#killing stalking chapter 66 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

solivar · 1 month ago

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Ghost Stories On Route 66

Chapter Eight

This is the first of at least two chapters specifically dedicated to those of you who a) wanted Hanzo to be okay after Chapter Six and b) also wanted me to hurt him. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.

Chapter Text

My family tells an ancient legend of two dragon brothers: Minamikaze, the Dragon of the South Wind, and Kitakaze, the Dragon of the North Wind. Together they ruled the skies with might and wisdom, governed the courts of the seasons, and upheld balance and harmony in the heavens.

But they were also brothers and, as all brothers do, sometimes they squabbled about matters both great and petty. Minamikaze was strong and wise and proud of his many gifts and virtues, the beauty of his palace in the heavens, the quality of his courtiers and the elegance of his concubines. Kitakaze was fierce and cunning and proud of his many skills and his independence, of the wild beauty of the mountains where he rested his heavy coils, of the equally wild spirits who worshipped him as he deemed fit. From time to time, Kitakaze would call upon his brother in his high palace among the clouds and, whenever he came, Minamikaze’s many courtiers would flutter through the halls in his wake, whisper and hiss behind their fans that they could hardly believe such a crude and unrefined being could truly be the brother of their master much less a rightful ruler of the heavens. From time to time, Minamikaze would call upon his brother among the mountains he called home and, whenever he came, the spirits who served Kitakaze would whisper and hiss through the branches of the trees that they could hardly believe such an arrogant and waspish creature could truly be the brother of their master much less a rightful ruler of the heavens. Thusly did many years pass, with each brother ruling his half of their kingdom while those closest to them dripped poison into their ears.

Even our clan does not preserve how the worst and final quarrel between them began, but we do know its cause: which of them could better rule over their land, a kingdom whole and undivided. No one knows who struck the first blow but we do know this: their resentment of one another turned to murderous rage and their violent struggle darkened the skies. Typhoons lashed the seas and flooded the shores, capsizing boats and drowning fishermen, starving those who waited for their return. Blizzards howled among the mountains, burying villages in avalanche and withering crops in unseasonable cold, so that famine stalked all the land. Lightning fell upon temples and shrines, palaces and farmhouses, and the fires that followed added to the woes of those suffering in the shadow of the raging brothers. In the end, the Dragon of the South Wind struck down his brother, who fell to the tortured Earth, shattering the land in the throes of his death.

Minamikaze had triumphed but, as time passed, he realized the extent of his folly and the sweetness of victory turned to ash. The obsequies of his courtiers, no matter how delicious, could not take the place of his brother’s openhearted companionship. He knew too late that his heart had been poisoned by their lies and their slander and had only his own hand to blame for the murder of the one who had always known and loved him best. Burning with shame, he fled his palace in the heavens and wandered aimlessly in bitterness and sorrow, his grief throwing the whole of the world into discord.

One day a stranger, clad in the cloak of a wandering monk, called up to him as he wept in the skies above the mountain-cradled lake his brother called home and asked, “Dragon lord, why are you so distraught?”

And Minamikaze replied, “Seeking power, I killed my brother -- but, without him, I am lost.”

The stranger replied, his voice gentle with compassion and soft with comfort, “You have inflicted wounds upon yourself, but now you must heal. Walk the Earth on two feet, as I do. Find value in humility and in humanity, and then you will find peace.”

Minamikaze heard the kindness and the wisdom in the stranger’s words, and knelt upon the ground at his feet. For the first time, he was able to clearly see the world around him, the consequences of his own actions, and seeing he knew what he must do: he became human. The stranger revealed himself as Kitakaze, fallen no longer and healed of many wounds, the most terrible of which was the loss of his brother’s love, made whole by the hand that inflicted it. Reunited, the two set out to rebuild what they had once destroyed, make right what they had once put wrong.

“And to make a much longer story filled with an absolutely incredible number of begats short,” Genji interjected, “about the time Minamikaze and Kitakaze started tooling around on two legs, they also came to the realization that there was a lot to be said for engaging in semi-divine-being with benefits relationships.”

“ Genji. ” Hanzo growled in what he hoped was a properly quelling tone.

“Which is, in fact, how they came to be married to the shaman sisters who had scraped Kitakaze out of the crater he’d made on impact and stitched him back together again.” Genji continued, not obviously quelled at all, and it was all Hanzo could do not to put him in a headlock until someone could get a roll of duct tape. “Nature took its course and, well.”

“The children of Minamikaze and Sakuya, Kitakaze and Tsuya, were the founders of our clan, born of the union between two worlds.” Hanzo grabbed his brother’s knee under the table, found the pressure points, and applied a judicious amount of force; Genji’s mouth, finally getting the hint, snapped shut. “They were...not entirely human themselves, being able to walk between the courts of the spirit world and the realms of men, the better to carry out their parents’ will. The brothers had inflicted great harm on all the worlds in their violence but they were wise enough to know that undoing all that they had done was not only their own task but the work of generations yet to be born. Minamikaze and Kitakaze lived long lives but their human shells were still mortal and when they passed from it within hours of each other, they were born again into their true kingdom as the dragon princes they were. Thus did they give their children, and their grandchildren, and all who would come into the world bearing the humble name they chose for themselves a mighty gift to aid them in their struggles -- not only the blood of dragons in their veins, but a companion of the spirit to protect and counsel them.”

The ranger’s grip on his hand tightened a fraction; he could only imagine how badly he was failing to control his expression because, when he spoke, his tone was surpassingly gentle. “That’s what this was supposed to be.”

It took Hanzo a moment to force his tongue to move. “Yes.”

“Wait.” Hana said at the same moment Lucio whispered, “ Holy mother of no way. ”

Genji sighed and nodded. “Yeah, it’s exactly what you’re thinking.”

“That tattoo. On your back. Is an actual dragon.” Lucio sounded as though he were saying the words aloud in a desperate, doomed effort to make himself not believe them.

“Yep.” Genji replied. “You can let go of my leg now, Hanzo.”

He did so, and wrapped the liberated arm around his slowly churning stomach.

“I’d say no freaking way but I’m afraid we’ve left that pretty far behind.” Lucio admitted. “Can we see it?”

“...Maybe?” Genji flicked a look at him out of the corner of his eye. “Later. Definitely later.”

“So,” Terrifying Smoke Monster Dad asked, because of course he did, “why don’t you have one?”

“ Gabe. ” Ranger McCree growled in a near-duplicate of his own quelling tone; Genji just growled.

“No. He has a salient point. I was vulnerable because there was no bond, though I was prepared -- “ Hanzo stopped, considered, started again. “For hundreds of years, our family followed the command of our ancestors and carried out the task of repairing the harm they had done. Using the gifts at our command, we advised and counseled rulers and warlords, we kept the shrines of our ancestors and those gods and spirits who acted in accord with them, we fought the monsters and demons their violence had permitted entry into the world, and we gave peace and rest to the anguished ghosts of those who perished during the dark and troubled years. Our family was respected and honored for our work, and for our skills, and for our gifts. But things, as they always do, changed.”

“More specifically, the arts our family practiced were outlawed as superstition and banned under threat of a number of unpleasant punishments. When given the choice between sinking into genteel poverty and irrelevance and outlawry our several-times-great-grandparents chose outlawry. They might have been a tiny bit bitter.” Genji’s tone was decidedly wry. “Unfortunately, transitioning from well-respected clan of craftspeople , to use the local term, to a greatly feared clan of organized criminals had a rather significant side-effect. We fell out of favor with our own ancestors.”

“For nearly three centuries our dragon-kin would not answer us. They refused our prayers, turned away our offerings, ignored our pleas. We still etched an open bond into our skin in the hope that it would one day be fulfilled, but it never was. Parts of the family ceased to believe that we had ever been dragons at all while others used the tales for intimidation and threat.” Hanzo fixed his gaze at a point on the far wall, letting his eyes trace the pattern of the hanging, not wishing to meet the ranger’s eyes and see what was written there. “This might have gone on until the last of the dragon’s blood drained from us entirely, had it not been for our grandfather and his brother. Uncle Toshiro was of a scholarly and spiritual nature, and when he asked his brother our grandfather to release him from his obligations to the clan that he might pursue a sacred calling, he was permitted to go. Kijuro, our grandfather, knew he would never be happy otherwise and he loved his brother enough to grant him his freedom. Toshiro withdrew into the mountains near Hanamura, the city our clan called home, and rediscovered the ways we had lost in the shrine that had once been ours, at the knee of the hermit shaman who tended it. And he was the first to receive an answer from our ancestors in generations. The message he received was this: the world was breaking again and it would need dragons, as well, to protect and restore it.”

“Our grandfather wasn’t what you could call overly well-supplied with imagination but he knew what that meant well enough: our ancestors wanted us to go straight. Fortunately for them, Grandpa Kijuro pretty much wanted to get out of the organized crime business while the getting was good, too, and he went about the task of sweet-talking the elder siblings and the heads of the sub-families and figuring out which assets to convert to legitimate businesses and which to sell off and to whom and who to put in charge of what. It was pretty much the work of his most vigorous years, it wasn’t easy or smooth or completely without pain and violence, but he inculcated the necessity of it in all his potential heirs and into his only child, our mother.” Genji said our mother like some people might say Satan himself but Hanzo elected to let it ride unremarked. “He was practically on his deathbed when Toshiro sent word that the ancestors had accepted his efforts and that his daughter was even then carrying the child who would bring the dragons back to the Shimada clan.”

“You?” Ana asked.

“Him.”

“Our grandfather died four years after I was born. Genji was only a baby at the time.” Hanzo’s gaze did another circuit of the pattern, seeking calm, emptiness, emotional distance. “Uncle Toshiro came down from the mountains for the funeral and to take me in hand, to begin training me in the arts I would need to master. He was younger than our grandfather by some years but was an old man himself, and I think he knew even then that I would be his last student. I could already perceive the world beyond the world -- the spirit of Shimada Castle was a sad and beautiful woman who would sit by me at night and sing me to sleep when I was restless, the gardens and the city were alive with things only I could see or touch. What I had been given as a gift, he had gained through study and discipline, which he shared with me.”

“Which is to say when he wasn’t studying a rigorous schedule of way-above-average academics with the best private tutors our mother could find, he was studying weirdass magical and religious esoterica with our ancient, crusty great-uncle. When he wasn’t practicing the sword -- with actual swords , mind you, not kendo -- was practicing the bow, and when he wasn’t practicing either of those two things he was working on his calligraphy or how to make six dozen different kinds of demon-chasing charms or learning how to paint sumi-e well enough to get into art college or how to sing troubled spirits to rest or approximately six million other things that he was expected to know how to do perfectly before he could approach the dragon brothers’ shrine and beg their forgiveness and ask them to come back.” Genji made no effort to keep either the exasperation or the bitterness out of his tone. “I was thoroughly convinced for at least a couple years that he was actually a vampire because I almost never saw his face in broad daylight and I thought our parents were keeping the terrible truth from me until I was old enough to deal with it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hana opening her mouth. “For the record: I am also not a vampire. I am...not anything.”

“That seems kinda unlikely, darlin’.” The ranger’s tone was gentle.

“And yet it is the truth.” He was mildly astonished that his voice wavered only slightly. “Uncle Toshiro was very, very old when he passed -- I was twenty-one. Shortly after his funeral, I received word from the keeper of the dragon brothers’ shrine that everyone enclosed there had dreamed of our coming…”

They were not quite fifty yards from the parking lot at the base of the mountain when Genji started complaining.

“How could you do this to me, Hanzo?” He asked in the plaintive tones of a man most cruelly and brutally wronged by one held dear to his heart. “ How?”

“You’ll survive the cardio.” Hanzo replied, utterly without mercy, as he started up the next flight of steps on the long climb to the shrine. “You should probably also save your breath. The air is going to be a bit thin where we’re going.”

“Heartless,” Genji whined. “ Absolutely heartless. Do you have any idea where I could be right now?”

“No,” Hanzo lied and lengthened his stride slightly. “ Though I’m certain you’re going to tell me.”

“I could be on a yacht in the middle of the wine-dark Adriatic Sea -- “ Genji began in tones of high melodrama.

“Aegean. I’m reasonably certain it’s the Aegean that all the Greek poets describe as ‘wine-dark’.” Hanzo observed meditatively because he, at least, hadn’t slept through either World Cultures or Advanced Poetic Forms In World Literature.

“ Whatever. And not just any yacht, the world’s largest, most expensive yacht -- the yacht has its own private plane, Hanzo. It’s practically an aircraft carrier upholstered in nudity and excess. And do you know to whom that yacht belongs, oh my dearest brother?” He could nearly hear the gesticulations accompanying the recitation, though he didn’t look back to witness them.

He also knew the answer that question. “Oh your only brother. And, no, I do not.”

“ Kyrion and Konstancia Nagata, that’s who! ” Genji howled, his despair echoing down the valley. “ Who are turning eighteen this weekend! I could be the meat in a kinky Nagata twin sandwich right now!”

“Genji,” Hanzo replied, repressively, because otherwise he was going to start laughing and that would completely ruin any attempt at wise brotherly counsel, “Kyrion Nagata is completely not your type -- “

“Maybe not but his sister is!” Genji wailed again, the ancient, weathered torii lining the ancient, weathered stone stairs catching his voice and amplifying it. “Have you ever even seen her on the dance floor? She moves like bones and ligaments are completely optional flexion devices and those legs Hanzo those legs and how do you even know Kyrion Nagata?”

“I actually read the briefings the security office puts out.” Hanzo rolled his eyes heavenward. “Which is how I know that their father is balls deep in the Russian mafia and underwater in debt to a number of mainland Chinese smuggling operations and that is likely why either or both of his children are attempting to ensnare one or more heirs to a family-run zaibatsu -- because we wouldn’t let our in-laws be murdered by testy smugglers who want their investments back.”

“Oh, sure , take all the fun out of the idea of a threesome with unnaturally flexible twins.” Genji sulked in a transport of despond. “I handle my own contraceptives and prophylactics, you know.”

“I’m reasonably certain a very polite and well-mannered kidnapping for ransom would also not be beyond the bounds of possibility, particularly if they spend the the entire duration of it fucking your brains out.” Hanzo replied, tartly. “Oh, and for the record: mother asked me not to leave you alone with either of them for longer than fifteen seconds if it was within my power to do so and look! It was totally within my power this weekend.”

“ Dammit, Hanzo!”

They walked in silence for some time after that, partly because Genji, resentfully fuming, refused to allow himself to be baited into further conversation, partly because the trail itself became genuinely steep enough to constitute a vigorous cardio workout. The steps were genuinely old beyond the telling of it, carved out of the bones of the mountain, worn as much by time as the passage of feet, crumbling in some places and slick with moss in others. They both had to apply some concentration to their footing lest they enjoy a far less controlled descent and by the time they reached the point where the trail widened out along the brow of the mountainside, both were more than a little ready for a rest stop.

“You’ll survive the cardio, huh?” Genji asked, half-mocking, as they both shucked off their packs and slumped down in the lee of an enormous boulder, fighting to catch their collective breath.

“I’m reasonably sure that was why Uncle Toshiro decided to just stay in Hanamura.” Hanzo admitted, rolling the tension out of his shoulders as he set down his pack. “Here, lay out the blanket…”

Genji, for a pleasant change, did as he was asked without argument, spreading out the plastic-lined picnic blanket liberated from the cherry blossom viewing party supplies on the flattest part of the trail and then flopping dramatically down on it. Hanzo extracted the food he’d packed for the hike, deposited Genji’s share on his chest, and settled down at his knee. “Let me have your legs.”

Genji looked up from the contents of his lunch box but didn’t argue, particularly once Hanzo was massaging the lactic acid buildup out of his calves. “ Ohhhhh , I knew there was a reason I still liked you even though you do stuff like this to me.”

“You used to enjoy doing stuff like this with me.” He switched legs and rolled his eyes a little at his brother’s orgiastic moaning.

“Yeah, when I was twelve and you were only allowed outside if you were doing something that involved hopping one legged across the obstacle course or walking blindfolded through a forest with only a water bottle and a knife or hiking up the side of a mountain without any marked trails and an eighty pound backpack.” Genji replied around a mouthful of onigiri. “I’m not twelve anymore, Hanzo.”

“Clearly.” Hanzo replied dryly and poured himself a cup of tea from the thermos. “You’re attracting curious spirits with the power of your abs, by the way, close your shirt.”

“Let them get an eyeful, it’s a glory they’ll never see again once this weekend is over.” Genji propped himself up on his elbows and accepted the cup handed to him. “You could have had any dozen or two of our ass-sucking relatives up here with you right now, you know.”

“I know.” Hanzo contemplated the contents of his own box, all of which had seemed quite appetizing only a handful of hours before. “And if I’d wanted my ass sucked all the way there and back again, I would have asked one of them.”

“Of course it’s much more enjoyable to torture me.” Genji tossed off his tea and lay back again, twitching his legs out of his lap.

Hanzo discovered his appetite taking an abrupt and total leave, and closed his box. “You could have said no, and I would have respected that.”

“But mother wouldn’t have and, honestly, even dragging myself up the side of a mountain and spending the weekend in a place without wifi or running water is preferable to putting up with her in full blown passive-aggressive dragon-mama mode.” Genji pulled out his phone. “Holy shit, I’ve still got connection. Who would’ve guessed?”

“I’m reasonably certain they’ve got running water now.” Hanzo replied, carefully stretching his own legs before the post-exertion cramps could set in.

Genji snorted and looked up from the screen. “Good, because standing under a waterfall is absolutely not going to cut it when it comes to bathing tonight. Why did you even ask me, you knew I was going to hate everything about this. Honestly, Hanzo.”

Hanzo stretched the length of his left leg and addressed his words to the blanket. “Because you’re my brother and, no matter what happens in the next few days, after this everything is going to be different, one way or another.”

Genji was silent for a long, long moment. Hanzo closed his eyes and concentrated on the sensation of his muscles loosening, the birds twittering among the trees, the rustle of small forest creatures in the undergrowth beyond the trail, the spirits singing their wordless songs on the breeze as it curled around the shoulder of the mountain. Then, in a tone positively freighted with malicious glee, Genji whispered, “You’re afraid. ”

Hanzo sat up so quickly his hamstrings complained. “ Really ?”

Genji pointed at him and outright cackled in perfectly spiteful amusement. “You are. Hanzo Perfect In Every Way Shimada is fucking scared. I never thought I would live to see this day, never in a million years, hold still, I need to commemorate this moment -- “

Hanzo lunged at him but, as it turned out, Genji was just a hair faster and more flexible and rolled easily out of reach and to his feet.

“ Dammit, Genji. ” Hanzo growled and his brother laughed again, not even pretending to hide the mocking edge to it.

“Now that sounds familiar.” Genji snapped off at least a few pictures and tucked his phone away, eyes alight with venomous cheer. “Now I will always remember the day my excellent-in-all-things elder brother displayed a fleeting trace element of imperfection. My life is complete.” His grin slipped back a notch from punchable to merely annoying. “Okay, aniki , that was the best laugh I’ve had in ages so when this whole thing turns out to be the longest long con Uncle Toshiro and Grandpa ever ran, I promise I won’t make fun of you too hard, okay?”

Hanzo closed his eyes, breathed in peace, breathed out the desire to shove his complete asshole little brother off the side of the scenic overlook, and said, “We should go. We have a few more hours of walking left and I would like to be at the shrine well before nightfall.”

“But of course.”

Genji went to collect his pack and remained in an obnoxiously cheerful good mood for the remainder of the hike, undimmed by the sudden summer squall that came pouring down the valley that soaked them both before they could reach the travelers’ shelter at the base of the final rise, or the steep final climb itself. Hanzo chose to regard that as a blessing instead of a harbinger of worse to come primarily because his digestive tract had already tied itself into an impressively complex knotwork sequence and he rather doubted he could survive his circulatory system getting into the act. The sun was a handspan above the western mountains by the time they reached the last set of stairs cut into the edge of the wooded plateau holding the dragon brothers’ shrine and found the priestess-shaman that kept it waiting for them at the top, beneath the torii that marked the boundary between the world as they knew it and the world that was yet to come.

She was almost impossibly tiny, her hair pure white and knotted into a bun at the base of her skull, her back deeply bowed and her face deeply lined with age, but the eyes that looked out at them were bright, a shade of brown so pale they were nearly golden, like those of their mother and late grandfather, sharp and knowing. She bowed in greeting as they came to the top of the steps, the westering sunlight gilding her hair, the sculpted wooden cap of the staff she leaned on, the almost impossibly snowy whiteness of her robe and shawl. “Welcome, young masters. It has been many years since the heirs of my clan have made this pilgrimage. We are pleased to receive you.”

Hanzo stopped on the topmost step and bowed deeply over his hands. “It was our honor to make this journey and our honor to pass the gate of the gods, to return the service of the clan to our ancestors.” He rose, and smiled. “It is good to finally meet you, great-grandmother.”

“Ah, child.” She reached up and cupped his cheek, the skin of her palm paper-fine. “Let me look at you. Toshiro told me a great deal about you -- “ The tip of her staff came around and struck Genji’s shins with serpentine speed; he yelped and almost tumbled back down the stairs and Hanzo just barely managed to swallow a laugh, “and also about you, Genji. Come, the girl who helps me will be making supper soon and you two should settle in…”

She set off on the path that led along the perimeter fence, away from the central lane to the shrine itself. There, tucked away in a corner and screened from view by its own fence and a thin stand of bamboo, was her elegant little house and garden, the stone path leading to the covered verandah passing through it. As the approached, the door slid open and their grandmother’s attendant -- a woman likely old enough to be their mother -- greeted them with a bow and helped her inside. “Girl, show my grandsons to their room and to the bathhouse. Grandsons, bathe. You smell like you just climbed a mountain. Then come talk to me and we will eat.”

The walls in the northern all-purpose room had already been arranged to make two bedrooms -- the “girl,” who quietly gave her name as Miss Hayata, showed them to the western-facing room, its outer shoji open to allow the storm-cooled, rain-and-forest scented breeze entry, the spring fed pond and the surrounding water garden perfectly framed between them. Two futons were laid out next to one another; a set of shelves and hooks for personal belongings and a small chabudai and a selection of cushions occupied the remaining space. Genji glanced around, dumped his pack, and asked, “Mind if I call dibs on the bath?”

“Not at all.” Hanzo rather felt he could use a few minutes to unpack, dispose of his uneaten lunch before it began to smell, and have a minor panic attack before sitting down to eat dinner with the teacher of his teacher. Fortunately, there were jewel-bright fish in the pond willing to help with at least part of the disposal and he strongly suspected the squirrels would take care of the rest. He hung his ritual garments to air, selected a fresh change of clothes, extracted the scroll case he had carried with him from the kamidana in Shimada Castle from its waterproof covering, and stashed the rest of his belongings on his half of the shelves. The panic attack, however, refused to unknot itself from the inner workings of his entrails and he resigned himself to politely picking at dinner.

Genji, miraculously, didn’t take forever in the bath and hadn’t used all the towels. By the time Hanzo himself emerged, dinner was definitely perfuming the air.

Be calm, murmured the voice of reason as he hurried in the direction from whence those delicious smells were emanating, be calm. If she didn’t think you were ready, if she hadn’t received a sign you were ready, if you were not ready, she would not have summoned you. Be calm. Or, if you can’t be calm, at least don’t throw up, because there’s no way that’s not an inauspicious omen.

The dining room was in the furthest southern end of the house, to take advantage of the last of the light lingering in the heavens, supplemented by small lamps situated in each corner and one in the center of the much larger chabudai. Only three places were laid and Miss Hayata was already bringing out the first tray -- tiny, elegantly composed bowls of hiyashi chuka -- so Hanzo hurriedly seated himself.

Grandmother Sumiko clucked her tongue at him. “Tardy.” Genji snickered. “Put away that phone or I will put it away for you and stop laughing at your brother’s misfortune.”

“Just a moment, grandmother, I’m -- “ Hanzo did not actually see Grandmother Sumiko pick up her chopsticks but he did have the opportunity to appreciate the speed with which she used them to snatch the phone out of Genji’s hands. “ Hey. ”

Grandmother Sumiko scrutinized whatever was going on with a certain critical eye and Genji, for the first time in years, actually, visibly blushed. “That is an extraordinarily flexible young woman who is wasting her kami-given talents on amateur softcorn porn. If she ever wishes to fulfill her potential, do send her to me.” Then she powered the device down and slid it into the depths of her robes. “You can have that back when you’re ready to leave, Genji-kun.”

Genji turned the full force of his best this-is-all-your-fault glare on him and mouthed I hate you with elaborate accompanying body language. Since neither of those things were new, Hanzo shrugged insouciantly and mouthed back sorry as insincerely as the situation allowed. If Grandmother Sumiko noticed the exchange, she mercifully forebore to comment on it, and Miss Hayata returned bearing the libations, which turned out to be wonderfully chilled umeshu. That, at least, put Genji in a somewhat better mood almost instantly.

“Tell me of yourself, Genji-kun,” Grandmother Sumiko said, once they had had an opportunity to sample the provender.

“I thought we came here for you to talk to him. ” It was not quite a question, or an accusation, but partook of the most potentially insulting aspects of both and it was all Hanzo could do not to throw his still mostly-full appetizer plate across the table at him.

“If I have a question to ask of Hanzo, I assure you I will do so.” Grandmother Sumiko replied, holding her chopsticks in a manner that suggested potential violence in the offing. “Now, tell me about yourself or I’ll unscrew your head and dip it out with a soup ladle.”

Genji, unexpectedly, grinned his most winning grin. “I think I’m beginning to like you, Grandmother.”

Miss Hayata arrived to take away the appetizer plates and bring new ones, periodically refreshing the umeshu, and Genji and their grandmother chattered back and forth through grilled tofu with vinegared vegetables, a perfectly outstanding miso soup, fried eggplant swimming in a coolly refreshing marinade, and chazuke with umeboshi, a circumstance that allowed Hanzo to eat almost nothing and avoid a lecture at the same time, for which he was profoundly grateful. Dessert was an artfully arranged fan of sliced peaches and watermelon that evoked the image of a bird in flight served with cold sencha flavored with peach and cucumber slices. Miss Hayata shot him a worried look as she took away his last, virtually untouched plate.

“Very well, Genji, you have amused me much more than I suspected you would this evening.” Grandmother Sumiko reached into her robe and tossed his phone back. “Don’t make me regret giving you this, and by regret I mean I don’t want to hear any questionable noises coming from your bedroom after you think everyone else is asleep. I’m an old woman and these walls are thin. Shoo.”

“Thank you, Grandmother.” He offered her a perfectly correct bow, possibly just to prove he could do it, and then dropped a kiss on her cheek, eyes twinkling impishly. “I promise I won’t terrorize your household in the night.”

“Good boy.” He fled and Grandmother Sumiko pinned Hanzo back to his cushions without even looking at him. “Not you. Sit. Have some more of that excellent sencha if you’re not going to eat.”

Chastened, Hanzo sipped his tea and attempted to avoid his grandmother’s eyes as she turned her full attention to him for the first time. He did not entirely succeed and once she caught him, she declined to let him go. “That one is...angry.”

“Yes.” Hanzo agreed, the knots in his stomach reconfiguring themselves slightly.

“At you?” Grandmother Sumiko asked, regarding him steadily.

“At everything.” Hanzo replied, and sat his cup down, regretting everything he’d put in his mouth all evening. “Myself and the situation included.”

“And yet you brought him with you.” She sipped from her own cup and, mercifully, looked away.

“My options were limited. Given the choice between the brother who hates me and the relatives who only bother because they want something from me, at least the hate is honest.” He blinked until his eyes stopped stinging and looked out into the garden, where the solar-powered tōrō were coming to life in the deep blue twilight.

“You could have come alone.” Gently.

“I didn’t want to.” He laced his fingers together to give his hands something to do. “Did you?”

“No.” Grandmother Sumiko admitted, after a moment. “Worried?”

“Oh, yes.” Hanzo took a sip of tea and forced himself to swallow.

“Good. If you weren’t I’d be worried.” With a certain dry amusement. “Ready?”

No. “I must be.” The tea was definitely a mistake. “When do we begin?”

“Tomorrow at first light.” He glanced at her, surprised. “Don’t look at me like that, this isn’t the masochism tango. You climbed a mountain today and you haven’t eaten enough to keep a bird alive. The purpose of the endeavor is to succeed at it, not collapse from physical and mental exhaustion halfway through. Tonight you do nothing but rest. ”

“Thank you, Grandmother.” He found a genuine enough smile to offer her. “May I go?”

She waved him off. “Go. Make sure your angry idiot brother shuts down at a decent hour, too, because I genuinely don’t care if he’s not a morning person.”

“I will.” He rose, bowed, and made his way back to the bedroom, thinking fixedly about nothing.

Genji had rearranged the room somewhat in his absence, moving the futon he’d chosen to the opposite side and putting the table between them, along with a barrier consisting of the contents of his pack, most of which were portable forms of electronic entertainment. Hanzo heroically resisted the temptation to step on a few of the more delicate-seeming ones as he slipped in and slid the shoji door closed behind him. His brother did not look up from the device in his hands or otherwise deign to acknowledge his existence as he prepared for bed, earbuds firmly in place, not even when Hanzo turned out the lamp on his side of the room. He simply reached out and thumbed off his own light, plunging the room into sickly electronic screen lit semi-darkness.

Hanzo wondered, as he tried to find a comfortable position to sleep in, what would happen if he threw a pillow at Genji’s head and asked to talk. Brutal realism forced him to conclude nothing good given the single-minded intensity of focus his brother was giving to ignoring him. An argument, in all likelihood, of the kind that Genji could bring when he was of a mind to use any possible vulnerability against him, his words placed with delicate precision to cut deep. Thus it was that he rolled to the side facing the wall and whispered, “You were right. I am afraid. I wish I could tell you.”

He did not, despite the exertions of the day, sleep particularly well. He had spent cumulative years of his life training in the wild places still to be found in Japan, had slept in tents and under the stars and, on at least one occasion notable for its unpleasantness, hanging on the side of a cliff strapped to a nylon-and-aluminum base platform, but for some reason he could not make himself relax in the freshly laundered bedding on the sweet-smelling tatami while safe under the roof of his grandmother’s house. He couldn’t even blame it on Genji: he had shut whatever he’d been doing down well before midnight, rolled over, and gone directly to sleep. He wasn’t even snoring. Neither were the night noises so disturbingly different as to be a reason for his restlessness: the spirits sang to him no matter where he was, city, castle, or country and, under normal circumstances, and they were enough to soothe him no matter how deep his physical discomfort or mental disquiet. The bath had actually assuaged the majority of the bodily aches occasioned by the hike and his body was, in fact, completely and utterly prepared to rest.

His mind, however, was skittering around like a howler monkey that had stumbled into a meth lab and refused to obey either the demands of physical exhaustion or silent pleas for mercy because it was late and he had to get up early and he already seriously doubted his ability to settle a bitter family quarrel three centuries in the cherishing without trying to do so on twenty minutes of sleep. In fact, his tweaker brain was taking positive delight in going over and over and over all the possible ways this could go wrong, every conceivable misstep, every way in which he could fail . And there were, in fact, multiple potential points of failure, each and every one of which could be laid at his feet. Would be laid at his feet.

You have been preparing to do this thing for nearly your entire life, the voice of reason finally hissed, sounding exasperated almost beyond its own nature. You LITERALLY CANNOT POSSIBLY be more ready. GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP.

That is what I’m afraid of , he replied but he did, in end, sleep for at least a few hours. He snapped instantly awake at the gentle hiss of the shoji sliding open and Miss Hayata’s soft voice whispering, “Young master?”

“I am awake,” He whispered in reply and reached for his yukata. “If my brother can sleep, it is best to let him.”

“As you wish,” Miss Hayata whispered and withdrew while he dressed and carefully folded his ritual garments into the carry-all he’d brought for that purpose, sliding the scroll case in alongside.

The sky outside was growing pale with false dawn as she led him out into the garden, along the path that led down the side of the plateau, the steps narrow and somewhat treacherous with dew. Somewhere in the distance he heard the sound of rushing water and was not surprised when, a few moments later, the trees thinned on the bank of swift-moving stream, itself flowing forth from a deep green pool at the base of of a silver thread of waterfall. Grandmother Sumiko waited just outside the edge of the waterfall’s spray on the bank, a single enormous water-cut slab of stone, smoothed by centuries, holding a lantern on a pole to light his way.

And now there was no more time in which to harbor fear, or doubt.

He undid the ties he used to tame his hair while he slept; unbound, it fell past his waist. He slipped out of his yukata, folded it neatly, and stepped onto the water-smoothed stone. The water, even in summer, was stunningly cold and rendered colder by the predawn breeze. He embraced that chill and allowed it to sink past the surface of his skin, to cool the feverish racing of his thoughts, to wash away any lingering traces of weariness in mind or body. Miss Hayata handed him a cloth with which to dry himself and his grandmother the garments with which to clothe himself and further sprinkled a handful of salt over his head and shoulders once he had done so. A little smile curled the corners of her mouth and he found it drawing an answering expression from his own. One can never be too pure when approaching the gods.

Genji was still asleep as they passed through the garden again -- or, if he wasn’t, he was doing a perfectly excellent imitation. Hanzo firmly ignored the little pang that gave him, the hope that his brother might wake early enough to follow him all the way to the shrine a small one at best, and he did need to rest. He crushed even more firmly the insidious, invidious thought that followed: he would not go with you even if he were awake, he does not believe in this, he never has, and he never will -- you are a fool to think otherwise.

He will believe when I am done. Hanzo held that thought as a shield before his mind and his heart as they cleansed their hands and mouths at the purification fountain, as Grandmother Sumiko led the way along the lane between the palely glowing lanterns, as they stopped to offer prayers at the shrines of the smaller gods, as Grandmother Sumiko opened the doors of the haiden and led the way inside. The hall was longer than it was wide, the air within still and cool and rich with the scent of the ancient, lovingly tended wood that made up the floor, the internal pillars, the altar whose face was etched with the image of the entwined dragons. As one they knelt and bowed before it, touching foreheads to the floor in full supplication, offering all honor and as one they rose to make the offerings: a bowl of rice, a plate of cakes, bowls of salt and water, a bottle of sake. Grandmother Sumiko alone spoke the prayers, unchanged in form for centuries, and she alone approached the door to the inner sanctuary where the shintai of the brother dragons lay enshrined. Hanzo rose and followed her once the way was opened, the scroll case he had carried from Hanamura in the crook of his arm, and stepped into the presence of the gods.

The slender pinnacle of stone where Minamikaze and Kitakaze had touched the Earth to become human, where they had left humanity behind to return to their place in the heavens, was wrapped in hundreds of layers of silk, blue and green, golden and copper, to conceal it from human eyes, bound around its base with a shimenawa as thick as a large man’s arm. Sitting before it, on an elegantly carved platform specifically for the purpose, sat a yamatogoto, the dark wood of its construction glowing in the light of the inner sanctuary lamps Grandmother Sumiko brought to life, strings gleaming like the exposed edge of a blade. She touched his shoulder in passing as she withdrew and closed the doors of the inner sanctuary behind her.

Hanzo knelt, laid the scroll case on the platform next to the instrument, and for a moment simply breathed. Once begun, what came next could not be stopped and started again, only completed, and he could not do it with hands that were anything other than steady. The strings were cool beneath his fingertips as he touched them.

Uncle Toshiro had begun the composition in the years before his birth, when first he was given the knowledge of what must be done to restore the bond between the fractured halves of the Shimada clan. How to continue it once he was gone was one of the first lessons he taught, simple arrangements that grew in complexity and sophistication as his appreciation of both music and mathematics increased, the task handed to him for completion once the arthritis reached a point where even modern medical intervention could no longer restore the cleverness to Toshiro’s hands. Hanzo had done so while sitting vigil at his teacher’s bedside -- had given him something to do besides watch, helpless and useless, as his uncle’s life ebbed away, and it had comforted Toshiro at the last to know that his life’s work was well and safely finished. And it was, even with his additions, a thing of heart aching beauty, at once sweet and sorrowful, mourning for the long years of separation wrapped around a plea for a better future, an apology for past wrongs. It had taken him years of practice not to weep while playing it and he did not do so now, though it was a near thing -- playing it before those for whom it was composed was not the same as any other audience. Particularly when there was only one way for them to respond.

The last of the notes rang off the strings and, as they did, the quality of the air and the light in the inner sanctuary changed. Hanzo took a deep, steadying breath and looked up from the instrument. Before him, the shintai was no longer concealed but a slender spire of stone, sculpted by wind and rain and the passage of millennia in the shape of two sinuous bodies entwined. Beyond it, the mountain rose, impossibly tall, slopes shrouded in primordial forest, pinnacle in racing layers of cloud. A path began at his feet, snaking to either side of the shintai, requiring a choice. He rose and tucked the scroll case into his belt and stepped down. Beneath his feet, the path was soft with moss, at least for now, and he knew that if he looked back now there would be nothing for him to return to once he was done.

And, knowing, he took the path to the left, for the living. The forest beyond was dark, only faint shafts of light passing through the canopy hundreds of meters overhead, the trees towering giants larger than any he could recall meeting elsewhere. The path curved off among them, lined in moss of an impossibly vivid shade of green, bordered in stones that seemed, to his eye, too regular in their angles to be anything other than sculpted. He wished, belatedly, that he’d had the sense to take one of the lamps from the shrine before he’d departed as the forest enfolded him: he sensed something, something ancient and not wholly benevolent, within it, below it, something that his presence stirred.

He walked and, as he did, the light faded still further until it was so dark among the trees that the fireflies came out, sparks of faint golden luminescence among the undergrowth. He sensed, rather than saw, something moving among them by the way they blinked out and returned when whatever it was passed, something that did not permit him to catch even a glimpse of it when the trees or undergrowth thinned. The air cooled and thickened, wisps of mist rising from the loam, perfuming it with something sweet and somnolent and vaguely sickening. He felt, if he breathed it long enough, he might desire nothing more than to make a bed for himself in the soft moss beneath those trees and never wake again and knowing this lengthened his stride. His unseen companion kept pace and his stride lengthened again into something closer to a run -- a run that stumbled to a halt at a second branch in the path.

Weariness, shockingly sudden and intense, came over him as he considered because, again, the division of the ways offered him nothing with which to make his choice -- neither seemed darker or steeper, more or less perilous or inviting, and as he stood, something cold and damp settled itself into the palm of his open hand. His heart leapt and his breath stuttered to a halt and, against his own better judgment, he held completely and utterly still while whatever it was brushed gently against the skin of his palm, huffing softly, its breath warm against his fingertips. A rough tongue kissed the pad of his thumb and a warm, thick-furred body pressed itself against his hip.

Hanzo swallowed, commended his soul to the care of his ancestors, and looked down. A wolf gazed back at him -- an enormous wolf, its fur white as snow in moonlight, its eyes sunlight golden, brilliant and gentle and wise.

“Greetings,” Hanzo murmured, his voice sounding thin and strange in his own ears. “Are you my guide, my friend? Have you been sent to lead me to my family?”

It made no sound, merely gazed up at him and stepped past him onto the path branching to the right, its pelt gleaming in the dark as though lit from within, eyes brighter than even the brightest fireflies. It submitted, without complaint, to the touch of his hand as he buried his fingers in its ruff and found comfort in its living warmth.

“Very well,” He whispered. “Lead on.”

And it did, down paths so narrow they were barely wide enough for one let alone two, where the undergrowth reached out to snatch at his hair and garments and, once, at the scroll case, nearly conscious in its malevolence, in the effort to draw him off the path. He saw also that his fears had been correct, for the light cast by the wolf’s pelt fell across the bones of other travelers tumbled among the roots and vines, fireflies lighting the sockets of empty skulls, lichen-frosted ribs playing host to the small creatures of the forest. For its part, the wolf did not seem to mind that he clung to it more tightly as his strength bled away beneath the trees and it led him faithfully through two more changes in track, over three streams of slowly flowing water that he dared not look into too deeply, and to the place where the ancient, hungry forest thinned and the path steepened and air cleared to the scent of pure wind and freshly fallen autumn leaves.

Hanzo breathed deeply of that air and felt it chase the poison from his lungs and from his blood, his mind clearing and his strength returning. The path beneath his feet had changed from moss-coated roots to weathered stone steps, wide and broad and scattered with fallen leaves, golden and scarlet, to the depth of several inches. On one side of the path, the mountain fell away in a steep decline that lay in heavy shadow, the forest there dark and wreathed in heavy mist, on the other it lay covered in birch and maple, oak and elm clad in their autumn glory, towering stands of cedar and spruce scattered among them like quiet secrets. Looking back, he saw at last the gate that stood at the base of the rise, its timbers worn by the passage of many seasons but no weaker for it.

“Thank you, my friend, I would not have made it through that place without your -- “ He glanced down and found the wolf gone, not even the trace of its tracks left beside his own.

This troubled him, though he could not say, even to himself, quite why. More troubling was the thought that he had, somehow, chosen wrongly in his very first choice, for the way he had taken would have devoured his life had help not come to find him. He wondered, and the thought chilled him, how many of those bones lost in the miasm below had been others like him, scions of the Shimada who had come seeking reconciliation with their ancestors only to meet a lonely death, their names unrecorded and unremembered. He wondered why he, of them all, had been spared that fate.

Soon, he had no more time to wonder. The path wound around the brow of the mountain and rose steadily, growing narrower and more treacherous as it went. Soon, birch and maple, oak and elm, gave way solely to pine, and then to the low, scrubby plants that thrived on the heights, and then to bare stone and vast fields of snow. The air thinned, so that every breath was a labor, and cold, so that every breath felt like inhaling ice, and the wind carved along the face of the mountain like the blade of a frozen sword. The path narrowed until the steps were barely wide enough to stand upon and Hanzo had to press back against the jagged wall of stone, searching for handholds as he went, lest the wind pluck him off the trail and fling him into the empty air beyond. Between one breath and the next, stormcloud enshrouded the upper reaches of the mountain, riming the path with ice, pelting him with sleet as thunder echoed and sheets of lightning rippled from cloud to cloud. Hanzo knelt and crawled, making himself as inoffensive to the wind as he could, giving himself as many chances to catch himself as possible should he begin to slip and fall. The icy stone sucked the last of the dexterity from his numb hands and the icy wind the last of the warmth from his body as he struggled and, from somewhere quite nearby, he heard a howl: a low, gentle crooning, as a mother to her cubs.

He crawled a short way more and found, in the stone face of the mountain, a fissure, a crack just barely large enough to allow him passage, from whence the howl seemed to emerge. Moving with care, he made his way inside as the storm redoubled its fury, rain and hail and snow and winds with the strength of a typhoon, raking the side of them mountain, but inside its skin he was safe. He crawled blindly into the dark until his hands came to rest in warm fur and he found himself regarded steadily by two pairs of gleaming eyes: one the golden eyes he already knew, and the other blue as the cloudless heavens. He collapsed between them, frozen and exhausted, and they gathered close around, warming him with their bodies and their fur and their breath. He wondered, as he lay sheltered in their den, how many others had come this far only to meet their end on the cruel and unforgiving heights of the mountain, their souls lost and their names forgotten. He wondered why he, of them all, had been spared that fate.

In time, the storm passed, its violence bleeding away to nothing. Hanzo’s eyes grew accustomed to the dark and, in it, he saw that both the wolves that lay curled around him were white as fresh-fallen snow, white as cloud, and that the crevice where they laired was open at both ends. He rose to his knees and, conscious of their dignity and his own, he gave them his thanks in a grave and solemn scratching of their ears. Both pressed their noses into his hands and kissed his forehead with a kindly lap of their tongues and neither moved to stop him as he crawled toward the far entrance to their cave.

On that side of the mountain, the path widened again and while it was still bare, cold stone it was now lined in gates, venerable and proud, and the sky above was clear and bright. Minamikaze’s palace rose against it, shining fiercely in the sunlight, its inner keep five stories tall, its outer towers and walls massive with stone enforcements and heavy wooden gates. As he approached, the first of those gates, carved with the image of the entwined dragons, swung open to allow him entry, each one opening untouched before him as he climbed. At the final gate that pierced the inner wall, he finally met another living being: a retainer, tall and slender, clad in layers of storm blue silk, cloud white hair bound with kanzashi in the form of rabenda in full bloom, with eyes the lightning stroke shade of silver. He bowed deeply and Hanzo returned the gesture.

“You have traveled far, Shimada Hanzo.” The retainer said, in a voice far more resonant than his slender frame seemed to allow. “Come. The purpose of your journey awaits.”

The final door to the castle opened and the retainer led him inside. At the base of the staircase that would lead them higher, the retainer paused and gestured, and the shoji to either side slid open to reveal the maze of rooms beyond. On one side, the air was thick with the steam of hot, fresh water. On the other, the lamps shone on the most gorgeous clothing he had ever seen, vivid silks covered in embroidery too fine for mortal hands, ornaments of wood and metal, enamel and jewels. “My master offers you the use of the baths and of his wardrobe, should that be your desire.”

Hanzo was painfully cognizant that he no doubt looked and smelled like a beggar at that moment, but also that his goal was within his reach. “I offer my most sincere gratitude to your lord, but I would delay no longer the purpose of my journey.”

“As you wish.” The retainer turned and set his foot upon the stair and, as they climbed, it seemed to take much longer to reach the second floor of the tower than its size would allow.

As they entered the second story of the castle, the retainer gestured again, and the shoji to either side of them slid open, to reveal the maze of rooms and corridors beyond, revealing tables laid for a feast fit to serve hundreds, the air perfumed with the scents of a thousand different delicacies. “My master offers you food and drink, all that you might desire, that you may come into his presence refreshed.”

Hanzo was poignantly aware of how long it had been since he had last taken even a small mouthful of food or drink, and he knew also that the provender of the gods was not a gift lightly refused -- knew also that, should he partake of it, no earthly food would ever taste quite so good again. “I offer my most sincere gratitude to your lord, but I would no longer delay the purpose of my journey.”

“As you wish.” The retainer turned and set his foot upon the stair and, as they climbed, it seemed to take much longer to reach the third floor of the tower than its size would allow.

As they entered the third story of the castle, the retainer gestured again, and the shoji to either side of them slid open, to reveal the maze of rooms and corridors beyond, darkened by shutters over the outer windows and lit here and there with lamps burning gently perfumed oils, the floors laid with fragrant tatami and cushions and bed silks as far as the eye could see. “My lord offers you the peace of the inner chambers, that you may take your rest and come into his presence restored.”

Hanzo’s body ached with exhaustion and his head throbbed with weariness, and he knew that, should he choose to rest, it would be the best and deepest sleep he had ever known, untroubled by dreams of fear or doubt -- and knew also that when he returned, he would never again sleep so well. “I offer my most sincere gratitude to your lord, but I would no longer delay the purpose of my journey.”

“As you wish.” The retainer turned and set his foot upon the stair and, as they climbed, it seemed to take much longer to reach the fourth floor of the tower than its size would allow.

As they entered the fourth story of the castle, the retainer gestured again, and the shoji to either side of them slid open, to reveal the maze of rooms and corridors beyond. The air was rich with the scent of a hundred delicate perfumes, each one gracing the flesh of a man or woman beautiful beyond compare, each one elegantly dressed or artfully semi-dressed or not particularly dressed at all. Even the retainer looked somewhere between distracted and scandalized. “My lord offers you the companionship of his concubines, whomever you may desire, that you might enter his presence fulfilled.”

Hanzo could feel the blood stirring in his veins and the desire quickening in his flesh and he knew, should he choose to yield to the pleasures of the flesh that his hungers would be utterly satisfied and, when he returned, the touch of no mortal lover would ever stir him in the same way. “I offer my most sincere gratitude to your lord, but I would no longer delay the purpose of my journey.”

“As you wish.” The retainer turned and set his foot upon the stair and, as they climbed, it seemed to take much longer to reach the fifth floor of the tower than its size would allow.

At the pinnacle of the tower, Minamikaze and Kitakaze sat together enthroned. Minamikaze was tall even in his throne, slender as a blade, his beauty as striking as a knife-thrust to the heart, robed in sapphire-and-gold that shimmered like scales in sunlight that fell across the open sides of the upper pavilion. Kitakaze was broad and strong, still bearing the scars of their long-ago quarrel across his face, clad in emerald-and-copper armor that shimmered like scales as he leaned forward in his throne. The expression that crossed his face and which he offered to his lord brother with an impish twinkle in his eyes could only be described as I told you so and possibly also you owe me so much money. Minamikaze, for his part, rolled his eyes even further heavenward. The only others gathered in the upper chamber were two young men who stood to the side of Minamikaze’s throne, as alike as two blossoms springing from the same bud, likewise robed in shades of blue and gold, their eyes bright silver, and a young woman who stood to the side of Kitakaze’s throne, armored from head to toe in shades of green, armed with swords at her waist and a naginata in one hand, her eyes sunlit golden.

The retainer bowed deeply before them both and rose at their acknowledgement. “My Lord Minamikaze, my Lord Kitakaze, I give to you your many-times-great-grandson and many-times-great-nephew Shimada Hanzo, who has come to answer for the conduct of your clan and present proof of the restitution you have demanded.”

“Has he?” Minamikaze’s gentle voice held the echoes of a storm still far away, but a storm nonetheless. “Come forward, my many-times-great-grandson, and show us what you have brought.”

Hanzo slid the scroll case out of his belt, where it had traveled protected and unharmed, and gave it to the hands of the retainer. With all the grace he had left in his weary body, he sank to his knees before the thrones of his ancestors and bowed his face to the floor, pressing his forehead to the mirror-polished wood. To his weary body, it felt as though they permitted him to hold that position far longer than strict courtesy demanded and when he was released from it, it was Lord Kitakaze who spoke. “Rise, child.”

He did so, coming back to his knees, forcing his spine and shoulders straight through sheer force of will and spoke the words Toshiro had engraved on his heart over the years of his tutelage. “I give you greetings and all honor, Lord Minamikaze, Lord Kitakaze. I have come to beg your forgiveness for the wrongs that we, your children, have done to your honored memory and to the purpose that you in your wisdom gave to us. We stand ready to again serve your will in all things.”

Lord Minamikaze held the scroll case in his long-fingered hands, lightning stroke eyes narrowed and his face utterly still. With a tip of one finger he cracked open the seal and withdrew its contents, tightly rolled and yet still inches thick, and began to unwind it that all might see. Lord Kitakaze’s eyes widened and he caught his breath, all three of the younger beings gathered around the thrones gasped aloud. Hanzo breathed peace and held his face impassive thereby, aided by exhaustion, as the work of his life, the painted history of the clan from the hour of its founding to nearly the present unrolled before them, bearing with it the words and deeds of thousands of years in silk and ink, ending the efforts of his grandfather, and his teacher, and his parents to restore the clan to the honor it once abandoned. It had taken years to complete, infused with all of his skill and art, and merely touching it permitted those who had to eyes to see and the ears to hear and the heart to feel that history come to life beneath their hands, to know its truth.

They lingered longest over the end, some form of silent communion passing between the brothers, a communion that filled the air with the stillness before the first breath of a storm. Lord Minamikaze looked away from his brother and gazed not so much at him as through him, eyes narrowed to gleaming slits. Hanzo met his eyes unflinchingly and refused to look away, for he knew in his soul that his ancestor would take that as a proof of deception. He felt that skyfire brilliance invade him between one breath and the next, pouring through his mind and soul as a cold and scouring wind, touching every thought and memory in a relentless torrent, interrogating the essence of his being. It withdrew as swiftly as it came and Hanzo could not help slumping as it did so, planting his fists on his thighs to hold himself up.

“Your proof is accepted.” Lord Minamikaze’s voice was as warm as the wind flowing off a glacier. “The deed we demanded has been done.”

“It is so.” Lord Kitakaze echoed, far more warmly. “My daughter.”

“Yes, father?” The young woman’s voice was clear and bright.

“Long have you desired to walk in the world with your cousins. Is this still your desire?” Lord Kitakaze sounded fondly indulgent, and Hanzo looked up find him smiling at his daughter with a mixture of tenderness and something close to sorrow.

“It is.” Kitakaze’s daughter smiled brighter than the sun.

“Then go, and find the one who awaits you with your father’s blessing.” And now his smile was most definitely edged in sadness.

“Thank you, father.” She caught her father’s hand to her and pressed a kiss to it and fled, laying her hand briefly on his shoulder as she passed him on her way down the stairs.

“My sons.” Lord Minamikaze turned to the young men who stood at his side and Hanzo marveled slightly that neither shrank away from the intensity of his glare. “You have also spoken of your desire to walk among your mortal kin. Has nothing I said dissuaded you from this folly?”

“Father, with all respect to you and to your wisdom, it has not.” Hanzo decided that only an eldest son would be that bold when speaking to a malcontented dragon-father. “Some things must be learned by experiencing them.”

“Go, then.” Lord Minamikaze gestured sharply toward the stairs. “And let us hope you are willing to pay the price for your education.”

Lord Minamikaze’s sons both bowed deeply and withdrew, each laying a hand on his shoulder in passing.

And then he was alone with his ancestors and their servant. Lord Minamikaze regarded him coldly, and Lord Kitakaze regarded his brother with something resembling concern. When the elder dragon spoke, his voice was the hiss of silk across the edge of a knife. “You have come far and suffered much for your efforts, son of my sons. Is there some boon you would ask of my brother and I?”

“My Lord Minamikaze, my Lord Kitakaze,” Hanzo replied, having given that question much thought, “my teacher passed from the world less than a season ago. His mother, my great-grandmother, is still strong of mind but she is many years older. When she leaves us, I alone will exist to preserve our family’s arts and I am not yet their equal. I may never be.” He swallowed with some difficulty. “I ask the gift of wisdom -- a guide and a companion to aid me in my efforts.”

Lord Minamikazi rose slowly from his throne and something in that movement froze the blood in Hanzo’s veins, turned his heart to ice. Lightning flashed, searing his eyes with its brilliance, thunder cracked, deafening, and something long and sharp and cold pierced him to the soul. When he he could see again, all was a tangle of sapphire-scaled coils and icy silver eyes, Lord Minamikaze unveiled in his glory. It took him a moment to realize that the thing that pierced him was a foreclaw black as jet and long as his arm, placed perfectly through the center of his chest.

You ask of me the gift of wisdom and thus do I grant it to you, son of my sons. Lord Minamikazi’s voice curled through his mind, serpentine and venomous with contempt. You are not a dragon and you shall never be one.

He jerked his talon free in a single smooth motion and Hanzo fell, forever.

#gsor66 #repost #written before the cowboy's name change #oh look it's spooky season

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ahsokathegray · 2 years ago

Text

I Bleed the Same || Sixteen

Pairing: Rexsoka

Summary: Ahsoka and Rex try and make sense of who and what they are after Order 66 occurs. Figuring out what to do with themselves, they remain together for a period of time before parting in their own directions.

Warnings: slow burn, mentions of Order 66, ptsd, injury, death, and future nsfw situations

Word Count: 4,762

A/N: *side eyes ao3* anyway, this chapter is packed full of sensitive material. starting off strong with an O66 nightmare, mcd only in the nightmare, mentions of ptsd, pregnancy (not ahsoka, I won't be doing rexsoka pregnancy in this fic), as well as some light masturbation. happy reading :)

read on ao3! / series masterlist

His blasters were pointed directly at her, arms shaking, unwilling to bend, unwilling to redirect their aim. The look in her eye — the utter betrayal — ricocheted within his veins like blaster fire, burning him up from the inside out. Tears pricked in his eyes, his vision beginning to blur. He wanted to seep into the trail that the lone tear had streaked down his face, anything to obstruct his view of her, anything to increase her chances of escape, her survival of him.

“Stay back!” he warned her.

A firm hand placed itself in the neck of his armor, holding him in place from behind, a thumb pressing into the plastoid between his shoulder blades. Rex flinched. A taunt rang in his ears, “I told you. I fucking told you, Rex. But no one wanted to listen to me, did they? Look at you, blasters pointed at the only thing more precious to you than your weapons. Gotta love that irony, huh brother? I told you to remove your chip and you didn’t. Now here you are, fighting the control, fighting your own mind, about to collapse underneath the sheer weight of it, about to kriffing kill her! You could’ve been awake, you could’ve not given the order had you done what I did. You could have saved them all.” Fives laughed darkly behind him, refusing to show his face.

No one else seemed to hear him. The troopers behind Ahsoka planted their feet, fingers impatiently waiting on the triggers.

Rex growled, unable to move from his position, “Get where I can see you, trooper!” He wanted to punch off the smug grin he knew his brother to be wearing. Footsteps sounded behind him, echoing in his ears as Fives made a wide circle, rounding where the Captain stood between the bridge and the briefing room. He came into Rex’s peripheral and everything around him froze. It was as if time had stopped. Hyperspace was no longer a breathing tunnel of stars and systems, being reduced merely to a light source. The men behind Ahsoka were frozen in their positions, blasters still trained on her, all while they sported those orange-painted helmets with her markings on them.

And Ahsoka stood in front of him, unmoving, eyes consumed with hurt, for yet another friend has turned their back on her, making an inexcusable misuse of her trust. Her hands were placed defensively outwards instead of reaching for her lightsabers, trusting that he will lower his weapons.

He forgot all about Fives as he stared back at her, betrayal’s keen sting etched into her features. The look on her face was branded into the backs of his eyelids — brow markings pinched together, mouth agape.

His muscles ached. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t put the blasters down. He wasn’t in control.

“You’re about to shoot her and it’s all your fault,” his brother’s voice rang loudly.

Rex snapped his attention over to where Fives was, the clone coming to stand to the right of Ahsoka’s frozen form, stalking closer and closer. Any urge to sock Fives in the jaw dissipated completely. In front of him was not the Fives that he remembered. This wasn’t the brazen man who dripped with charisma, effortlessly picking up the ladies. He wasn’t wearing his signature cocky grin or striding along the bridge with confidence. He wasn’t leaning up against some surface coolly while he waited for some prank to play out. He wasn’t laughing, wasn’t teasing, wasn’t making anything into a joke as he usually did.

He was dead serious.

Fives looked frail, shoulders slumped forward, eyes wide, head shaven with a Kaminoan dressing still attached to the chip extraction site. Fives looked terrified. Fives wasn’t scared of anything. The Fives that Rex knew was fearless. This wasn’t that man.

“Fives,” Rex called, his voice laced with worry, “Fives, listen to me.”

The man shook his head fervently, chuckling in a way that made Rex’s skin crawl, “No. You’re gonna listen to me, now. They can’t shoot me this time! If you would’ve just listened to me, you wouldn’t be aiming at her. You should have gone farther than just submitting a lousy grievance report. Remember how this plays out, Rex? These men all received the directive, the order you gave! Ahsoka wouldn’t have had to release Maul. The men wouldn’t have to die. The two of you wouldn’t have to dig a grave for every trooper you could manage to find, knowing there were men aboard that would have no peace. You said it yourself, you knew a grievance report would fall on deaf ears. Why didn’t you just listen to me? Why didn’t you remove your chip? If not for me… Then why not for her?”

Rex’s features furrowed, “It wasn’t my place. I would’ve ended up the same as you!”

“And what about her? I know all too fekking well, that had she asked you, had she discovered the plot instead of me, that you would’ve removed it without as much as a second thought. Right? To right your wrongs from back during her trial? That little tattoo between your neck and back is the only proof I need to answer my question. Yeah. Think you can hide that little tribute forever, do you?”

The Captain’s eyes watered, more tears threatening to spill, teeth clenching together as he yelled at his brother, “Watch your mouth, trooper!”

“Trooper? Don’t stand there and tell me it wasn’t your place to remove your chip! Getting that tattoo — your Commander’s facial markings — wasn’t your place!”

Rex’s jaw flexed, his deecees thrashed in his hands, his muscles stretched and taut from trying to fight the directive, “I got it removed! She removed it! I didn’t kill her!”

Fives grimaced, “Didn’t you?”

The room spun around him, time resuming. His mind finally gave way to the relentless pressure behind his eyes, splintering under the incredible force. Fives had disappeared, his last question deafening in Rex’s ears.

“Find him. Find him. Fives. Find him! Fives!”

Rex’s fingers kissed the triggers, wrists flying upward with the release of hot plasma through the muzzles of his twin blasters. His vision turned red with hatred, with a cold nothingness for the woman in front of him. He shot again and again and again until his fingers began to ache.

“Rex!” Ahsoka called.

“Don’t you see?” Fives’s voice echoed once more, his body no longer present, “You’ve already killed her. She saw everything she needed to see in that moment, trooper. She knows what you are, what you’re capable of… and she will never trust you again.”

Smoke surrounded him, along with several of his brothers — all with their buckets on, shielding their faces from him. He could make out Jesse’s helmet through the smoke and electrical embers as Ahsoka fell, head hitting the table, her lekku bouncing with the impact. Her eyes were still open. Blood sputtered out onto her lips as she choked out his name, “R-Rex.”

“NO!”

~~~

“Rex, please wake up,” Ahsoka pleaded, shaking his shoulders violently. His skin was blistering to the touch and shone with perspiration. The Captain’s eyes were moving around wildly from behind closed lids, thrust deep inside of a REM sleep cycle. She shook him again, coming closer to gain better purchase on his bulky armor. His sleeping form was sitting leaned up on the couch, head tilted back. Ahsoka climbed haphazardly into his lap, desperate for any sort of contact or pressure to wake him from his nightmare.

He whimpered softly, closed eyes wrinkled and squeezing as he threw his face from side to side. Rex began incoherently crying out what sounded like, “No, no, no, no!” She couldn’t quite make out the rest, but upon first entering the room, she’d heard him whisper “Fives”.

Ahsoka let out a huff of air, bringing her hands up to his face and frantically grabbing him to keep him still, begging him to return to her, “Rex!”

Nothing.

Her eyes closed and she exhaled slowly, prepared to slow her heartbeat and tap into the chaos that was the Force, just as she had done in the Tribunal’s medical bay. She was prepared to make that link into the established bond, a Force-bond she hadn’t known to even exist up until Rex lay surrounded by her and the droids with the men at the door. The words presented themselves to her, ready to be spoken, when his eyes abruptly shot open, wide pupils shrinking at the sudden presence of light. Her hands were clammy with his sweat, still gently pressed to either side of his face.

His eyes never left hers, relief flooding his senses that they were open, that they were blinking, that she wasn’t hurt, that they weren’t back aboard the Tribunal, that he hadn’t actually killed her.

In his raised position, he was now very close to her. Ahsoka also seemed to become aware of how their chests were heaving, breaths mingling, sharing the same air. Rex shifted his gaze downwards, finding that both his hands were clutched tightly to her hips, the fabric of her dress gathered between his fingers. She was in his lap. Why was she in his lap? He felt a touch of stimulation and began drawing away from Ahsoka, a blush creeping up from below his collar as he removed his hands. He swallowed, mouth becoming dry as he spoke breathlessly, “Sorry, Commander.”

Ahsoka’s parted lips closed, profusely apologizing as she scrambled from his lap and regained her footing, realizing only now that the innocent action had made Rex uncomfortable. She smoothed her battle dress and stood awkwardly in front of him, “You were having a nightmare... I was worried about you.”

He shifted on the couch, adjusting his position to sit in a way that relieved some of the pressure below his belt. Clearing his throat, he spoke again, “You were worried? What was I…”

There was a hefty pause, embarrassment filling the space between them.

“You just started shaking, sweating badly, and…” she stopped, not wanting him to know just how much of his private dream she’d been privy to.

“And?” Rex repeated, still slightly out of breath, his eyes trained on her.

She held her arm, looking down before she met his gaze again, “You were talking.”

He became very still, eyes peering up at her under knitted brows, one arm along the back of the couch and the other grabbing the edge of the armrest, his legs parted. He looked…

Ahsoka blinked and rid herself quickly of the unexpected appreciation of such a mundane stance, revealing what she heard in a whisper, “I think you were talking to Fives.”

Stang, how much did she hear?

Rex ran a hand down his face, taking a deep breath. He’d been lucky so far, if one could even call it luck. The nightmares Fives spoke of as he lay dying, the ones every clone had — no brother an exception — had truly gone. Fives was right. Turns out, Fives was right about everything. Rex hadn’t had one nightmare since he and Ahsoka became fugitives. However, dreams only come with sleep, which he had yet to do very much of.

He had wondered what would take the place of the old nightmares, but was apprehensive to succumb to slumber’s volatile nature and uncover that mystery.

This. This had apparently taken the place of the old ones.

Rex’s skin both burned and held a chill. A shiver went up his spine as a bead of sweat ran down his temple, running across the removal site. Ahsoka was looking at him again, expectantly, big blue eyes full of concern. He gulped, closed his own and nodded at her, “Yeah.. Yeah, I was. I’m fine. Thank you.”

Ahsoka pressed her lips together and walked back out of the room, not knowing what else to say to him. The only cure for embarrassment was time spent alone, so she decided that she would give Rex some space.

He gripped the arm of the couch with more pressure and pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. There was no need to ponder his dream, he knew why he’d had it. He just hoped it wouldn’t come back to revisit him, become a pattern. The den was dark and quiet, blinds closed and lamps switched off. Cut had been kind enough to offer him somewhere to rest his head. After his brother had fixed the hole in his pauldron, Rex grew to become quite exhausted. Guess that’s what a full stomach will do to you. The meal had warmed and settled him, unlike his old diet of Republic-issued ration bars. Somewhere along the way, the nightmare took hold of him and whisked him deeper down than the food induced coma had.

He looked down and groaned, his inevitable erection still painfully present. Even after she’d left the room, the effect that she’d had on him lingered. She was sitting in his lap! Who was expected to wake up to that and not react this way? Rex glanced over his shoulder and couldn’t see anyone down the hall. More importantly, it sounded as if they were all outside. He contemplated what he was about to do. Once it was done, there would be no revoking the action. The very clear line of their friendship will have been definitively crossed on his end and he would never be able to look at her the same way. Rex fought with himself. She was his best friend and yet… recent events had painted her in a different light. He had begun to crave from her something that he wasn’t meant to.

He wasn’t supposed to want it, especially not with a friend, especially not with his Jedi Commander. He also supposed that the once strictly enforced GAR regulations no longer applied to him. The clear lines that defined this friendship with Ahsoka, were now in need of a new definition. They were no longer soldiers. They were no longer comrades in battle, only seeing one another when the Republic ordered it so. They were now something else entirely

He didn’t have a General to report to anymore, he didn’t have a Commander, no chain of command, no rules in which he was held against, no one to enforce the fact that this was wrong, no one to stop his hand.

He didn’t have to hide it from himself.

What was between them was altered forever. They’d saved one another unlike before, he’d been the medic and patched her up, cleaned her wounds while she lay bare in his arms, and held her closely as she cried. Just him and her. The abundance of closeness, of trust, of emotion, of intimacy had all worked to spark a deep-rooted need within him.

These were all very unconventional happenings that had occurred between them. It was only natural that thoughts such as these presented themselves, right? Wasn’t it only natural that these things began to rattle in his brain after thrust put into such positions? Was it not a matter of time before something like this arose?

Rex turned his attention back to his lap and gave in, accepting that he would be less of a man for it. In the span of a few days, everything had changed. The codpiece that had been constricting him, making his very natural reaction rather painful, was quickly and quietly removed. His legs parted a bit wider and Rex placed a gloved hand on top of himself, through his blacks, before he could use logic to talk himself out of it. All reason was chucked out the door.

His eyes squeezed, brows furrowing with the contact. He began palming his stiff erection through the material, lips parting at the memory of Ahsoka in his lap. Finding a rhythm, he started to recall the feel of her hands on his face, her weight shifting around on him. He wanted to memorize how her legs had spread to settle on either side of his own, knees apart and controlling her movement.

Without having to see it, Rex already knew his blacks were damp from the initial excitement. His manhood throbbed at the recent memories he was feeding back to himself, the head of his member swollen, desperate for release. He applied more pressure with the base of his palm and a quiet moan escaped his dry lips. Rex shot a glance once more to the hallway. Still empty. Nevertheless, he knew he couldn’t revel in the pleasure in the way he so desperately wanted — needed — to. This had to end quickly. His hand increased the pace on his aching member, frantic to reach the point of conclusion. It had been a long time since Rex had last expelled the tangible result of his arousal and it would likely be a long time until the next.

Picturing his hands on her waist made him buck his hips. She had been so warm and soft. He drew shallow breaths as he neared his breaking point. The memories of her body on his were so intoxicatingly fresh. Rex could still feel how close she was, feel her breath tickling his jaw. He’d never been so close to her.

Ahsoka was his absolute undoing.

He began to replay the tender moments on Jabiim, the amount of skin the rain could touch, her gentle fingertips along the wound on his head.

“Rex?” Ahsoka called, the sound of her footsteps coming down the hall drew him from the memories he’d wrapped himself in. The echo of her voice told him she was coming closer. Ahsoka’s voice. The sound of her calling his name at that moment was the saving grace that brought him down from the nearing climax. This was wrong! What was he doing? His codpiece was swiftly replaced, clicking softly back into its rightful position. What was the plan? Rex was swarmed with shame, a sense of clarity returning to him. Had he learned nothing from the nightmare? Ahsoka was the most precious thing in the universe... and he'd pointed his pistols at her. Fives had told him everything he needed to know. Fives... Rex's chest tightened. Ahsoka and all of his brothers... Was this just some backwards, desperate attempt to cope with all that had occured?

Ahsoka appeared behind him, rounding the couch to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you. I felt… I thought you were having another nightmare. I came to check on you,” she revealed quietly.

He sighed, “I’m fine. I-I wasn’t sleeping.”

She smiled and exited the room as quickly as she’d entered. The inescapable guilt found its way In his veins, sinking its sharp talons into his flesh. Something in his heart withered, deciding then that was the first and last time that something that like would ever happen. He was thankful she’d walked in before he could finish.

The tension and pain of the last few days, along with Cut’s false observations, the amount of tender touches, and Ahsoka’s innocent worry had all confused him — construed his view of her and their strong friendship. Blame could only be placed on the culmination of those events and his own poor curiosity. In the wake of what was soon to be a massive mistake, he was able to think more clearly. He didn’t want to rack up in his life’s most bitter regrets in the span of less than a week. Almost betraying her, killing her, was number one on a list he had no desire to continue building.

He had been right about one thing, however. He’d never be able to look at her the same way again without feeling the immense guilt over what he had almost done.

Though, that feeling had already been true before today. Every time he looked at her now, he saw the frightened young woman aboard the Tribunal, stricken with the treachery of her dearest friend and what she saw from behind his pointed blasters.

~~~

Ahsoka walked back down the hallway, approaching the front door. She could’ve sworn he’d been having another nightmare. The Force could be a tricky thing. Despite having distanced herself from it, the apparent Force-bond that she had with Rex was still ever present inside of her. It had pricked at her fingertips and settled into her chest like a deluge of intuition. It tugged at her, compelled her to seek him out.

She and Anakin had a bond as well, the only one she knew of until a few days ago in the medbay.

It had alerted her twice today that Rex had been experiencing a state of alarm. The first time, she knew it to be true. This time, he’d been unwilling to divulge details. She brushed it off. If he wasn’t having a nightmare for the second time, then she decided that she must be reading too far into it. Their safety — his safety — was priority number one. If anything was going on with him, she’d be the first to know about it. She wasn’t going to lose him, too. Whatever was in her power to do for him, it would be done.

Her boots met grass once again as she went to retake her spot beside Suu. Ahsoka sat back on the ground and inhaled the fresh air, feeling the sun’s warm beam upon her face. Rex had slept through lunch, causing her to have to face being without him for a bit longer. It wasn’t something she liked much at all. It inspired a fit of nerves within her.

Master Yoda had lectured about the dangers of attachments on several occasions. These were lessons she’d not forgotten, but had remembered all too well. She saw its signs in Anakin from the time she was first assigned to him, how he slowly became more comfortable with exhibiting the side effects of forbidden attachment along with disregarding the statutes that all Jedi were held to in general.

She had also disregarded the rules in his stead, following his lead and taking them for guidelines rather than concrete regulations. It had caused her some headache already, but nothing as severe as what Anakin experienced.

Like Master like Padawan, if Lux Bonteri was any indication.

Ahsoka couldn’t quell the memory of one lesson in particular. She’d learned, later on as a youngling, that one of the more severe side effects of attachment was something called separation anxiety. It was especially present in those who have shared trauma together, which is why it was so imperative to learn in the midst of wartime. She tapped her fingers on her knees relentlessly as she chewed on the realization that she might be following Anakin’s teachings too loyally, whether it was purposefully or not.

Suu smirked, “You know, I don’t think he’s going to evaporate on that couch.”

Ahsoka laughed dryly, “I know that. I just can’t seem to settle down. He really threw me for a loop earlier.”

The woman continued cleaning the crops in the basket in front of her and watched as her children played and her husband tended to the livestock, “Cut was the same way. Back when he first started living with me, he had nightmares every single night. Apparently all the clones have them, but he said these were worse. The specifics, he’s always left out… but the dreams haunted him for a very long time. He’ll still wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night on some rare occasions. I’m sure Rex will be the same way, though I can’t imagine how such an abrupt end to the war will affect that. The two of you were in it a lot longer than Cut was. It’s a safe bet to assume what the two of you went though will either join or replace the nightmares he’s used to.”

The younger woman’s expression fell. No wonder he’s not been sleeping. Ahsoka’s features pinched together as she digested Suu’s insight. She’d heard of this before, though hadn’t experienced it herself yet. One has to first leave the fight for that part to kick in, and she had yet to become uninvolved. Even when she left, her heart had never truly backed away from the fight. She and Rex were experiencing the end of the war together, awaiting the aftermath in more ways than one. It was quite possible that the beginnings of post-traumatic stress were wiggling their way into Rex’s head. She’d only ever heard of it happening prematurely to a few clones, the ones who got sent back to Kamino or demoted in rank and taken off the battlefield.

Now, it was happening to Rex.

Suu placed a comforting hand on top of Ahsoka’s, “There is nothing you can do, Ahsoka. Take it from me, I have tried and tried. You just have to let him ride it out.”

“How long did Cut have these nightmares?” Ahsoka inquired with a soft voice.

“Well, like I said, he still sometimes has them,” she thought aloud, “but the worst of it lasted right before the two year mark.”

Ahsoka nodded and began to pick up the meilooruns they’d harvested, plucking off stems and cleaning them of dirt. The kids attached a wagon to R7 and now had him pulling them around the yard. She giggled, “They sure do like R7.”

Suu looked up and laughed with her, “Yes, they have become rather fond of your little droid.”

“You could keep him if you want,” Ahsoka offered suddenly, “Rex and I… we don’t have much use for him. I want him to go somewhere he’d be cared for and have a proper role to fill.”

The other woman smiled and shook her head, “They’ve already asked me if he could stay. But, we have no need for a droid here. Cut isn’t too fond of them, either, no matter if yours did serve the Republic or not. Thank you though. I do appreciate the offer, Ahsoka.” The two sat in silence for a beat, enjoying the sunshine and working diligently to get all the fruit prepared for use. “You can have one now if you’d like,” Suu gestured towards the basket of clean fruit, “Meilooruns are their sweetest when they’ve been freshly picked.”

Ahsoka picked one from the pile and took the fruit past her lips, biting down.

“Delicious?” Suu asked, an eyebrow cocked under the brim of her hat.

“Very,” Ahsoka exclaimed, wiping her mouth, “Would you like one?” She picked up another fruit from beside her and offered it to her host.

Suu kindly shook her head, “That’s okay. I’ve had them plenty of times before, besides, they’re not the healthiest thing to indulge in while you’re pregnant.”

The younger girl ceased her chewing and swallowed, “You’re pregnant?”

“Shhh,” Suu warned, placing a finger in front of her mouth, “I haven’t told Cut or the kids yet.” A coy smile blossomed on her lips.

Ahsoka’s features lifted, “But… how? I thought—”

“We thought the same. As it turns out, the clones aren't exactly shooting blanks. Best to be careful.”

Best to be careful? That was suggestive!

A dark blush settled into Ahsoka’s cheeks, the chevrons in her lekku deepening by a whole shade. She began to stammer, “I-I we aren’t… It’s not like that. Your observations are wrong. Rex and I are just good friends.” Her head turned to look behind her, making sure that Rex hadn’t chosen then to join them.

They were still safe within their private conversation. Thank the Force.

Ahsoka’s breathing quickened enough for Suu to notice. The older woman managed to turn even more pink in her laughter, “Relax, Ahsoka. I’m not making any assumptions here… just telling you to keep it in mind is all.”

Picking up her meiloorun, Ahsoka took another bite out of the sweet fruit. “Thank you, but Rex and I are just friends. I’ll be sure to pass that information along to him for his own… personal knowledge,” she replied, the last words tasting bitter on her tongue.

“You were once a Jedi. You know the Ashla in a way that the majority of us never will. I don’t have to be the one to tell you to listen to your gut over what’s up here,” she remarked, pointing to her head. She then gathered the last of the fruit into her basket and took it inside her home, leaving Ahsoka speechless on the grass.

#rexsoka #rexsoka fic #my fic #I bleed the same #ahsokathegray

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