#kyoshiro

Soon, the drastic mood swings for which the yakuza leader was known returned as a response to the gnawing longing that seemed to have taken root in his chest. Everything started to irritate him. He snapped at this and that, violent and without warning. Food began to taste bland, drink was never enough, and his bed turned into a cold, desolate place where he nursed his demons without rest.

He wanted to see you again.

Yet with no word of your father, he had no real excuse to come to you. You had asked him for guidance, and he had given it. Of course, such teachings could not be confined to a single night; there was far more to learn. Clients would surely demand other skills in the arts of pleasure, such as using your mouth on them with the same deftness you would use your hands. He could teach you that and more, but the agreement had been, spoken from your very lips, one night. He was no one to press you further, and he held fast to the belief that he could not take more than he deserved.

Even so, he had promised your father that he would check on you. It was a simple task, for which it was enough to send one of his men each week. And so he did, gathering the information he needed from mouths that were not yours. The reports were usually brief, lacking in anything of true importance, and though they brought him some measure of relief, he hungered for more. He wanted to know things he did not dare ask his men to inquire after, things that went beyond the simple assurance of your safety. He wanted to know if you slept well (or at least better than he did), if the food you were given suited your taste, if the windows were well sealed and kept the night’s cold at bay. And he wanted to hear it from you, not filtered through the opinions or impressions of others.

Sometimes he wondered if it would be so improper to go see you himself. Certainly, it would rouse suspicion in the mistress, who was sharper than she seemed, yet if he could find some weighty excuse, perhaps he might appear without drawing much notice. And so, he often found himself spinning foolish schemes in search of a reason to see you, only souring his temper further when none of them came to anything.

There was, besides, the matter of you not having asked him to return.

He wasn’t sure you wished to see him again.

That night, you had kissed him. You had touched him, and let him touch you, you had given him the sweetest smile on those painted lips that now seemed etched into his mind. You had even moaned beneath him, for gods' sake, yet had it all been nothing more than practice for your future clients?

And from that sprang the next, far darker thought: had you already taken any? The mere image of another man's lips on your skin made him curse aloud. The thought of some man’s body claiming yours made him want to seize his katana and cut down the first soul who crossed his path.

Denjiro rubbed his temples at such thoughts. It was only natural that a man like him would end up infatuated with a woman like you. At what moment had it seemed wise to lie together? Your maidenhood should have been taken by someone dear to you. Someone you loved, not a mere vassal who had failed even to protect his lord. Perhaps you thought the same, and for that despised him... yet he could not bring himself to regret it. How could he, when nothing had ever felt better than your body moving beneath his? No woman had ever pleased him so well. And by the gods, he had never wanted anyone more.

You had given him two burdens to bear. By day, an emptiness in his chest; by night an insatiable need between his legs. The first he did not know how to mend. Perhaps time would see to that. The second, being of the flesh, he had tried to soothe on his own, attempting to replicate your presence with whatever means he had. The silk of his sheets; the roundness of his pillow; his fist, firm and relentless. But the need was too great, and none of those things brought him any relief.

At one point, he even considered seeking release with one of the two women who cared for and instructed Hiyori. It could be something quick, impersonal, a few thrusts that wouldn't even require him to shed his clothes. They were lovely, had long been in his service, and would surely be eager to comfort their suffering protector… 

But they were not you.

Leaning against a corner, stomach empty and lips pursed into a frown as he endured yet another of Orochi’s terrible jokes that had everyone else laughing like fools, Denjiro decided he would finally visit you. Excuse or no excuse, it no longer mattered. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep clouding his mind, or perhaps the conviction that he simply needed to see you to get you out of his head for good. But as soon as the shogun retired to his chambers and the yakuza were dismissed from the palace, Denjiro offered some excuse to his men and set off toward the pleasure district, hoping that you longed to see him as dearly as he longed for you.

_*_

Back bent over the desk, you focused intently on a parchment as you guided the brush across it, tracing a clean, dark line that might well have been the pride of your calligraphy collection. 

A few soft knocks made you lift both the brush and your head. Annoyed by the interruption, you set the freshly painted kanji aside and, as the mistress had instructed, covered half your face with the fan given to every girl in the brothel. Clients enjoy a bit of mystery, she often said, adjusting your posture so that the edge of the fan touched the bridge of your nose. You did it out of propriety, though you had always found it cumbersome to hold a conversation in such a manner, but when the man who stepped into the room proved to be none other than Denjiro, you were grateful for the delicate accessory that hid your surprise.

The samurai took but a single step into the room and looked at you, hesitant.  The moment he saw the way your hair was adorned with blue bellflowers cascading at your sides he knew he was lost. He nearly let out a laugh of pity for himself as your beautiful lined eyes gazed at him from behind the fan. So many sleepless nights, so many wasted thoughts spent on seeing you one last time so he could forget you, and there he was, looking at you like a man dying of thirst beholding a spring for the first time.

Ignoring the thunder in your chest, you bowed to him and he did the same in turn. What was he doing there? He always sent his men in his stead, had something changed? You bore him a quiet bitterness for his lack of visits. The night you had shared had almost made you believe you might mean something to him, yet his indifference afterward had proved you wrong. Still, you blamed yourself more for such a childish hope than you blamed him for forgetting you so soon. After all, he had only proven what the women in your life had always told you: men would always be men.

“My lady, are they treating you well here?” he uttered with some effort. 

He hadn’t removed his cloak, which led you to assume his visit would be brief. It was only natural for a busy man like him; and you had learned your lesson and did not expect more than what he was willing to give. But there was something else. Something strange in his demeanor. He spoke as though his voice were failing him, and he looked more tired, somehow defeated. Was he ill? You chose not to ask, and answered with dry politeness.

“Very well, sir. I have no complaints.” 

The sound of your voice felt like a feather’s caress to his ears, yet the use of sir placed a distance between you that he did not want. 

“I’m glad.” The words felt thick on his tongue. The silk of your kimono hugged you, outlining the shape of that beautiful body he remembered so well, and he had to force himself to breathe before going on. “I left instructions to make sure you wanted for nothing. Is the food to your liking?” he asked awkwardly, cursing himself for not having rehearsed his visit better.

“Nutritious and sufficient, thank you,” you reported, tone flat behind the unfolded fan.

His sky-blue eyes stayed fixed on you as you remained immobile in the room. You had not invited him in. Was his visit not something you desired? He felt like a fool, standing at your doorway like a stray dog begging for affection.

“From what I’ve heard, this is a quiet district. How are the nights? Are you able to rest well?”

The questions were unlike anything his men usually asked, and you couldn’t understand why such things would interest him. Still, you carefully hid your reaction behind another short answer.

“I have no complaints about that either,” you lied.

Denjiro shifted his weight from one geta to the other. He did not know how to proceed with the distance you insisted on keeping from him. Maybe he should simply bid you farewell and accept that what had passed between you was no more than a fleeting exchange? Something insignificant that you had surely already forgotten? Behind his lightened hair, his brow furrowed in disappointment. It would be better to abandon the ridiculous questions he had prepared and go straight to the point.

“Good…” he cleared his throat, “anything… worth noting that I should know of?” 

He struggled not to glance around for clues about whether you had already taken any clients. He had no right to know, nor should it concern him. So he forced himself to hold your gaze with his sharp, lined eyes, and waited. Years in the streets extorting criminals had made him exceptionally skilled at reading people, but with you it proved difficult. He had only your eyes to decipher, and the mistress had trained you well, for your beautiful gaze remained unreadable as you finally shook your head.

“Very well,” he nodded, pursing his painted lips into a smile, and failing. “On my side, I remain alert for any word from your father. I have persuaded Orochi and his men to consider him dead, and I’ve stirred up a few districts to divert their attention…”

You saw him clutch his own hands, as though unsure where to place them. The tendons in his neck were tight, throat bobbing as he gave you a detailed report of his actions. A tenderness you had tried to forget made you realize that beneath all that nervousness was a desperate attempt to do things right. The resentment you had borne him now seemed shameful and absurd, soon replaced by genuine gratitude.

“…In the meantime, I have three lines of communication open for when your father is able to reach us. Naturally, it will come by sea, so I’ve stationed sentinels at every port, and two boats are kept ready in case you-” He stopped. You had stepped closer, fan held high and eyes gleaming from behind the frame of your lashes. From the upward curve of your cheeks… were you hiding a smile? He found himself blushing, stammering like a green boy before his first love. Perhaps that was what you both were. “Wh-where was I… ah, yes. In case you must evacuate swiftly.”

You raised your free hand and rested it for a moment on his arm, the brief contact immensely comforting, yet still insufficient for a man starving for your touch. 

“Thank you, Denjiro-dono. My family will never forget all that you are doing for us.”

His kabuki-shaped eyes held your gaze for a few seconds, full of hope and something more.

 “Anytime, my lady. Anything else I can do for you?”

I would offer you the moon and the stars, he thought bitterly.

"You're already doing more than enough. Thank you."

You bowed with all the grace of a flying crane and the samurai drank in the flowers as they swayed in your arranged hair. You were so beautiful it ached in his chest.

He nodded at you but didn’t leave, his narrow eyes studying yours for a moment, longing to find something beyond the fine lines of kohl that framed them. You looked gorgeous, wielding that fan with all the practiced grace of protocol, yet his visit could not end this way. He needed to see you. Needed to see, one last time, the lips he had kissed with such hunger nights before. So emboldened by your sweet words, he decided to do something strictly forbidden by the rules of propriety. He lowered his tall frame until he was almost at your height, and brushed the back of one finger against your elbow, bare where the sleeve of your kimono fell open.

Your eyes widened.

“I said, ” he whispered, and his finger glided up your forearm, caressing until it found the handle of the fan, “never hide from me.”

Then he drew it slowly downward.

On the other side, your teeth bit hard into a lower lip as red as a poppy in full bloom.

“My lady…” he breathed out.

A sudden want took hold of you, and the tips of your toes lifted you before you could think. Trembling hands cupped his face; bold arms wound around your waist. You both panted, breath meeting breath before your ravenous mouths found each other again. 

The last thing you remember was the two of you clawing at each other’s clothes, stumbling toward the futon as the world around you fell away.

_*_

That night became the first of many.

Denjiro came to you whenever his duties granted him a moment’s rest; two, three times a week, four when he could. Each time, you would ran to greet him, a smile on your painted lips as you peppered his cheeks and nose with sweet, welcoming kisses. He'd found your mouth, kissing you back as though he had been holding his breath the whole day long. You barely had time to reach the futon. With his head hidden beneath your skirts, he would made you sway against the wall and press his mouth on you, making your insides flutter until his name dissolved on your lips.

Afterwards, you would make love. Sometimes with the urgency of two who feared the dawn; sometimes with a slow tenderness. You could always tell what kind of day he’d had by the way his hands held you. Yet even on the darkest ones, he would whisper the sweetest words in your ear. My flower, he called you, and your heart fluttered.

Denjiro taught you all he knew. You explored together every art of intimacy, more than those drawings in your father’s forbidden library. You learned quickly, bold and eager to please, and he was delighted to see how willing you were to explore such things with him.

Sometimes the mistress would scold you. You shouldn’t let him mark your neck like that, she said. What if another client comes? But in truth, the woman was more than pleased with the sounds that came from your room whenever he visited. Having the Shogun’s dog besotted with one of her girls was a privilege not every house in the Pleasure District could boast of. Besides, she knew men well enough, and would not risk a jealous fit from the yakuza by handing his favorite to another. So she chose to keep you for him alone. In return, she secretly doubled your price. The Kusunoki doesn’t come cheap, she meant to say if the samurai ever noticed. And Denjiro did notice, but chose to look the other way.

But not everything between Denjiro and you was just carnal passion and desire. After lying together, bodies trembling and slick with sweat, he would often rest his head on your chest and tell you tales of his past; of the days when he had served as Oden’s vassal and his friends were still alive. You listened intendly, stroking the soft hair on his sideburns, asking about details that filled him with warm and pleasant memories. In turn, you spoke of your childhood, of the dusks spent in the garden with your mother, while he smiled and kissed your fingers one by one.

In the small hours of the night, when weariness at last claimed him, the samurai lived up to his nickname and would fall asleep in your arms. Your days were lighter, so you remained awake a while longer, taking quiet pleasure in the peace upon his fair face. At times, his breath grew uneven and his brow furrowed. Something about a boiling cauldron, he muttered. You would draw him close, singing softly into his ear until his body stilled once more.

One day, he told you what he did under the name of Ushimitsu Kozo. 

Distributing money among the poor seemed to you a noble task, and you offered to help him. Denjiro could not express enough how grateful he was. Serving as the Shogun’s dog, collecting dues in the streets, and tending to Hiyori and his other affairs already kept him busy enough. Moreover, knowing that you shared his sense of duty filled him with pride, and even greater admiration for you. 

In your room, the two of you hid a map marked with the different regions, and you took charge of keeping the accounts: who needed more, who less, and who had received what and how much.  It was a task you preferred to do alone, for the counting often turned difficult whenever he stole a kiss or two, and laughing, you’d have to start all over again.

Denjiro was no fool, he knew that all those nights in your arms would one day come to an end; sooner or later, your father would contact him as he had promised, and he would have no choice but to leave you in the arms of a man who could offer you what he could not.

At first, you asked him often for news; later, a little less. In his heart, he nurtured the hope that the day would take long to arrive.

At times, he felt guilty. When he looked at your body, bathed in the pale moonlight that shone over a universe that denied you as lovers, he wished that day would never arrive.

He could not blame himself. He had once thought he would never know happiness again; yet as he held you in his arms, lips worshipping your slender neck while you read aloud beautiful haikus for him, his chest felt full.

What was happiness, if not this?

_*_

Denjiro had called you my flower for an entire year. 

A year during which he kept his visits without fail, always arriving a few hours after the sun had vanished behind the palace, when prying eyes had long withdrawn and only red lanterns burned in the pleasure streets; until one week, without word or warning, he did not come.

At first, you paid it little mind. He must be busy, you told yourself, tracing alone yet another plan for the distribution of the coins the samurai had left you, but as the days passed and no word came, worry started to grow in your chest.

The game you played was dangerous. At any moment you could be discovered, and if the thread were pulled with enough cunning, so could your father. Had the two of you grown too bold in your meetings? You tried to push such thoughts from your mind, but it was no easy task when the mistress, seeing her business with the yakuza falter, questioned you at every turn. He is our best client, you should be more… compliant to him, she chastised you as she gazed with dismay into a bag of coins smaller than the one you kept hidden in your room.

His news came at last one day, though not as you would have thought. 

The knocks upon your door were different from Denjiro’s, yet you hurried to open it all the same. You found yourself face to face with a large man who introduced himself as one of Kyoshiro’s business men. He asked you to trust him, and without further explanation, handed you a folded note with a hand hard enough to throttle three men at once.

My beautiful flower, I am sorry I could not write sooner. Your father is here; please, gather your belongings at once (only what is necessary) and be ready. D.

The message was brief, yet the letters danced beneath your gaze. Perhaps it was your own hand that trembled. Your father was in Wano, finally, fulfilling as the loving father and honorable man he was, his promise to return for his only daughter and take her with him. You pressed a hand to your mouth in relief, while another seemed to close around your throat until you could feel your heartbeat drumming within. The note had been written in haste, surely with the utmost discretion, perhaps because someone dangerous was watching.

There was no time to lose. 

Your hands worked on instinct, gathering the few belongings you possessed, the ease with which you could tell what was needful from what was not bringing back the memory of that fatal night a year past. It did not take you long, and soon you were seated on a cushion, staring at your door as you reflected on your father.

You had missed him dearly, and not once had you felt resentment for being left behind, for you knew his choices were always wisely measured, and that all he had ever done was to ensure your safety. Besides, he had not truly left you alone, you thought, unable to keep at bay the bitterness that came with knowing that once that door opened, it would close another forever...

Denjiro did not take long to appear, bursting into the room without knocking, his cape muddied up to his calves.

“Denjiro-dono!” You were on your feet at the sight of him.

A scratch on his brow glistened red and fresh. You brought your hands up to touch it, eager to kiss him and demand what had happened. He caught them in his, with a smile that could not quite hide its bitterness, and brushed your fingers briefly with his lips before stepping aside to let you face the man behind him.

“Father!” You nearly leapt into his arms.

The man cupped your face, eyes shining with emotion, then set his hands upon your shoulders, looking you over as though to make certain you were truly there. At last, he offered that paternal smile your heart had not see in a year, and drew you close.

“My daughter, I am so happy to see you…”

As your father hugged you, he saw Denjiro cross the room in a few long strides and take your bag, adding to it a few things he deemed necessary, like a calligraphy set and fan. He noted how the samurai seemed to know the room by heart, and found it curious that he handled your belongings with such familiarity.

Then everything began to happen too quickly to take in.

Your father’s smile urging you forward. The voices of his men calling from outside and greeting you as you reached the stairs. One of them taking your bag, while the others surrounding you with their katanas drawn to form a living wall of protection. You looked around, searching for Denjiro, but the blue haired samurai was nowhere to be found.

“We need to go!” your father grasped your hand and pulled. “Denjiro has a ship ready for us!”

You had to leave at once; Orochi’s men could arrive at any moment, yet you could not understand why the yakuza himself was not among those escorting you.

“Denjiro?!” you called.

“He will stay,” your father said in haste. “He’s made sure our path is clear, and now he’ll cover our backs from here.”

The world vanished beneath your feet. You weren’t going to see him again; perhaps never in your life. You had to say goodbye… and kiss him one last time.

“Father! I-I…” you tried to slip your hand from his, lips trembling as you stammered. “Please, I need a moment!”

Your father looked at you from under a furrowed brow. He trusted you, and knew you to be sensible;, and in truth, he knew you well enough to imagine what was truly happening in your heart.

“Sir!” one of his men called, and he raised a hand, asking for patience as he met your eyes again.

“Don’t be long,” he released your hand.

Taking the steps three at a time, you threw the door open with such force you nearly stumbled inside. What you saw struck you still: Denjiro looked like a wounded man, fallen to his knees as you once had before him in that very room, head bowed and shoulders trembling. When he lifted his face, you saw the shine upon his cheeks, the blue of his eyes dimmed and wet beneath the heavy fall of his pompadour.

“My flower,” he breathed. “Please…”

The samurai felt a deep shame when you saw him that way, a fierce warrior laid low and undone, yet his legs had failed him the moment you stepped through the door. He should be proud. His task was done. He had kept you safe as he had sworn until your father came, and that was what mattered, not the feelings that had bloomed within him, taking root so deeply that to tear them out would be to tear out his own heart. He blamed his weakness as he watched you kneel before him. 

“You should go,” he rasped, barely able to meet your eyes. “Orochi has many men. I cannot hold them for long.”

You took his hands in yours and pressed them hard against your chest. “I will not leave you.”

As he lifted his sky colored eyes to yours, two heavy tears slipped down from your lashes.It made him ache with guilt. That year should never have happened, and yet he had taken more than he deserved; your kisses, your songs, your smile, even your body, all in exchange for the purest admiration a man could hold for a woman. 

“Yes, you will," his hands rose to cradle your face, "Your father can give you a life I never could. You deserve more than a prison, more than living under threat every day...”

You shook your head, "I can't".

He sighed your name, brushing the salt from your jaw as his lips bent into a smile too sad to be called one.

“Flowers need sunlight to live. You must flee this place…”

Your eyes closed beneath the burden of your sorrow, and Denjiro could endure every torment the gods chose to inflict upon him, but not your tears, never your pain; so he reached behind your neck, drawing you close against the breadth of his chest. 

“In another life, I’d have asked you to be my wife.” His lips pressed into your hair as they had a hundred times before; only now sad and without hope.

You pressed back to meet his gaze, spellbound by his confession and hungry to hear more. 

“Why another? Don’t you love me in this one?”

A soft blush colored his sculpted cheekbones before he released an unexpected, gentle laugh.

“That I don’t love you?” he cradled your hands in his, fighting the urge to hunt your lips down and damn the world for it. “My flower, my love, you are the blood that runs through my veins!”

Now it was you who laughed, eyes welled behind tears and hands clutching at his cloak to pull him in for a kiss.

“What is the meaning of this?” your father’s voice called from behind.

You both startled, breaking apart at once.

“S-sir…” Denjiro straightened and bowed his head, partly out of respect, partly to hide this shame. How long had he been standing there? And how much had he heard?

You took a step forward, breaking the heavy silence and trying to act as a bridge between the two men.

“Father,” you started. He did not soften his frown as his gaze shifted toward you. “Denjiro has been the kindest of men. He has not only seen to my needs from afar, but has also come to visit me all this while, caring for me, keeping me company, and making sure that-”

“Have you fallen in love with her?” Your father’s eyes turned on the samurai once more, cold like two blades of judgment.

Denjiro stammered. It was strange to see the shogun’s dog - the man who brawled through the streets of the capital, known by many as ruthless and proud - hesitate and falter in such a way. But the man before him had once been one of his late lord’s closest friends, and the  daimyo he had disrespected by defiling his daughter in such an unashamed way.

“I-I have, sir,” he finally said. Then, with the courage of a man about to lose the love of his life, and fully aware that he had never truly spoken these words with the clarity he so desperately wanted, he lifted his head though only toward you, fixing you with eyes as blue and endless as the sea. 

“I love her. More than anything in this world. I would give my life for her.”

Your father took a moment to study the sweetness with which you looked at the samurai, remembering that your mother had also looked at him that way, so many years ago. He sighed. Behind the stern, protective façade he was obliged to wear, he was immensely happy for the two of you - only saddened that your paths had crossed in the worst place, at the worst time. Hands clasped behind his back, and face impassive, he paced the room, resolved to help in his own way. 

“Where have these… visits taken place?” he inquired.

 “Here, my lord,” Denjiro hurried to reply, “within these walls. For her safety, she has not left the district.”

Your father’s gaze traveled from the samurai to the futon and back again. 

“Have you touched her?”

Denjiro’s face burned, all his composure needed to keep his eyes ahead. “I-I have, my lord…”

Your father had to swallow back a laugh. He remembered how cruelly your grandfather had once tormented him, and considered it fair to allow himself a small indulgence.

“Only once?”

Denjiro was mortified, more grateful than ever that the high collar of his cloak hid the crimson on his neck.

“Repeatedly, my lord…”

By instinct, your father's eyes flickered to your belly. You understood at once what he was seeking and discretely shook your head in a way only he could read; whether your eyes deceived you or not, you thought you saw a trace of disappointment cross his face. You seized the moment while you had his attention. 

“We wish to be wed, Father”

If he was impressed he did not show it. He hummed, still pacing the room as he pondered the matter; he could hardly imagine, nor wish for, a better son than Denjiro, and if he made you as happy as you seemed to be, then he would gladly welcome him into the family. But such matters could not be taken lightly.

“I will not beat about the bush,” he began, moving toward you and taking your hands solemnly in a gesture of blessing. “I suspected something of the sort might happen between you, and frankly, I am not opposed to it. But given your…” - he turned to Denjiro - “indiscretions... you must understand that a father such as I must assert his authority and deliver a certain punishment.”

“I understand, my lord.” Denjiro bowed his head, though he remained expectant.

“You will marry her,” your father decreed, and the samurai could scarcely believe his ears, “but only when Orochi is overthrown and Lord Momonosuke takes his rightful place as shogun.”

Denjiro lifted his head. “But, sir… if there is any chance of that happening… if the legends are true, and Lord Oden’s vassals do return- it would be within…”

“Five years, yes,” your father confirmed, and for the first time in the conversation he allowed himself a smile. “The people of Kibi have not forgotten their lord. I will have a fleet at your disposal when the time comes. Together we’ll crush those dogs once and for all and restore the peace this land deserves.” 

The samurai’s broad smile returned once more to his painted lips. 

“Tell me, Denjiro, will you fight for my daughter?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Then your father turned to you, his hands still warming yours, “and you, daughter? Are you willing to wait?” 

“Yes, Father! Of course!” You could barely contain your joy.

“It’s settled then,” he kissed your hands, pleased, then turned to Denjiro to draw him into a paternal embrace.

As the samurai returned the gesture, your father set a hand on his shoulder, and lowered his voice to a whisper so only he could hear:  “She deserves a daimyo, and nothing less. Bring me Orochi’s head, and I will grant you Kibi. Only when you are proclaimed its new daimyo may you take her as your wife.”

Denjiro met his gaze and nodded gravely. Your father smiled in return.

“I’ll leave you now, so you may say your goodbyes," he squeezed his shoulder once, "Take care, son.”

Your father had barely left the room when you threw yourself into your lover’s arms, hands finding the comfort of his waist as he covered your face in a wave of reverent kisses.

He could scarcely believe it. What had he done to deserve you?  His life had been nothing but one painful loss after another, and yet here you were, sighing in his embrace and returning his ministrations with the same fervor or more.

“Are you sure?” he asked, placing a few sweet kisses on your lips as he spoke. “Five years is a long time… you could find a man more worthy of you.”

“I would wait a lifetime if the reward were being with you.”

You offered him your mouth again, but Denjiro smiled instead, eyes filled with the purest love as he playfully brushed his nose against yours.

“I’ll miss you,” he nipped at your jaw, “I’ll miss you so much…” 

You shivered, and it was then when he chased your mouth again, unable to restrain his greed while he still had you there.

In the distance, the gong that warned the townsfolk tolled, followed by the cries of soldiers and the harsh clash of katanas. Orochi’s soldiers would be upon you soon. Time was running short.

“I should go,” you sighed against his lips.

He nodded, but didn’t release you. Five years suddenly felt too long to bear, and he hadn’t the guts to let you go. You tried to pry apart the fingers that clung so desperately to your clothes, failing against his insistence. Only when you pulled a small comb from your hair, tucking it inside the fold of his kimono did he relent.

After one last stolen kiss, and hands that lingered on your cheeks, Denjiro let you go, watching your form retreat from that room that had witnessed so much... and from him.

You made your way to the door, your heart in a fist. Your father had thrown a sliver of hope into your desperate situation, yet the most rational part of you insisted that the legend of Toki was... nothing more than that; a legend built to keep the flame alive for those who were still willing to fight. You really thought you would never see him again; the man to whom your heart belonged, the man who had given and taken so much from you, who had loved and protected you and made you feel the most precious of women, and whom, in that moment, you were leaving behind...

“A plum blossom,” he said behind you.

You turned, not fully understanding.

"What you wore in your hair the first time I saw you."

Tears filled your eyes, warm, yet not of sorrow. That blossom symbolized perseverance, resilience and hope. You said nothing, still unable to recall the moment he seemed to hold so dear. But in your heart, you promised yourself that when you returned to him, five years from now and sailing on one of your father’s ships, you would wear one for him.

“I love you,” you said, and Denjiro’s chest felt like a field in full bloom before you disappeared downstairs.

This time, his legs did not fail him. Your words had given him all the strength he needed - and more - to endure until the day he would have you again. And besides, he told himself, rolling his neck and thumbing his blade loose as he heard Orochi’s soldiers closing in, the future daimyo of Kibi had much work to do.

............................................

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