In Every Life I've Lived: (5) A Thousand Dreams / Part One.

[hermiones]

Title: (5) A Thousand Dreams PART ONE
Fandom: JE
Pairing: Yamapi/Jin
Rating: R
Disclaimers: Well, this is it. Fuck, I can't even think of suitable things to say about this. I can't believe it's over. It's been the most fun I think I've ever had, writing. And I really, really hope you guys enjoy it. Thank you all so much for all the feedback you've given me. You've been amazing. Song lyrics at the start are from Cobra Starship's 'One Day, Robots Will Cry'.
Warnings: Scenes of angst, supernatural. Some disturbing content.



When you were young, you kept a list,
Of the things you'd miss, as you got older.
I've known you, in every life I've lived.
In our dreams, we can be complete again.


The year, the century, turns itself over and everybody is apprehensive. This is partly because they're waiting for 1600 to make its mark on history, and partly because they're waiting for history to make its mark on 1600. There's discontent, disintegration, political disruption. It's not an ideal position for the people of Japan, but it is an ideal position for the samurai.

Toyotomi Hideyoshi, the Toyotomi shogun, is dead. Toyotomi Hideyori is his five year old heir, and thus his position is frail. Tokugawa Ieyasu is a samurai rebel, whose position is on the rise. Something must be done. He must be stopped.

They sit there, the five of them, at Sawayama Castle. Ishida Mitsunari's home. He speaks with a deep, full voice. It gives a certain certainty to the proceedings.

“War is our only option,” he says. He sits at the head of the table, the other men around. “Ieyasu has aspirations that are beyond him. He must be stopped. Hideyori's position is frail, Ieyasu has more power than our regents.”

“If only Hideyoshi hadn't gone to Korea,” one of the men says. “All those worthless campaigns. Nobody goes to Korea and gets to China safely. We told him that.”

“The troops did well on land,” Yamapi says. “It was only at sea that we faltered.”

“Well, that's my point,” the man replies. “The pirates never managed to get to China, did they? They never managed to get that far, anyway. Why should we be any different? We have less money than the pirates ever did!”

“We must take action, nonetheless,” Ishida says. “There's no point in regretting what's past. What's important is that we ready, to fight. The only thing we can and must do is stop Tokugawa Ieyasu.”

They sit around the table, the five men. Their swords are at the door. They sit in peaceful, tense reflection. Their position is treacherous. They sit, as only five men. An alliance. Their job is to inspire a movement to save their clan, protect the regents of Toyotomi Hideyori, and to protect their own futures.

No small task, then.


Emperor Go-Yozei is aware of events, of course. He has to be. For the Japanese court, the samurai government is a source of income. A bank account, as it were, that keeps them afloat in the chaotic political climate. Their own fortunes diminishing by the year, the court relies on the current shogunate to support it. In return, they wield their individual power: legitimizing the samurai who make a successful claim on the shogun title. In so doing, they secure the power of men like Toyotomi Hideyoshi.

This awareness Go-Yozei wishes he could install in his firstborn son. His crown prince, set to take over his rule when he abdicates. The boy, though advanced in years, is not ready yet. Akanishi Jin is still immature. He does not see the joys of literature, poetry or art. He does not read well, recite the ancient texts, the poems, or recognise the art of perfume-creation. None of these things he attempts, instead spending his time roaming the grounds, searching for adventure.

He shows no interest in taking a wife, though he is currently thought shameful for his indifference. Go-Yozei is in the process of arranging a perfect marriage, one he has made known to his son, forced through. His son is not currently speaking to him. Instead, he roams the grounds as he always does, talking to the ladies and men of the court about all the adventures he would have if he were able to escape the walls. A sensitive man, Go-Yozei feels for his son, but he is bound by the traditions by which he lives. Akanishi Jin is almost eighteen, and has neither wife nor sons. He is on the brink of being ostracized by the court, and Go-Yozei's second son is not suitable for the throne.

With all these troubles in mind, Go-Yozei doesn't welcome the news of further political instability, much less samurai warfare.

“A battle,” he says, with a deep sigh. “That's all we need.”

“I wish I could fight,” Akanishi Jin says, his only response. The only response he's given his father for a week. “I don't even know how to fight. I can't even wield a sword.”

“There's no need for you to wield a sword,” Go-Yozei says. “Your occupation must be inside the court. We seal our power in other ways. The samurai, those that fund our activities, they fight for us. You must not wish to trade places, lest you cause offense to them. You would not want that life, I assure you.”

“I don't want this one,” Akanishi Jin says. “I'm not you, father. I've tried to be like you. I've really tried, to drum the poetry into my head. To remember the words from the ancient texts. To recite the Buddhist scrolls. I've really tried, to pray. But none of these things have worked for me. I can't stop thinking about other things. I haven't experienced anything, and you're asking me to stay here, my whole life. You're asking me to start the rest of my life, when I haven't even begun living the first bit.”

“I felt the same way, as a boy,” Go-Yozei says, thoughtfully. “I didn't want to be married. I became Emperor first, of course, four years younger than you. Think about that. And then, two years younger than you are now, I was married. You have had a charmed life, boy, and you'd do well to remember that.”

“I'm not ungrateful,” Jin says, hastily. “Just...did you never dream of other things?”

“Of course,” his father says. “I dreamt of all sorts, as a boy. Of being a pirate, of being a samurai warrior. A great warrior. I dreamt of so many things. But in this life, we only get our one existence. We cannot be more than we are. We must not attempt to be more than we are.”

“What if I can't stop dreaming?”

“The ancient texts warn us that idle dreaming will only do us harm, when we cross over. You must die peacefully. Not with regrets, or wishing you'd lived another life. The ancient texts say that if you die with such thoughts on your mind, your soul can be split. That dreams can come true, but in horrifying ways. You want to pass over peacefully. You do not want to live out other lives, after death.”

“But-”

“After death, we do not live as we are now. We live without heart, without morality, without blood – without all that makes us human. I fear this sort of existence. My only dream now is to die peacefully, and without regret. Put your dreams to rest. Grow above them. Read the texts. They shall bring you comfort. Further than that, I cannot help you.”

“Do you believe the ancient texts?” Jin asks, as his father leaves the room. “Split souls, living more lives? Surely it's just...myth. Legends. Things they couldn't describe back then. Surely now, we know better than to invest in that?”

“You are thinking yourself above our ancestors, then?” Go-Yozei says, a raised eyebrow, an angry tone. “You must respect the knowledge of those who came before you. You are a boy, and you know nothing. Not of the battle that we're headed for, nor of the way other people live. You are a young animal, not yet ready for the world away from its mother's body. You must stop this nonsense, and consider who you are. I never want to hear this sort of talk from you again. Do you understand that?”

Jin understands that. He understands a lot more than that, too, but he doesn't want his father to know. There are things that his father shouldn't know.


They go to war, the alliance. The five of them find another ally, and soon, six doubles, trebles, becomes thousands and thousands of men. The Western force, they call themselves. They take Tokugawa Ieyasu head-on. They are determined. They are tactically superior. They believe in themselves and their fight. Their cause.

Only, mistakes are made, alliances break. Soldiers desert them, tempted by the promise in Tokugawa Ieyasu's eyes. Their tactics are shattered. There's a slow decline, a slow losing of everything and anything that ever put them at the top of the game. Men are lost, few at first before the number doubles and trebles and ranks in the thousands.

The battle of Sekigahara is not on their side, and they lose. The six of them do not escape with their lives, not all of them. Yamapi manages to escape, sneaking past the enemy at the late stage of the day. He creeps past, as fast as he can. On his way, Koyama of the Western alliance holds out his stained dagger. He's lying on the ground and his shaky arm rises. Yamapi takes it, turns back to say something, but he's gone. He tries not to feel it. Fleeing is not something he's proud of, not when he sees that the rest are executed for their crimes. Some of the remaining Toyotomi clan go over to Ieyasu's side, because it's better than death. Many of them have families to feed, many of them just aren't ready to give up.

Yamapi isn't ready to give up, but he's not ready to become a Tokugawa. He'd rather be a ronin, one of Hideyoshi's despised men, a lost samurai. He'd rather be anything than a Tokugawa, even if it means being disgraced.

He's lost his horse, some of his armour. The colours of the clan. He's lost his family. The only thing he has left is his sword, covered in blood, covered in death. And his hands, equally drenched, poisoned, or so it feels. For a while, he lies low. He drinks a lot, with what he can afford to pay. It's the only thing that soaks him more than the blood. He hates himself. The guilt is overwhelming, like a constant rain on his head. He lies in a small inn room, his sword on the floor. He doesn't eat, just drinks. Doesn't consider his next move, because there is no next move.

This is it. He hadn't planned the beyond. He was relying on Ishida. He was relying on victory. Ishida is dead. Decapitated. His head is on a stick at the gates to Kyoto, a reminder to the city that Tokugawa's authority is something they no longer can question. He hasn't heard, whether the Emperor has sanctioned Tokugawa Ieyasu yet. He no longer has any contacts, who could let him know.

1600 has made its mark, and history too. Yamapi lies on a cold bed, in a cold room, with a cold drink – and he wonders whether he's just picking the cowardly route. Drinking himself to death, it isn't what Ishida would have wanted.

Then again, Ishida wouldn't have wanted his head on a stick, either.

And it gives him an idea, of sorts.


In the dead of the night, Yamapi walks towards the city walls. He wears his kamishimo with determination, a kind of bittersweet pride. These were the clothes that established him as a samurai, a man at the top of his tree. A proud, Toyotomi man. The colours looked faded, now. As if some of the life has gone out of them, as well as out of the men Yamapi fought alongside. Yet he can't bring himself to take them off. It's just one more loss he doesn't feel that he can cope with.

Over the clothes, he wears his battle coat, the only other thing he hasn't lost in battle. He remembers that even as his armour was lost, he clung to it. Ishida had given it to him, on the night at Sawayama Castle. He'd given Jin-baori to all of the alliance, each with an individual representation, a mark of personal significance. Yamapi's was a tiger, because Ishida thought he fought like one. That he was brave, bold, thickly-set. Not a coward. Not the best fighter, not the leader, but the one most likely to hold ground, to keep belief, to keep strong. Yamapi doesn't feel that it's very apt, anymore, but he refuses to be separated from it.

Those still milling around Kyoto pay him little mind. They're used to samurai, and though the colours he's wearing cause the raising of eyebrows, nobody confronts him directly. They're as unsure as he is, about Tokugawa. It seems that Ieyasu hasn't been officially sanctioned yet, which gives Yamapi some time and protection. He feels wobbly, from alcohol withdrawal and lack of food, but he hasn't money for food and he's gone longer without before. He wonders where he'll go after he carries out his plans. The life of a ronin, he supposes. He'll go wherever the mood takes him.

Perhaps he'll provide some farming family with protection. He knows that the peasant classes are abused in these turbulent times. Perhaps he could do a little farming himself. He's not sure of the work, exactly, but he's never been afraid of solid graft and many people could use an extra hand nowadays. There's a lot of insecurity in the air, and Yamapi tries not to think about the future. Not yet. The past hasn't gone yet. His family, his friends, not long passed. Yamapi didn't have a moment to pray for them, to send them over peacefully. He hopes that they got there.

After some time, he reaches the city walls, where the heads are. There are no people around, because the people no longer think there's anything to see. Everyone has come to see the faces of the disgraced and now, they go about their business as if nothing ever happened. That's 1600, Yamapi thinks. That's the turn of the century. Death is no longer shocking. Battles no longer surprises. The people accept whatever man stands atop the country, whether he's of good nature or bad. The people are indifferent, and no longer care.

At this moment in time, with everything lost, Yamapi can understand that.


Jin looks around the corner at the guards, who lie sleeping. Their limbs are spread across the stairs, akimbo, it makes for a funny image. Jin leads the horse around, shushing her as he goes. She regards him with faint amusement, or so it seems she does. Nobody stirs. The grounds are quiet, with only the chirping of insects and the wave of the breeze to disturb the silence. Jin supposes that some are awake, somewhere. The night is good for couples, for business. His father sleeps, his attendants do, too. Jin mounts his horse, takes tentative steps across the courtyard. Nobody wakes. Nobody leans from a window, or draws a door across to yell, “you, there!”

The people who live in the court are used to the comings and goings of all sorts of people and their horses. This is not unusual. Jin had always disliked the presence of businessmen, of other important people – but now, he's thankful for every mammoth dinner, every long ceremony, every endless session of prayer. Now, he's thankful for each moment of it, because his horse breaks into a canter, then a gallop, and not a single person interrupts them. They fly across the stonework, Jin feeling for the first time a sense of freedom and adventure and an open path of limitless possibility. It's exhilarating, like breathing in oxygen for the first moment of life. He wants to shout, but of course, he can't.

He gets onto the open road and makes short work of it, the palace glittering over his shoulder for only a few minutes before it vanishes. The world is dark outside. He's never been, and he's surprised by the dim light. He hadn't thought that the palace was so bright because of all of the illuminating fires, the firework displays, the colour, the vitality. The world outside is dark, unable to afford such luxury. Jin likes it. It feels real. He doesn't fit into it: he wears layers of beautiful, expensive fabric. Silks, mostly, with emblematic designs suited to a crown prince. They are blue, blue and green. The colour of a ruler, his father would often say, in the hope of inspiring him.

It never worked: Jin preferred red. His overcoat, cotton, thick and warm, that's red. Red with gold embroidery, and a black tie around the middle. His boots are black. His hat, too. Red is a lucky colour across the seas, but his father disapproves of missions abroad, of the taking of culture from other nations. Of anything beyond the palace walls, much less the shores of Japan. Jin loves the colour red, and all that its luckiness stands for. He hopes one day to visit China. Even to get to Korea, that would be something.

He passes small villages after a time, and by minute they get smaller and less grandiose. The further he goes from the palace, the more poverty seems obvious to him. He was never aware of such things. His father has seen to it. This is the world as it really is, and none of the ancient books Jin was told to read accurately described it. He feels cheated, as if his entire life has been a falsehood. Things are lost to him in every second. Visions he had of life vanish at every turn, replaced with new insight. Farmers are in the fields, even at nightfall. They worry about the crops, and the feudal lords on their backs. They are full of worry, it can be seen in their backs.

Jin rides on, determined to reach the city walls. Beyond there, he doesn't know where he will go. The world is open to him, now. He can go anywhere he chooses. He is unsure, but in time, he'll think of something. Being an adventurer is this way, and for all the wealth in the world, he wouldn't be back in the palace. His father will miss him, with despair and some devastation, but he will survive. He will choose somebody better to rule. Jin has done him a favour. A selfish and unkind favour, but a favour nonetheless.


Yamapi takes out the rusted, bloody dagger from his boot. There it served as a constant reminder. It is bent a little out of shape, but it will do. Perhaps it will honour Koyama, too, to do what he knows is right. Looking around him, the coast being clear, he turns the dagger into the wooden pole in the centre of the wall. Looking up, Ishida's head looks forward impassively. He has no expression. No image could be further from Ishida's true person. Ishida in life was never indifferent. He believed that indifference was a sickness, something Yamapi took to heart, in the end.

Silently, he begins to cut. Steadying the pole with his free hand, he cuts slices away from its length so that it gently lowers. Yamapi does not want it to fall. He does not want the head to be damaged. It takes some time, and a lot of strength, and Yamapi's shoulder aches by the end. He thinks it must have been hit during the battle but he hasn't checked, he isn't sure. Sometimes it's best not to, to allow wounds to heal on their own. But after some time, the head is on eye level with Yamapi's face, and Yamapi sighs, looking into Ishida's dead, dull eyes.

“I am so sorry,” he says, his eyes closing with grief. “I failed you. I failed you twice. I could not win our battle, and I could not die respectably with you. I failed you, twice.”

Nothing is said, no words of condemnation or comfort. Yamapi wasn't expecting it: samurai don't approve much of the supernatural. It distracts from what it inside a person. If you believe that otherworldly spirits have the power to influence your mind, your mind is weakened. You must by association believe in the weakness of your mind and the limitation of your person. This does not go in accordance with samurai tradition, and so respect is given to supernatural forces, but nothing more. It does not do to anger the gods, but nor does it do to dance with them. That is what Ishida used to say. Something Yamapi took to heart, also.

Yamapi carries with him a thick, black sack. It is not respectful in itself, not fit for a man like Ishida, but it is more fit than being on a pole, and it is all Yamapi has with him. With effort and with bitter, wretched pain, Yamapi removes the head from the pole. His discards the hated stick with feeling as he goes, but the head takes a little pulling to release. It sickens Yamapi, the struggle, and he forces back tears as hard and as roughly as he can, because it doesn't do to give into emotion in a time where strength is demanded. He chokes back a sob as the skull releases, and as he envelops Ishida's lifeless face in black fabric. He carefully ties the bag together, secure as he can make it, and looks around him. He needs to find a way to get out of the city. He can walk for some time, but eventually he will become too exhausted.

As if a supernatural force has indeed stepped onto the floor and offered a dancing hand, the sound of hoof beats can be heard in the distance. Yamapi decides to stand his ground. Listening intently, he can hear only one horse. If guards had been sent to capture him, hearing of the treachery occurring, there would be more than four hooves smacking the road beyond. It might be an enemy, right enough, but it isn't a guard, he's sure of that. And the horse, big and black, pulls around the corner. It wears red, red coat, gold stitching. It isn't a colour Yamapi recognises. The man is not samurai. The man sits atop the horse in a similar coat, looking down with surprise and some anxiety.

Not a guard. Not anyone at all, but for the richness of the garments. Could be a thief, Yamapi supposes. He stands his guard, a man against a horse, and wonders if this is why Ishida referred to him as a tiger. Tigers aren't clever enough to know when to turn tail and run.


Jin urges his horse to go forward. There's men gaining on him, and he's worried that they're from the palace. They're not dressed in the usual attire, but they're shouting about something, and so he pushes forward. The men get closer and closer, and then Jin can hear what they're yelling to one another.

“He was sighted not more than five minutes ago,” one is saying. “Probably an opportunist. You can sell teeth and bone, you know. It can make money. Strange, the things that sell...”

“Or he could be political,” another one interjects. “This isn't just any head he's removing, think about that. Leader of the rebellion, that Ishida. The thief could be dangerous.”

Not from the palace, then, Jin thinks, but he picks up speed nonetheless. He doesn't want to run into this thief, or become entangled in whatever justice the men feel like doling out. His horse reluctantly breaks into a gallop and he soon escapes them, turning the corner and arriving at the city walls.

There, he sees a man carrying a bloodstained bag.


The man draws his dagger. He's wary, holding tight onto his bag. Jin just stares at him. This surely must be the thief. He leans over, says, “I'm not here to capture you.”

Yamapi is listening. Jin's horse has stopped, but there's more hoof beats in the background. That means that he isn't alone. His face contorts with worry.

“And those behind you?” he says.

“They're...out to catch a thief,” Jin says. Then, he has an idea. This could be the start of the adventure he's waited for. This man needs safety from the men who seek to capture him, and Jin needs an adventure. What better way than for them to team up?

“Jump on,” he says, quickly, reaching his hand out. Yamapi looks up, measuring up his options. Not that he has many. He takes Jin's hand, hauls himself up with ease. The horse isn't comfortable, and he pats her shoulder awkwardly. He's in front of Jin, perhaps because Jin doesn't trust him – who would, a man carrying around a decapitated head? -- but it makes him feel unbalanced. As they ride off, it doesn't quite work, until Jin shuffles back a bit. He's trying to control the horse with his arms around Yamapi's waist, and that isn't quite working, either.

“Is this as fast as she can go?” Yamapi yells back, spotting the first of the men, giving chase, a spot in the distance.

“She's got two on her back!” Jin splutters. “I don't think she can-”

“Sure she can,” Yamapi says. “Let me have the rein.”

Jin does, because he doesn't want to mess with the man carrying the decapitated head. And once he does, the horse seems to settle, finally understanding which of them she's supposed to serve. She breaks into faster speed easily at the nudge of Yamapi's heel, and Jin has to hang onto Yamapi's waist in order not to slip off. The road rushes past, the air cold as it whizzes by. Above their heads, the stars are so clear and so beautiful, Jin thinks they could drive a man mad, trying to uncover their secrets. A hidden map in the sky, impenetrable to all beneath it.

“Where are we going?” Jin yells, leaning into Yamapi's ear to make sure he can hear.

“I'll tell you once we've lost them,” Yamapi yells back. “I guess you're a runaway, so you don't care where we go, anyway.”

“I'm not a run-”

“You're not in any hurry to get home.”

“No. I no longer have a home.”

“That makes two of us,” Yamapi says, nudging the horse on. “Keep an eye on the lot of them, tell me if they gain or fall back.”

“If you haven't got a home, where are you taking me?” Jin looks over his shoulder, and the question reaches Yamapi on the wind.

Yamapi rolls his eyes. He's not sure how these things keep happening to him. He hopes that Ishida is enjoying the ride, wherever he is now. “To a place where asking questions is illegal,” he returns.

“Oh, really,” Jin says, grinning. “Where's that?”


Yamapi's horsemanship ensures that after twenty minutes or so, they lose the men. After that, Yamapi slows the horse a little, and Jin allows the breath to leave his lungs. It's starting to get light: there's a slice of dawn on the horizon. Jin is hungry, and tired, but he doesn't let on. He's starting to suspect that the man he's riding with is samurai: he's dressed that way, and although he's dirty and smells like alcohol, he carries himself like a noble warrior. He carries no sword, but his dagger is intimidating enough.

He hopes that the samurai doesn't recognise Jin. Sometimes, the warriors do. Jin isn't wearing palace colours but many of the warriors have met with him, and have suffered his incessant questioning. Jin has one of those recognisable faces, he's been told.

“What's your name?” he asks, as they ride past a forest. Yamapi has stopped the horse, allowed her to drink. He's stretching his legs, keeping a watchful eye out.

“Yamashita Tomohisa,” he replies, idly. There's nobody about. The farmers aren't even up yet.

“I'm-”

“Listen,” he goes on. “It's starting to get light. People are going to see us. I'm going to walk by the horse.”

“Why?” Jin says, frowning. “Won't that slow things down?”

“Because she's tired,” Yamapi says. “And because you're from the court. It won't do to have you recognised in my company.”

“Aren't you samurai?” Jin asks. “I thought that it would have been an honour for me to be seen with you. I'm often seen with samurai.”

“I'm Toyotomi,” Yamapi says, by way of explanation. A shadow crosses Jin's face, and he nods, understanding. No wonder Yamapi looks so anxious. Jin may not understand the ins-and-outs of the politics, but he does understand the way things work with the winners, and the losers. He understands that small twists of fate can render one's life unrecognisable. He does understand that.

“How did you know I was a court man?” he asks, as he climbs back onto the horse.

“Easy,” Yamapi says, grinning. “You've no idea how to ride a horse.”


They pass many people along their way, past forests, open farming landscapes. Wherever they can, they attempt to take the road less travelled, but it doesn't always work out. Word has spread about the ronin-thief, and Yamapi feels uncomfortable walking along beside the horse. Few people even look at Jin. They see that he's rich but his face isn't familiar. They do, however, stare at Yamapi. Carrying a bloodstained bag, he supposes that it's inevitable.

Eventually, it becomes unbearable, the whispering and the people that scuttle off, full of purpose. Yamapi is very worried.

Jin leans over the side of the horse, tries to lift the bag away. Yamapi holds tight, turns on his heels.

“I can hide it beneath my robes,” Jin says. His robes are loose and flowing now, the day beginning to warm up. “Nobody will see it.”

“You have no idea what this is-”

“I know what it is,” Jin says, calmly. “The men were talking about it, when they were following me last night. I know what you've stolen. I worked it out.”

“How did you work it out?”

“Well, they mentioned teeth and bones, and its shape is-”

“And you want to carry it?”

“Yes,” Jin says. “I don't want our cover blown. People are staring.”

“Be very, very careful-”

“I will. Whose is it?”

“Friend,” Yamapi says. Then, “brother. Brother. Imagine it to be your own brother.”

He hands over the bag, carefully. He's not even certain what he's going to do with it, but it felt right and he's not going to worry about it just now. All he wants to do is make it to his clan, back in the small village between the hills. If he can get there, perhaps he can regroup, pass on the awful news to what remains of friends and family. Perhaps he can find peace, comfort once again.

“We're going to the closest thing I have to home,” Yamapi says.

“Oh,” Jin says. “Fine. Will I like it?”

“Who knows,” Yamapi says. “Why did you leave home?”

Jin shrugs. “Claustrophobia.”

“In that big building?”

“Yeah,” Jin laughs. “Isn't that a funny thing?”

Yamapi takes the reins, leads the horse on once again. “Guess not. The place I feel most free is in a small room, facing another man, turning tea cups this way and that. Makes sense that a man could feel most constricted in a large building, if the people in it-”

“They're not bad people,” Jin says, hastily. “Just-”

“Not for you.”

“Not for me,” Jin says. “Not with me. Not my life.”

“What is your life?”

Jin thinks about this for a moment, riding astride a strange horse, beside a strange man, and carrying a human head next to his stomach. “I'm not sure,” he says, truthfully. “I haven't decided yet.”


Tokugawa Ieyasu bestows plaudits upon those who turn toward him in battle. He doesn't value these traitors as much as his own men, but in a time of violence, every soldier counts. He shows mercy and kindness on those who have deserted the Western alliance, and his men love him for it.

He meets with his closest allies after the battle. Seven of them sit around a table, triumphantly dissecting their victory. It isn't often that such enormous odds turn in their favour. Ieyasu is a lucky man, and he knows it. He sits at the head of the table, positively glowing.

“It is down to each one of you,” he begins, grandly. “That our side has been successful, triumphant, in the heat of the battle. We have come out of the other side most gloriously, victors in every sense. I am told by the priests that the gods are shining down on the Eastern alliance. Long may it continue.”

The men bow their heads, reverent and pleased. They are expecting a great many, great things.

“Small problems are niggling away in the provinces,” Ieyasu continues. “And I have men seeing to these issues. You must not concern yourselves with tales of petty thievery or violence. You are above this earthly matters. Instead, I urge you to take stock, to return to your provinces, to feed your hearts and brains with such bountiful peace so as to return to me as gods, not mere men. Your rewards, as expected, for loyalty and bravery – these shall follow on shortly. It would do me great honour to see you all rested and strong, ready for the next part of my campaign.”

The men nod more, none of them keen to speak, to interrupt.

“Takauji,” Ieyasu says, waving the others dismissed. “Speak to me.”

The man they all call Takauji waits behind. He doesn't speak, just looks at his hands. He was caught attempting to turn tail mid-battle, the Western alliance suddenly more appealing. He was found delivering evidence to the other side, warning them of attacks to come. Ieyasu decided not to have him killed on the battle site. He has other ideas in mind.

“I am sorry,” the man called Takauji says. “But I had not intended to survive this. I will not apologise for my actions because I would not have taken them without due thought, without...deep contemplation of them. To apologise now would make it look as though I acted on a whim. I do not betray my leaders on a whim. To betray you...was a hard and bitter thing.”

“I am not interested,” Ieyasu says. “In your morality, its many and various shades. You betrayed me, and as such, you deserve to suffer for it. Your family too. I've heard that you have an aging father?”

“I am in this life to protect and support him,” Takauji says. “It is true.”

“Then should he not suffer with you? For your actions, for your betrayal of the man putting food on your father's table? Did you not think of this before you acted?”

“I did,” Takauji says. “It was a hard and bitter thing, to abandon my father. But I believe-”

“Your ethical considerations are of no interest. You must expect that I will hurt your father terribly.”

Takauji bows his head, almost with the weight of the words. “I did expect this.”

“Once upon a time, I believe you wanted to be a navigator, did you not?”

“Yes,” Takauji says. “It was the profession of my ancestors, long ago. The line has been passed down, through the family. I didn't have the gift.”

“Indeed,” Ieyasu says. “It explains why your logical reasoning is so derelict.”

“My logical reasoning?”

“Or perhaps it functions perfectly. Shall we test it?”

“We should-”

“I will give you another chance, to redeem yourself in my favour. Should you succeed, I shall not harm your father. Furthermore, I shall promote you. You shall have a greater salary, greater land assets and more protection within the realm. Your father will be far better protected.”

“I wanted to cross over to another clan,” Takauji says. “You do understand that?”

“I do,” Ieyasu says. “But that clan is gone. It no longer poses a threat to your immature, senseless mind. Do you want to take up my generous offer, or should I leave for your province this minute?”

Though the decision to betray Ieyasu did indeed take weeks, the decision to follow him once more takes no more than seconds. Takauji has no other choice. For his father, he has no choice. There is no longer a place for him in this world. No longer does the Toyotomi clan exist. There is nothing worth losing his father for, not anymore. Once, there was. Now, the world is a blank space, devoid of meaning, colour, understanding.

Had he been a navigator, perhaps this would never have happened. His father had the gift, to read and understand maps in great depth. His father before him, and his before him – the line stretches back centuries. Only Takauji doesn't have the gift. His gifts are of a different sort. The future is bleak to him, each way that he turns.

“I shall take it,” he says, finally, with a hard and a bitter voice. “You are too generous.”

“I am,” Ieyasu says, nodding to himself. “It's true. I want you to find me the thief who stole the head of Ishida Mitsunari.”

“I thought that we weren't to concern ourselves with petty things.”

“They are not. You are a petty thing to me, therefore it seems greatly appropriate,” Ieyasu says. “The Kyoto governors will aid you. You must track this man down. He is dangerous to me.”

“What do we know of him?”

“Nothing, other than that he heads for Fushimi. That is your task. It's generally believer than he is a Toyotomi-sympathizer. He escaped with another man, perhaps another straggler of the clan. I want both of them brought to me.”

“That sounds fair,” Takauji says. He had been expecting something more bloodthirsty.

“Alive.”

“Yes,” Takauji says. “Of course.”

“Do not,” Ieyasu says, his voice firm and his eyes alight as he turns them onto the young soldier. “Do not fail me again. There is no describing what I will do, when betrayed twice.”

Takauji swallows, and leaves the room. There's a hard, bitterness in his throat and he doesn't feel as though he can breathe. It's as if his lungs are filling with hot sand, and there's nothing left in there that's going to make him feel alright, ever again.


Ieyasu pauses, as Takauji leaves the room. He speaks to the man they call Yoshinobu, who walks past Takauji on his way in. He has an old, firm face, and it scares Takauji to look at him.

“Enter,” Ieyasu says. “You have news.”

“They are headed for Fushimi, as you expected.” Yoshinobu says. “I don't believe the other man is a soldier. We are not yet sure who he is.”

“Takauji will be able to understand, when he meets them both.”

“You are so sure of his gift-”

“I saw it the moment we first met,” Ieyasu says, fiercely. “Takauji has the gift I've longed for, all my life. To see the future, and the past, with such clarity. He has no idea this gift belongs to him. No idea at all. I have utilized it before, in small matters, but on a mission such as this-”

“What if he fails?”

“He won't fail,” Ieyasu says. “Men in my command do not fail me.”

“He has failed you before.”

“He is young,” Ieyasu says. “He will learn. He is too precious for me to lose. He has seen so many things in the past. He knows that the thief is important, though he doesn't know why. He has seen that name imprinted on the scroll of history. We have not gone far enough back to uncover the secret-”

“Perhaps there is no secret,” Yoshinobu says. “Perhaps he is all pretense. I have never heard of Yamashita Tomohisa. Nor have any of my scholars, who compile your census, your historical documents. The name is quite simply not imprinted anywhere. I cannot see where your Takauji sources his information, if not from the very centre of his head.”

“He sees it, Yoshinobu,” Ieyasu says. “You will see. When he meets him, the pieces will fall into place.”

“How do you know it'll even be of relevance to our campaign?” Yoshinobu asks. “This man, this thief, he could turn out to be nobody. Perhaps he insulted Takauji's great-grandfather, seventy times removed. He might see something small, a speck on the horizon that turns out to be nothing.”

“And such a speck might indeed be land, too,” Ieyasu says. “I think this Yamashita Tomohisa is important. I sense, too, that on some moment, somewhere, our paths crossed.”

“I do not believe that we live more than once,” Yoshinobu says. “Nor that we can recall more than one life.”

“I did not believe it possible,” Ieyasu says. “Until Takauji had a vision. Of water, and sea salt, and ships-”

“He wanted to become a navigator. His house would have been surrounded by such trinkets-”

“You will not speak out of turn!”

“Forgive my negativity, but I must reason with-”

“You do not reason!” Enraged, Ieyasu turns on his colleague, his eyes burning forest fires. “You merely peck, a little hen, a little scuttling hen! You shall see! All of you shall see, what this boy is capable of. He is a telescope that sees across centuries. I intend to use him, wring him out until he is limp and his powers exhausted. I want that telescope, Yoshinobu. And neither you, nor any other bitter little hen, will put me off! You are dismissed.”

“Ieyasu-”

“Dismissed.”


They arrive at Fushimi, and Yamapi feels a swell of pain in his throat. He doesn't know how many of his family members will be around, and just the scent of the air, the wave of the grass, the arrangement of the clouds – these things evoke great, burning nostalgia within him.

Jin removes his hat, out of respect. He's growing to like him, is Yamapi. He's a little bit wayward and a little thoughtless, but he has great curiosity and heart, and Yamapi likes that. He finds the court men frustratingly narrow-minded most of the time.

They walk over the hills, Yamapi, Jin, the horse. Yamapi breaks into speed, lets go of her reins, as he sees the first of the small, wooden-built residences. He breaks into a run, flying past the flags and the costumes on the ground, small nubs of armour. He runs into the small village, looks around himself for signs of life.

Jin comes up behind, the horse coming to a tired standstill. Everyone has moved on. Nothing remains: no horses, no people, no children, no life. There is no death in the air, but no life, either. Everyone has moved on. It's like the colour is drawn out of Yamapi, who sighs on the wind.

“I'd hoped to see somebody,” he says, quietly. “Anybody.”

Jin dismounts, stands still. He's not sure what to say, or do.

“We'll stay,” Yamapi says, turning around. “For a sleep. Whilst I work out my next plan. There's stables, to the right of you. For the horse.”

Jin is grateful for the excuse to leave Yamapi in peace.


Yamapi does a thorough search of the village, just to make sure. He finds rice that's been left, suggesting the clan left in a hurry. It takes a big reason to leave without waiting for the soldiers to return, and he takes comfort in the fact that the decision wasn't easy. The women of the clan were intelligent, spirited – they wouldn't have allowed danger to knock on their doors. In some of the rooms, there are clothes, items they just couldn't manage to take. Yamapi sees the robes and the patterns, as clearly as if his friends were wearing them still, and it hurts him inside.

He tries to put these thoughts out of his mind, collecting what food there is, what blankets and what armour is left, for protection. Most of it won't fit exactly, but it will do. It's late afternoon, and he just wants to sleep. When Jin returns, they sleep for some time, restlessly and full of dreams. Yamapi has long tried to interpret his dreams, encouraged by his feudal lord. He was never very good at it, it being more an art than a science. But he always understood the relevance of dreams, in the life to come.

Sleeping alongside Jin, he dreams about water, in long, vast endlessness and in a smaller form, surrounded by trees. In one scenario, the water just goes on forever, and they sail through it, waiting for land. Waiting for a plan. This is being lost, Yamapi thinks. This is them as they are now, lost. In the other scenario, the water is fixed, round, and only Jin is there. Yamapi watches omnipotently but he is not present. Jin wades through the water, and it closes around him as he goes deeper, deeper, deeper into the lake. Eventually, he disappears, and only his hand can be seen, protruding through. The water appears white, at first, but then Yamapi realises that it isn't that, it isn't that the liquid has changed colour, it's that it's ice-

That's not a dream he can interpret. The waking from it, maybe, but not the dream inside. He rises up, covered in sweat and breathing hard through his nostrils. His heart beats with abject terror. Looking over at Jin, he can't understand the weight on his shoulders. The burden on his heart. Jin sleeps, quietly and peacefully, and Yamapi feels a kind of care he hasn't felt in weeks. It doesn't make any sense, but it's so much nicer than indifference, alcoholism, guilt – he doesn't argue with it.


They wake later and eat rice. Yamapi makes a fire and they sit on the ground, watching the stars. They're both aware that they'll need to move on from this place, because it's an obvious location to anyone looking for Yamapi. But Yamapi doesn't want to leave, not just yet. It's home to him. The little village between two mountains, two overbearing monsters with grassy-green chests. And an array of stars up above.

“Have you always lived here?” Jin asks, looking up from his food.

Yamapi nods. “All my life. I was born here, in one of those rooms. My mother died when I was born, and the people here raised me. It was my family. It was my home. I left only to fight for it.”

“You'll meet them again.”

“Yes,” Yamapi says, his voice firm. “They will find me, or I will find them. That's how family works.”

“I hope not,” Jin says, laughing. “Only because I don't want to be found.”

“Were your family unkind to you?”

“No,” Jin says, guiltily. “Not at all. I just couldn't do it anymore. My father wanted me to be married. He was arranging it. I couldn't become him. I couldn't become Emp-”

“You're the crown prince,” Yamapi says slowly, things falling into place. “You're-”

“Yes,” Jin says. “I couldn't do it. I had to run away. My father will choose somebody else. It's better this way.”

“What did you expect to find, running away?” Yamapi asks. “There's nothing out here, in the world. The world you know is not...this world.”

“I wanted to know this world,” Jin says. “I wanted to know something other than what I've always known. I've felt restless my entire life, as if I've been looking for something and never found it. I've always been curious. I'm searching for peace, I suppose.”

“Peace,” Yamapi snorts. “Not much of that around, I'm afraid.”

“I don't know,” Jin says. “I feel pretty peaceful right now.”

“I wish I did,” Yamapi says. “I need to go and bury-”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

Yamapi doesn't think it would be appropriate, in a way, to have some stranger presiding over the burial of his brother, but Ishida would probably have liked it. Ishida liked the court, he liked to visit it, to speak with the Emperor. He disliked other samurai, but the court was something he never bore ill will. He was generous to the men there, the women, too.

“Yes,” he says. “If you want. Ishida Mitsunari visited the court. He liked it. It wouldn't be inappropriate.”

“I think I remember him,” Jin says, as they climb to their feet. “He liked the dancing. He always requested dancing.”

“Yes,” Yamapi says, laughing. “He pitied us, the samurai were no good at dancing.”

Yamapi and Jin walk across the fields, Yamapi grabbing tools left behind on the way. They're not perfect and the digging will take time, but they'll do. He allows Jin to hold the bag, whilst he digs, until his back is sweaty and his shoulder is aching once again. Then, he allows them to change positions. Jin is unused to digging, but he works hard, and soon there's a grave befitting Ishida Mitsunari. Yamapi takes the bag, then, carefully unwraps it. Jin has to turn away, then. He doesn't want to, but he can't look. It's just not something he can look at.

On one knee, Yamapi places the head down, and moves the ground back over it. He says words under his breath, and Jin cannot hear them, he doesn't try to. He stands, silently, watching over. The stars seem to be watching, too. All above them, darkness. Jin wants to ride with the stars, to chase them until they end, to see if they ever end. He wonders if there's a place so dark that the stars will not shine there. An entire, black sky. The idea scares him a bit, but he'd still like to see it.

Yamapi draws himself up, looks at Jin and his eyes are wet. Jin wants to touch him, to console him – but it hardly seems appropriate. So Jin nods, and Yamapi nods, and there's something of a sad solemnity in it. A bridging of lost souls, a giving of mutual understanding.


Yoshinobu's voice echoes in Takauji's skull. It's something he and Ieyasu do, and Takauji didn't ask to be involved. He hates that he can hear another person in his own, private head.

“Where are you?” Yoshinobu says.

Takauji looks at the stars, the only navigational gift he has. “I'm maybe five miles away from Fushimi,” he says. “I haven't slept, and will not, until-”

“You know that I don't believe in this mission. I see no purpose in it.”

“That is not for me to comment on,” Takauji says. “If Ieyasu believes-”

“You are not loyal to Ieyasu.”

“That is not for me to comment on, either-”

“Your aging father. Do you get on well?”

“I love him.”

“Does he love you?”

“I have no idea,” Takauji says. “His memory of such things is not what it used to be. It doesn't matter. He is my father.”

“You must tell me when you arrive,” Yoshinobu says. “And you must capture the thief, before the other man. The thief is the important one.”

“I don't understand why-”

“That is not for me to comment on.”


They're awake, all night. As long as the fire continues. They talk about family, about childhood, about memories. They talk about women (neither of them having much impetus or experience) and they talk about men (something of a different story).

“In our world,” Yamapi says. “It is not discouraged. I imagine that in yours-”

“It's different, yes,” Jin says. “It's not normal, or honourable. To be close to another noble man, yes, that is desirable. To share poetry, to discuss art. To be friends with that man. But not to want to read poetry to him, or to bare your soul. That is what we do with court ladies, not men.”

“How did you cope with that?”

“I didn't,” Jin says. “I got into trouble a lot, with my father. He caught me in a few...situations. It made our relationship strained. The last time it happened, that's what made him arrange a marriage. He'd have enough.”

“Who was the man?”

“Just a man,” Jin says. “He was serious, and worldly, and he'd seen things outside the palace. He wasn't like the people I knew in the court. He cared about other things, too. He satisfied my curiosity.”

“For me, it was stability. This is a chaotic world. Sometimes we develop relationships just to have a sticking place. A spot that doesn't move. Something to come back to.”

“For me, my whole world was a sticking place. Nothing moves, or changes. Everything is always the same. I wanted something that would shake my whole life up.”

“I suppose this is where we agree to be careful what we wish for.”

“Where will we go from here?”

Yamapi considers. “I don't know. I wish I did. I haven't plans, anymore. I'm just wandering.”

“Well, I'll wander with you.”

“Are you any good at fighting?”

“I've never done any.”

Yamapi laughs. “We'll make a right pair, then, won't we.”


And that's how Takauji finds them. The daylight is breaking between the hills, like a solid beam of light. The grounds are beautiful, the mountains illuminated, the sky a dim purple. The grass is very green, the world very fresh, a scent in the air of peace. If peace had a scent, this place would be it. Takauji cannot afford to think like this, of course, but he can't seem to help it.

In the valley, the samurai stands, his back to the light. Before him, the other man, dressed in red and gold. This man wields a sword. His hands are shaking with the weight of it. As Takauji gets closer, he can see the samurai's lips moving, slowly and softly. There's instruction in his words. The other man lifts the sword, makes a diagonal movement. It's not solid, but it looks like he'll pick it up. He smiles with pride and pleasure.

“Show me,” he says, Takauji lip-reads the slow words.

The samurai takes the sword, goes through the movements he's been taught his entire life. They are graceful, balletic – Takauji has to stop to watch, because he's never seen any soldier so effortless with the sword before. Warriors have become killers and lost the art of dance. This warrior has been taught by a dancer, it seems. The other man is similarly entranced, and he applauds loudly when the display is over. The samurai bows, somewhat comically, and then rises. He notes the change in the man's expression before Takauji does, and so when he turns, Takauji isn't ready for him.

The samurai draws his sword, steps across the fields. Takauji dismounts, to show that he means no harm. It is a lie, but defense is Takauji's best strategy. The other man follows, though he has no weapon. The samurai has dark eyes, fierce and stubborn. Takauji is afraid.

They stop within ten feet of each other, at a stalemate. Takauji has drawn his sword, too, and neither of them want to incite anything by pointing their weapons. The other man hangs behind, unsure.

“What do you want?” The samurai asks. His voice demands, it doesn't plead.

Takauji isn't sure. He knows what Ieyasu wants, but that isn't the same thing. “I have been sent to take the two of you into safe-keeping.”

“What is safe-keeping?” The samurai asks. “You are from the Eastern alliance.”

Takauji nods. “I am, but-”

“Then I will go nowhere with you, safe or otherwise. This is Toyotomi territory, and you know it well. Don't come here professing ignorance of that.”

Something stirs in Takauji's brain. Memories, perhaps, or visions. He's not sure which. In the air, he can smell salt. The mountains become a cave, solid, stone. The green fields are vines, twisting around. The sky is white, the air is white, everything white and colourless. Everything impossible to see through. An almighty decision. The captain of the ship, a heart – blood, a drawn line of blood, something, words, something-

He blinks, and it goes, just like that. It comes in waves, this gift, this curse.

“I am not ignorant of it,” Takauji says. “But I come from Ieyasu himself, and I must fulfill his wishes.”

“We will not go quietly,” the samurai says. “I do not intend to follow any of Ieyasu's wishes. You must take us by force.”

“You are the important one,” Takauji says. “The brighter force. I must take you down first. You protect the weaker one. The heart.”

“What's he talking about?” the other man asks. “He's talking nonsense.”

The samurai scrutinizes Takauji. “I don't know,” he says. “I think he's talking of the past, and maybe the future. Are you able to see the future, boy?”

“I. I was able- you. You're in-”

“Danger, as always,” the samurai says. “Mostly from you, so your prediction is a little biased, if you don't mind me saying so.”

Takauji's eyes are cloudy with thought, with the smoky residue of dreams, of memories, or something. Of something. He doesn't know what to think or how to convey it, but somehow, he knows he must. Before it's too-

And the samurai draws his dagger, then, sensing the danger. The dagger. There's an edge of blood on it. An edge of magic. An edge of the other man. Red on the coat, red on the blade. Red, red, heart, blood. A cave. A stolen heart. The man called Ieyasu, his words on the map. He stole Jin's good, good heart.

Takauji wants to be sick. Memories flood his brain. He can no longer stand, with the force of them, and he topples.

“You didn't even touch him,” Jin says, admiringly.

“He can see the future,” Yamapi says, finally putting aside his disbelief. He sits down, where Takauji lies, unconscious. “I think he's important. I think he's the next step.”


Continue to Part Two.