#jinga garo

Ryuuga tries to respond, but his throat works without noise, and eventually all he can get out is, again, “You’re dead. I didn’t call you.”

“Sure you did. Maybe you didn’t do it on purpose, but really I’m a very good king, I try to pick up on what my people need from me even when they’re not saying it. Anyway, I’m impressed that you managed to get here, dreaming into the Makai is a pretty specialized skill. Priests take decades to perfect it. My lovely wife was studying the technique once, but even she never quite got the hang of it. And then we could get here by ourselves, of course, so she didn’t need to.”

“Dreaming?” Thick-tongued, throat-stopped, Ryuuga forces the words out and feels his body slowly come alive. “Makai…dreaming.” He shakes himself, with difficulty, and this time he can feel his real body, shifting restlessly in the bed, brushing up against Rian beside him, and her presence is like an anchor to which he can return as the Makai begins to fade around him.

Jinga waves cheerfully to him as he fades. “See you next time, Dougai Ryuuga. You know where to find me.”

---

He wakes with a start, arm prickling—he’s been sleeping on it. He’s also rolled over uncomfortably onto his sheathed sword, which lies in the camp bed between himself and Rian like it might between a fairytale princess and her faithful knight.

Which, sure he’s a knight, but if he called her a princess she’d punch him.

She’s stirring too, and she sits up rubbing her eyes and frowning and grumbling, “What.”

It’s hard to make his mouth work, but this time it’s in the normal sleep-tied way, not that dreaming barrier to speech. “Is it. Rian, do you know about. Makai dreaming?”

Her frown deepens, but she has to stifle a yawn before replying. “Weird thing to ask about. Yeah, Burai could do that. Never taught me, he said I was too young.”

“Can you do it by accident?”

“N…no? Pretty sure not.” A narrow, thoughtful look. “You probably just had a normal bad dream,” and this time she doesn’t bother to stop herself from yawning. “We all have those. Go back to sleep, fuck, it’s way too early to be getting up.”

---

He doesn’t dream again for several weeks, and then after one after particular exhausting and lengthy fight with an especially unpleasant Horror he falls asleep like he’s dropping into a pit and the white smile is there to greet him.

The last time they’d been in a sort of waste, like the place where he’d killed Jinga the first time but grey and deathly. This time it’s a warehouse, nondescript but nonetheless familiar. We fought here, he thinks, numbed by dreaming. And I caught his sword in my scabbard, and he caught his in mine.

“That was a little bit sexy, wasn’t it,” echoes the mocking voice in the back of his mind, which is followed on by the mocking voice in front of him, a cheerful, “Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

It’s easier to speak this time; Ryuuga’s tongue feels less thick in his mouth, his jaw less locked. “This is a dream. You’re not really here.”

Jinga stumbles back theatrically, hand over his heart. “Cold. And after I came all this way to meet you when you called me. How’s your priestess? Cute as ever? Still in love with you?”

“I’m telling you, I didn’t call you the first time, and I didn’t call you this time either.”

“You ought to be more honest with yourself, don’t you think? The heart wants what it wants. I won’t think less of you if you admit that you want my…company.” Having recovered from that false stumble, Jinga is approaching him now, and while he can speak more easily, it’s still nearly impossible to move, his arms and legs frozen as long fingers stroke the side of his face. “This was a fun spot to pick, by the way. Did you go for it because I mentioned our nice fight here the last time we talked?”

This is a dream, there shouldn’t be sensation, but nevertheless Jinga’s pale hand is pleasantly warm against Ryuuga’s cheek, and Ryuuga shuts his eyes against the mocking gaze and smiling mouth and says, “This is a dream. This is a dream. This is a dream,” fighting the binding stillness as he tries to move his body.

It works, to his desperate relief. He starts to fade.

“It is a dream,” says the teasing voice, “but you are getting better at it. Maybe next time you’ll be able to move around properly and you can dance with me. I’d like that.”

---

Rian is already awake this time, on the other side of the little room they’re sharing in this city, rubbing her eyes and saying, “Bad dreams again?” as he jolts upright.

“Yeah.” There’s a strange taste in his mouth, an acrid burn like the scent of Horror on the wind. “Yeah, I…yeah.”

“About Jinga?”

He nearly jumps. “How did you know?”

“You say his name in your sleep sometimes.” Rian is watching him, quiet and steady and sad. “I figure the nightmares must really be something.”

“Yeah, they’re…” He swallows hard, the acrid taste still coating his tongue. “They’re pretty bad.”

“Do you…want to talk about it?”

“…no. No, I’ll be. I’ll be fine.”

---

No dream the next night, or the night after that. On the third night after that he does dream, but it’s the normal kind. It starts to make him nervous; the longer he goes without dreaming of Jinga, the more on-edge he becomes.

They reach the city nearest to the city and meet up with Aguri, who unexpectedly hugs them both and treats them to a meal and introduces them to the beautiful priest to whom he’s apparently been engaged to for seven years already. She and Rian take to each other immediately and spend the next hour and a half with their heads together, talking; the only thing Ryuuga can catch of their conversation is the fiancée saying, “Darling, I worry that your knight might be haunted, he has sort of a…look?” and Rian replying, “He doesn’t sleep well, you don’t have any tips, do you? Does Aguri have that problem?”

He’d rather she not worry Rian. He’s not haunted. He’s just having bad dreams.

“You seem…a little tired, Ryuuga,” Aguri says, sounding like he doesn’t quite want to let on how concerned he is. “When was the last time you took a few days just to rest instead of traveling around like you do?”

“I’m fine, really.” Ryuuga tries his best to smile, wondering if Jinga will be there when he falls asleep. That white smile feels like it’s been burned into him, a brand unhealed in the back of his mind. “I like the travel anyway.”

---

That night, finally, he dreams, and it’s such a relief to be free of the anticipation that he almost smiles when he realizes what’s happening.

He recognizes this room too, white marble and a black throne, white hair and teeth and black clothes and a hand reaching out and grasping one of his as Jinga says, cheerful as ever, “I do miss you when you don’t come to visit me, Ryuuga. This is a great dance floor you’ve given us.”

It’s more like a superstitious chant at this point than an actual statement of fact. “This is a dream.”

“Well, sure, but isn’t it nice?” Jinga’s other hand comes to rest on his waist, and they begin to dance. “I guess now’s as good a time as any to admit that you never did call me, I called you. I mean, you’re shaping the whole place, that part is on you, but I’m the one who brought you here to shape it. With Amily’s help, of course.”

“You called—”

“And you listened! You’re just so good at listening to me. Not surprising, really. A knight’s someone who takes orders, and you’re excellent at being a knight.” A turn, another step, maybe it’s because this is a dream that Ryuuga knows how to follow Jinga’s movements, it’s probably the dream that makes Jinga’s closeness feel so warm and comfortable. “And a wolf’s only a big dog when you get down to it.”

“This is only a dream,” Ryuuga says again, although it’s starting to feel hollow.

“’Only’ is doing a lot of heavy lifting there, isn’t it? I don’t think this is ‘only’ anything.”

“It’s only a dream.” Jinga’s hand on his waist feels very natural, why is he letting Jinga lead?

Because it’s only a dream. And eventually he’ll wake up. And anyway, it’s nice to not be fighting for once.

Line’s not a big city, but it’s a city nonetheless, so the streets aren’t exactly deserted. But it’s late enough that he can walk without having to dodge around people, and there’s nobody out on the street corners handing out flyers or advertising anything. He doesn’t know where he’s going. He just walks, aimlessly, almost sleepwalking.

His pace slows outside a boarded-up storefront, and after a moment he realizes that it’s the antique store, the one that had been full of Gates. Now it doesn’t look like it’s full of anything, inasmuch as he can see inside at all. Abandoned. Except—the door’s hanging open, very slightly.

Frowning, Ryuuga pushes the door open very gently, expecting to find a stray dog or a homeless person getting out of the open, or maybe a teenager screwing around. Nobody. Just a few larger pieces from the shop’s inventory, covered in dusty sheets.

There’s a light on in the next room of the shop.

That room’s been cleared of stock entirely, and in its place are a black couch and a small table on which stand the one lit lamp, a paperback novel, a steaming samovar, and an empty black mug.

Jinga beckons from one end of the couch, smiling. “Evening, Ryuuga. I was wondering when you’d get here.”

Ryuuga stares, feeling like he just missed the bottom step of a basement staircase. His hand hovers over the hilt of his sword, not quite grabbing it. “Jinga.” The Horror’s holding something in one hand, and he squints at it, trying to see if it’s a weapon, and it’s— “You drink coffee?”

“I love that that’s what you’re focusing on, really I do.” Jinga leans forward slightly and pats the couch next to him, like someone inviting a pet to come to them. “Come on, sit. It’s not a Gate, I promise, it’s just a couch.” He takes a sip of coffee. “And stop grabbing at your sword like that, I’m not here for a fight.”

Off-balance, Ryuuga continues to stare for a moment, hand still hovering, and then takes two strides to get to the couch and sits down with a thump. Jinga nods encouragingly at him. The hair on the back of his neck stands up. “Were you waiting for me here? How did you know I’d come?” The couch is, unexpectedly, comfortable; he settles back despite himself, feeling the exhaustion start to set in as it hadn’t when he was back at the shop trying to sleep.

“I didn’t.” Jinga takes up the empty mug and pours him a coffee, which he accepts without thinking. “I come here when I’d like some time to myself. You didn’t think I spent every waking moment in my wife’s company, did you? But I thought you might come eventually.”

“Your wife…” Ryuuga looks around. “Where is she?”

“How should I know? We’ve each got our own entertainments to pursue occasionally. Drink your coffee, it’s very good.” Jinga’s fingertips rest for a moment on Ryuuga’s arm in a gesture which might be flirtatious if this were a social occasion, but which…still seems flirtatious now. “I promise I didn’t poison it.”

Every shred of good sense tells Ryuuga not to drink. If good sense were in charge tonight, though, he wouldn’t be sitting in the first place, he’d already be fighting. Actually, he wouldn’t even be here, he’d be back at the shop, getting what sleep he can. But he’s not there, he’s not sleeping, he’s sitting in an abandoned building next to a genially-smiling Horror with his sword still in its sheath at his hip.

“Go ahead. Drink.”

He takes a sip. The coffee is dark and sweet and full of spices and it coats his tongue and makes his throat prickle, and it’s extraordinarily good—the best coffee he’s ever had, although he’s not exactly a coffee drinker as a rule.

Jinga’s watching him thoughtfully, and after a moment says, “You know, I didn’t expect you to actually drink it. It’s pleasant, isn’t it? The spices. Have another sip.”

The second sip is better, longer, with the first sip still fading on his tongue and paving the way for renewed sweetness.

“You’re good at taking orders, aren’t you? At least when they come from the right person.”

There’s laughter in the back of Jinga’s voice, and the hair on the back of Ryuuga’s neck is standing up again, and his coffee mug falls to the floor and shatters, splashing his boots. “What did you do to me?”

“Nothing. I just told you to do something, and you did it. It was all you.” Jinga smiles, slow and easy. “Anyway, that’s what knights are supposed to do, isn’t it? What they’re told? That’s where the word comes from, y’know. Means servant. Someone who takes orders from the king.” He reaches out and very gently trails a knuckle down the side of Ryuuga’s face, and Ryuuga—doesn’t bat his hand away. “And since there’s only one king in this room, it stands to reason you’d do what comes naturally.”

Ryuuga’s mouth still tastes of coffee, and even with the caffeine he’s so tired. He says, slowly, “I’d thought your hands would be cold.”

“Did you?” Fingers stretching out, the unexpectedly warm palm cupping his cheek. “Aren’t you exhausted, fighting all the time like you do?” The smile is so close to his mouth, the ghost of Jinga’s lips brushing his. “I could make this so easy for you, Ryuuga. Why don’t you put your head in my lap, and when you wake up the weight of all that responsibility will be off your shoulders.”

Ryuuga’s so tired that he’s swaying, and it’s almost a tempting offer, but as he drifts forward his mouth does touch Jinga’s, and the feeling of Jinga’s teeth as he starts to laugh is like a bolt of lightning. He’s on his feet in seconds, stumbling, nearly slipping in the spilled coffee as shards of the broken mug crunch under his feet. One hand goes to his sword, but good sense finally has the upper hand, and good sense says that he’s in no shape to fight anyone, and so he runs, cursing himself the entire time as Jinga’s rich, delighted laughter follows after him.

He gets back to the shop and there’s Yukihime, still awake, polishing something else—has he ever seen her sleep? She looks up with a frown as he stumbles in and closes the door behind himself, eyebrows drawing down in concern, and leaves her polishing behind to take his coat from him and tch at the coffee on the hem. “When the Devil comes courting,” she says, very softly, “he offers you what you want.”