct sunlight, not its reflection, here and now. He closes his eyes, smiling to himself and thinking — ah, how good it would be to finally dig out the scarlet thread in the cold, biting snow that will let him continue to live.