Demon of the Mountain: Part 2: Tensho . Sanchuu By: Shutani Houkiku Harada Sanosuke There are few one may safely call "friend" in the cities. Unlike the rural outbacks where everyone is a neighbour, "neighbour" meaning something there. I have roamed these rooftops alone since "Tengu" abandoned them. I cannot blame him, this silent lonliness that sits upon Kyoto like a heavy stone drives me insane too. I'm only here because there is nowhere else for me to go. A quarter of an hour. The moon will be mid-sky then, the perfect backdrop for the doings of tonight. The hour of Mountain Judgement. Sanchuu-jikan. It is the only thing that seems real anymore. The only time when I'm real. Funny, how what was once a dream is now everything and what was once all is now naught. You might argue that I have a life outside of this. A life of a common peasant girl in the city. Shouldn't how she's fallen on hard times convince that she is indeed as real as the bounty hunter laying in ambush in the pale moonlight? But, ah, my friend, you do not know the half of it. Shutani Houkiku, daughter of a blacksmith in Kyoto seeking her fortune, is little more than an empty shell. Empty, hollowed out, with the loss of those that made her real. Father dead, companion gone... but soft! His lordship the Moon has reached his zenith. Time for the Yasha, his courtier from the Mountains to strike! * * * A man stumbled out of the drinking house, pulling on the elaborate lapels of his waistcoat, the latest in London fashion. What fools these Japanese barbarians are! Easily gulled on the business front, easily bribed in politics, and what silly tales! The capital was choked full of revolutionists. Those cowards! Hiring men to do their dirty work for them in the dark. And the peasantry, such simple-minded people, pronouncing these men slinking in shadows demons and goblins from their own barbaric folktales. The Yasha indeed! Who's ever heard of a woman playing assasin? And a man with claws? Perposterous! The Ishinshishi and Shinsengumi he could believe, they were just men still convinced of their immortality against guns. Ha! Just let them try being pumped full of lead! Fools, the whole country of them! The night was young yet and his celebrations not yet done. Perhaps he would go persuade a fine Japanese girl she isn't as virturous as she thought. Yes, there were whores a penny a dozen, but he found those too tough, too jaded for his delicate tastes. Besides, these came for free. The man staggered down a shadowed street. A sharp sound of rock hitting gavel surprised him. He jumped, focused blearily on the pebble in front of him, then looked up and decided he was more drunk than he thought. Shadowed against a full gentle moon blurred around the edges was a female clad simply in a white kimono patterned in mint green. Deep red and black hair floated in the night breeze brushing delicate shoulders. Her face, when she lifted her head, was hideously twisted, horned and fanged, and in her hands she played with a feverish sliver of the moon. His first thought was to run! Flee into the forest of buildings, back to civilization where a monster such as this has no place! Turn into the jaws of the waiting Wolf who had stalked him thus far; but the eyes of the Yasha held him rooted to the spot. Fever-bright ebony stars more beautiful than anything he's ever seen, yet infinately more horrible. She moved, silently, precisely, like a caged mountain cat he had seen once in a travelling circus back home, biding her time. He had wondered what would have happened if that great creature was to suddenly break free. The last thing he did, was to find out. Harada Sanosuke, leader of the tenth division of the Shinsengumi sprinted the last block at the bone-chilling death shriek. Kuso! He swore silently to save his breath. Not again! The sight he skidded to a stop at was not unfamiliar. A hitokiri bending over the bloody mess of what was once a man, extracting his heart, that was the traditional trophy of those mountain demons. The Yasha turned and seemed to startle for a moment at his prescence, then inclined his fiery head in a mockery of a smile and calmly faded into the shadowed alley, gone. "At least now we know he deserves to die." The revolutionist mumbled to himself and stepped over the two characters scribed in blood on the pavement next to the splatted flesh, into the shadows after his rival. * * * Shutani made it back to her room through the front, with little mishap. Once safely within the sliding doors, she threw open the windows and leaned out into the chilling night where she had just came from. The wind whisked sharply across her cheek and played knots into her long, unbound hair. She paid little heed. Her face was still flushed. She willed her pulse slow again, and this time it relented some. That was close. Too close. I should have just ran. Yet, she did not really regret the fight with the Yasha's fiery nemesis. Not even the part when she briefly removed her mask for him in the shadows. She shrugged out of the blood-stained kimono and wadded it in the corner of her closet. She will wash it tomorrow, when the day calls the night over. Snuggling onto the window seat, the girl, for she was a girl in this slight moment, drew her knees up to her chest and searched out into the city sky for the moon. There was something very pleasurable in the way he made her blood sing whenever they crossed paths in the bloody alleys. Whether a brief tarry or fierce-fought duel, their interactions never ceased to excite her; nor his frustration cease to amuse her in their irony. The way he had searched her face for more than shadows just a scant quarter candlemark before, she found especially erotic. Houkiku nestled a cheek against an arm. It was ridiculous, to be engaged in such girlish thoughts in her profession, both as a prostitute and an assasin. But it helped her remember herself. The good times, when Shutani Houkiku was just Shutani Houkiku. Daughter of Shutani Hirota the blacksmith. Harada did that for her, but only seldom, being so wrapped up in his duties and vexations most of the time. It was the midnight dalliances that made him two-thirds as dear to her as he is. Dalliance, for that was what it was. A certain sanguine flirtation that was lacking in his relationship with the little whore across the street from the infamous Osen. Sometimes the child in her wonders what it would be to reveal herself to him; and to spend the rest of their lives together. But the woman she is knows it cannot be so. The people of the flat land and the people of the mountain cannot be together. Besides, she dread to guess his reaction should he ever discover the truth about his adversary and his lover. She should have heard the footsteps earlier. In a flush of panic, Houkiku threw her bandaged sword into her open closet and the contorted mask under her futon. He took her by surprise again, in striding straight in and made a grab for her in the same move. "Ha... Harada-sama..." She stammered in confusion. This was not his usual behaviour. Usually, unless he had made prior arrangements with her, Harada would disappear into a sake shop 'til dawn after being evaded, yet again, by the Arashi-yasha. And though he had often strode in without prior warning, never in such a temper. "Nan..." "Shh..." He buried his hands and face into her hair, clutching her to him with a wild desperation she had yet to see. "Please, please don't ask." He rasped even as he bent over her neck and shoulder. She could detect the heavy stench of foreign alchol on his breath, and was puzzled, for it was not as strong as what it took to make him drunk. But that instantly became a thought for later contemplation when he slid his hands under her underclothes and sought, with burning lips, her neck, chest and lips. * * * He was gone when she woke again. Typical. Once, just once, she'd like him to be there whe she wakes, watching over her. Even though she knew it was not quite possible in their kind of life and it was hardly her choice. He was exceptionally rough and desperate the night before. Perhaps the Yasha had driven him a little too far. But she liked the variety, oh yes. Houkiku laid tranquil in the warm sun pouring in her window, emptying her mind, until old habits forced her out of bed. She will never be used to raising late. The first thing she did was to retrieve her sword and mask from their crude hiding places and carefully returned these shrines of her belief to their rightful place, the face of the Mountain God's wrath under a loose floorboard and the blade, carefully sealed in its frayed wrappings, discreetly next to her futon. Then she made the bed and went to do the laundry in the courtyard. The way Shutani sees it, laundering was more than a chore, it was a cleansing ritual of the soul. Something about the mundanity of it all calmed her senses and gave her back the sense of realism of herself. It assured her that there was more to these bloody times than swords and spilled guts. There was the laundry. There was always the laundry. A floppy crop of flaming hair across the yard caught her eye. "Ohaiyo, Shin~ta." The blue-clad figure froze. The back hunched over and he slowly tried to creep away in hope that she had not really seen him. It was a good sign, she decided, at least he was acting human. "I say, is this really the most feared hitokiri that I know?" She pitched her voice in careless disregard of the weight of her words. "The Senhitokiri Battou..." "KIKU!" He hissed in her ear, a half-inch of metal appearing above the scabbard, close to her nose. She grinned. "You never know WHO could be listening!" "It is as good a way as any to get your attention." Shutani whisked away from him, wooden laundry bucket under one arm. "Come on, get your clothes out. It's a good day for airing out the mildew." He had on the striken look of a boy whose older female authority had just ordered him to clean out his closet. "But it doesn't NEED washing!" "Hai, yet I can smell it all the way from my room." "But... but..." "We might not have another day as wonderful as this. Go get your laundry." "But Kiku..." A whine. Hardly the kind of sound you would expect from an assasin of a thousand skilled fighters. You hardly expect him to lose a fight, either, but a quarter of an hour later there was no denying his prescence next to his female friend, hanging laundry. It helped that Houkiku was friendly with the land lady of the inn he stayed at. * * * The cold wind howled, the hungry whining cry of weeping demons. Here and there was a patch of night peeping through the clouds. A storm was on hand. Black and red hair whipped about the pale, polished face of one such. It was a night was was like her. It was a night that belonged to her. Arashi-Yasha. The Storm Demon. She lifted her pale sword and watched the moonlight reflect. Watch her own face reflect. Entranced. Memories of the day have already slipped away. So what was real? The sun, whose face she barely remembers; or the moon, whose serreal set blurs all lines... save hers...? The girl, or the killer? Since this blade first took blood... ... The lines have blurred. It had all seemed so clear in the day... Perhaps the demon was the true reflection of the girl's soul. Is there no redemption? It was the Road of No-Return from the very first step. Once she had a Cause. A True Cause, a Noble Cause. Her first and only. Now it was gone. She could barely remember it. What filial daughter is this that cannot recall her father's contenance so soon after his death? Never mind that she placed, as an offering, the blood of his murderers on his symbolic grave. Symbolic, for she could find nothing of him to give proper burial. Did she truely believed that he would accept it? Had she truely thought he was pleased? She made a vow upon his grave. He was always ardant about protecting the innocent and aiding the weak and wronged. She will fulfill his fervour and assume such a position. Now, as she reflected, perhaps he would not have liked his little daughter, once so joyful and innocent, to become as she is, a demon. A killer. But what's the use? He is gone. She cannot ask his opinion. And a promise was a promise. She had sworn. Two sinners belonged to the moon: those who have wronged; and those who have wronged rightfully and thus charged to repay the former, to keep clean the hands of those whose souls are pure. She thought of the Mibu Wolfs and the Ishinshishi. Maybe they aren't so different after all. Maybe it didn't matter anyway. She thought, in paticular, of two. Somewhere, in the moonlit streets, standing in pools of blood, were her companions by moonlight. Who refuse to acknowledge her, or each other. Somewhere, the lines have blurred. Indiscriminate killing. Shinsen hunting Ishin. Ishin hunting Shinsen. Shinsen hunting hitokiri. Ishin hunting hitokiri. Hitokiri hunting bounties. Bounty hunting employer. Employer hunting Shinsen. Employer hunting Ishin. Employer hunting rivals. Employers hunting profits... ... Somewhere along the line, she cannot shake the feeling that they have been used. Ruthlessly by profit seekers. So this was where all noble ambitions and painful tow led. To the pockets of the Merchants. The Gaijin. The traitors. So what are they fighting for? Really? It was enough to drive any patriot mad. Thank the Moon she was not. Yet. Discovered. * * * [End Part 2/Tensho . Sanchuu]