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There was still a bloody handprint on the back of Rui’s cloak dating from that night. Tenma had clung to him so tightly then — not even bleeding, unequivocal defeat had stopped him from crawling forward and trying to pull him back, even as Rui plunged his knife into royal guts.
It was only after the king’s last cry — that desperate, barely coherent “Tsuka—!” dissolving into a gargle as he choked on his blood — after his body had fallen back onto the throne and his crown clattered to the ground—
Only then did Rui feel Tenma slump against his leg with a devastated whimper.
Rui remembered looking down. He remembered shifting his weight to take on Tenma’s, and wide eyes staring up at him brilliant with unshed tears of rage.
Back then, Rui had met his gaze calmly, and the feeling was different from the deadly composure that’d allowed him to get the task done. It was easy, he knew, to meet Tenma’s rage when his shaking hand was gripping Rui’s cloak like it would never let go.
Now, with only the ghost-trail of blood on fabric, Rui was less moored.
It had to be done. Killing the king had been the only option to ensure the practice of magic would not be prohibited—not in Rui’s lifetime. He did not regret it. He sat in his home in silence and looked for it within, but he couldn’t find even the slightest twinge of guilt.
Rui was very, very aware of the silence though.
It took exactly eight days of sitting in it when he finally huffed and pulled out paper and ink.
Rui had been prepared, was the thing. He’d thought about it while he elaborated his plans. More than he cared to admit. More than what was wise. More than logistics, queries of murder methods and escape plans subordinate to questions on Tenma’s reactions. How swiftly would he draw his sword? What would he say? Would he panic? Would he hesitate?
Would he cry?
Rui had been resigned to it all. From the first moment the idea of regicide had crossed his mind, this wonderful thing he shared with the knight gained an execution date. It was not the first sacrifice he’d made on the altar of his ambitions. So be it.
So be it!
But then.
Then had come that furious whisper at Rui’s back, that “go,” that made him stumble over the doorway in surprise and—as inherently ill-advised as it was in relation to other people—look back in—
…Hope.
And now here Rui sat, a week and some later, uncertain where they stood and reluctant to check lest he didn’t find a pulse.
He did get a hold of this hope, eventually; did reign in it, temper it with logic. The king was Tenma’s reason for living, and while it felt good in the moment, that vicious stab of twisted pleasure welling in him as his own hands took away the only competition to Tenma’s attention, Rui did not enjoy the brittle fragility that settled next. He did not enjoy the thought of making Tenma cry.
He could not enjoy being alone again.
Eight days of silence, and he sat down to write a letter. Avoidance wasn’t in his habits. With open eyes, Rui always said, and he could just see Tenma’s grin even as he tutted his usual addendum, finger raised.
But in good faith!
He would not bother, Rui thought, if it was anyone other than Tenma Tsukasa.
.
.
Tenma,
Silence does not suit you. You held my gaze admirably that night, but have you turned away since? Are you looking away from me right now? I would like to explain myself, though I warn you that you may not like what follows. I always make concessions for you because I know what you are like, but I draw the line at having to lie.
I am not sorry. I killed your king because his plans would have made life very difficult for me. I really could not care less about anything else — not his character, nor the political uproar. The man became a hurdle to my ambitions and so I got rid of him. There is nothing more to it than that.
Will you write back, I wonder? Although in all of our past spars you have never begrudged me a victory, I understand your outrage at a defeat. But is your grief a performance?
I admit I do not understand. Can't you see you are mourning your chains? You never even liked him, or has his death made you forget your contempt for the way he treated those below him? Your distaste for that nickname he gave you? This is what you are mourning. He filled his role well enough but as an individual he was unimpressive and almost unforgivably bland.
And he gets to decide what I am or am not allowed to do? He gets to slander and take away what I live for? By divine right, I hear you say. But if the gods existed I would not leave my fate in their hands either, so why should I submit to their messenger?
I can see the appalled expression on your face as you read this. It makes me miss you. I know you are waiting for the next person to bend your knee to, because that is who you are. You like servitude. It fulfills you.
May I ask, then? If you must submit to another, let it be me. If you cannot think for yourself let me dictate your thoughts. Let me guide your hands. I promise you would be much happier. Who knows you better than I?
I hope this doesn't offend you, but while I covet your attention and I enjoy your company, I have always secretly thought your respect to be worthless. You give it so readily to just anyone, after all. You gave it to that man who could not even remember your name until I wrenched it out of his mouth myself.
So condemn me if you must. Think less of me. But do come by soon. I’ve prepared a draught for that wound I gave you.
Yours,
Rui
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Tsukasa had gone through all the first motions numb.
He’d stood to retrieve the knife from an unbreathing chest, had lifted the corpse from the throne to wrap in the burial shroud, and had left idle hands on the shoulders of anyone who choked at the sight. He barely remembered at all anything he might have said, lost in the ringing that’d filled his ears the moment a crown had clattered.
…No, that wasn’t quite right. He remembered a rasp ripping from the back of his throat.
“Go.”
(He wished he could say the face he had stared into was unrecognizable. But in the end it had just been Kamishiro, blood splattered over one cheek and yellow eyes as unrepentant as Tsukasa had always known them, which meant he couldn’t tell him anything else. Even dizzy with betrayal, he simply couldn’t tell him anything else.)
Much later, Tsukasa had found himself sitting cross-legged on the tiles of the washroom, his wet hair dripping down his bare neck.
He’d discarded his bloody clothes, dunked his head in the water, cleared his hands of what had seeped through his gloves. And then he reached forward for the medical kit he’d set out for himself and found he couldn’t quite lift his arm all the way there, slash of pain lighting from his collarbone to the meat of his shoulder.
The first pulse of frustration was startling in its force. The second was expected, and by the time it built to a thrum under his skin he’d already readied himself, and screamed into his hands.
It was so like Kamishiro, he thought, to invent the sort of emotions that simply did not dislodge.
It burned, still. Tsukasa couldn’t douse it. It kept his jaw clenched through the swipes of alcohol over the wound, kept his teeth dug into the loose end of the bandage a moment too long after he’d tied its knot, kept the heels of his palms pressed into his eyes for long after he could blame it on the sting.
It was so like Kamishiro. Tsukasa hadn’t thought he’d forgotten.
In his own words Kamishiro would emphasize again and again that there was no higher purpose than self-interest. Tsukasa could even imagine the allegory he’d choose to rebut him now, the rise of his eyebrow as he’d say, haven’t you heard of the scorpion and the frog?
Somewhere over the last year, he’d deluded himself. He'd chosen to believe the scorpion might respect him enough not to murder his sovereign, and he’d paid for it in failure.
He’d failed.
Failed!
Face it! He thought, still angrily swiping at his eyes even those days later. He'd been betrayed, and he'd failed. The sooner he could accept those two things, the sooner he could move forward. And if moving forward meant letting go of this connection he’d so cherished, then so be it. He'd trusted: he’d been wrong.
But the other truth crept up on him still, tripping him, slashing into his own comfort. Kamishiro was not a dumb animal ruled by a fantastical evil nature, and as much as Tsukasa tried he couldn't bring himself to only see his stinger. Not being able to blame himself in entirety made it all that much worse. It would have been so much easier to close the chapter as a lesson in self-improvement.
It just didn't let him, the postscript scrawling still. Where are you now? What do you think of me?
Why?
And then came the letter.
It yanked back the rage with a vengeance. Disdain dripped so honestly from Kamishiro’s writing that Tsukasa could barely read past it, and when he penned the first draft of his reply, it filled with how could you and do you honestly think and I can't believe—!
He discarded it midway through the third paragraph, tossing it into the fireplace for the flames to lick the words away.
Once again Tsukasa reread the spikes of Kamishiro's calligraphy. He ran his finger along the indents of ‘Are you looking away from me right now?’
‘It makes me miss you.’
'Come by soon.'
It was frustrating how thoroughly the frustration drained out of him. Just one final pulse of fury lighting his nerves before it disappeared for good.
You idiot, Tsukasa thought as he pressed pen to paper, but even he could hear his own longing echo. You idiot, idiot, idiot.
.
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Dear Kamishiro,
Are you well? Winter has not settled gently on the castle, and even with every care to shut the drafts the halls still fill with snow. I imagine you had better luck—in my experience, your own insulation is woven with such skill that your home may as well have been snipped away from the rest of the world.
Pleasantries aside—and I put them aside reluctantly, considering how much of them your own letter was missing!—I must ask. Are you serious?
You once told me your research was an endeavor in looking for what you want, then forcing your eyes to see it as it is. But for how forgiving you are of nature, I wonder if you don't live waiting for people to disappoint you. In people you look for the things you know you would despise and see them, as they are. Then you see them clearer. And then I don't know what you see next.
With open eyes, in such bad faith.
I will refrain from explaining the gods until we are once again face to face and I can ensure for myself that you are not rolling your eyes! But your disdain for them notwithstanding, I'm certain you know what they mean. Read at least this much in full: they are magic, they are fate, they are the sun. Knowing this, how could a people looking to the skies unite under anyone less than their conduit? How could one looking to serve the people not protect their guidepost? When you killed His Majesty, did you understand the weight of the throne he slumped onto? When you ask me to kneel, to take my hands, do you understand the depth of the role you beg of me?
I ask these questions and I can't find answers. If you do, how could you possibly misunderstand my outrage! And if you don't, how could you not?
…I am being unfair. For your faults you have been honest with me, and doubtless you offer yourself as simply as you do your draught. I have never required your understanding before, and the misconceptions you may have kept to accept me lie squarely on my own shoulders.
But I’ve just never figured out how to explain things to you—if I had, I wonder if you’d deride this devotion any less, or if you’d have spoken to me before cutting down a man who was, ultimately, not the target of it at all.
To put my answer clearly, Kamishiro: no. I was not a bodyguard to one man, now freed of his duties. I am as I am, and your posthumous aspersions cannot change the fact of my mourning. But I’m grateful for your letter still, as it returned to me what I believed I had lost.
And truly, I resent the thought that I would ever look away from you! You have, from the moment we met, made yourself impossible to ignore.
Regards, regardless of their worth to you,
Tsukasa
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“Why?” Tenma asked once.
Rui had just finished cackling his way through explaining the experiment he planned on conducting, which involved a medium-sized body of water and a lot of his own lightning.
He frowned—what sort of boring question was that? Tenma was usually a far better audience than this. “To think our knights would be such philistines,” Rui deplored, scandalized hand to his chest, “Why? Because I want to. Because I can. Can we not simply accept knowledge as its own end? Where is your curiosity, I ask you—!”
“Honestly,” Tenma exclaimed, voice shaking with laughter, “you are a scholar alright! A very dramatic one.” He looked back out at the dark waters of Rui’s new swamp, sword clunking as he put his hands on his hips, “Well… as long as you’re having fun, I suppose. Though I must insist you wait until I put up a sign to warn off any lost travelers and such.”
“I'm sure you mean trespassers.”
“I do not. This swamp is public property,” Tsukasa scanned the surroundings with a little frown, perplexed, “… I think. Has it always been here? I swear you drag me to the oddest corners sometimes.”
Rui raised his nose in the air haughtily. “Are you ready to admit that I know these woods better than you do?"
“I still very much object to that claim!”
Even through the bickering that followed, it stuck in the back of Rui’s mind — that word.
Scholar, he thought, and tasted its new flavor. He had never thought of himself as anything else than a sorcerer, yet the marker clicked easily in place, bolstering his pride.
Scholar! Rui felt it as a physical thing: his world expanded a little, through no action of his own.
It had been a surprising epiphany then and even now he still didn’t know what to make of it.
It was not inaccurate. Sorcerers showed appreciation for their craft but Rui loved it differently. He loved differently for certain, in a way scholar and its connotations of obsession and dedication just fit better.
As far as he could remember, Rui had been in love.
It was a love he could lose himself in safely: magic flowed in his veins, crackled under his fingertips, obeyed his every command. It posed stimulating challenges and performed marvels, huge and wondrous and explosive; it surprised and thrilled and scared him, made him laugh and yell.
Magic, in fact, had provided Rui with every emotion he ever felt.
(At least, until a specific healing spell he cast a year and a half ago on an amusing knight’s hand injury, at which point it had to share.)
Even tucked under his skin, it never felt like enough. He took all magic offered with the poor man’s hunger and with the rich man’s greed sought out every single thing it dared to keep to itself. Where the lay sorcerer specialized, Rui wanted everything, pursuing magical theory through whatever avenue piqued his fancy. He’d always had an affinity for lightning and fire, but it was never enough. There were rituals! Hermetic alchemy! Illusion charms! Curses, divination, enhancements, horomancy, elemental manipulation—
An interdisciplinary approach provided infinite possibilities, though admittedly it meant he often got scattered, and was prone to thousands of half-finished projects.
(Right now he was heavily invested in two specific fields, which he’d been researching for over a year now. It was the longest fixation he’s had. There was just always room for improvement in the arts of healing, always another idea for a new artifact to invent and gift.)
The thing was... for all Rui loved magic, it had never loved him back. How could it? It was art and art was always paradox: tameable and untouchable at once. The capacity to be controlled without losing its sacred quality, the tangibility of its results—magic was truly the perfect thing to love.
Because this was how Rui loved: attention unerring. Invention. A whirlwind of emotions between his ribs.
Addiction.
The thing was—
Rui didn’t feel himself sinking to the floor of his kitchen as he read Tenma’s letter, didn’t feel the press of stone on his knees, too enraptured in Tenma’s words.
He didn’t realize he’d been bracing until he relaxed. Didn’t realize the tension he’d been carrying until are you well? knocked it out of his jaw. There was relief and frustration, affection and offense—the sting of rejection lost in a deep, all-consuming fire.
Kneeling, Tenma’s regards parchment-firm in his hands, Rui recognized it. The love. The patterns of his love.
.
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Dear Tenma, who is as he is,
Is the cloak I gave you last year malfunctioning? Curious. It took me ages to find a way to weave the heating charms into the fabric only because they were to last forever. My magic is as much part of me as any other organ, and as such it is painstaking to sustain as a separate entity outside of myself when I am not there to constantly feed it. Think of it as if I carved my heart out and forced it to keep beating in open air. In fact it should be impossible, but I thought I'd solved this last year. It wore off, really?
If I make you a new cloak for this winter, would you take it? It would keep you warm until I figure out a more permanent technique. In the meantime, you are more than welcome to join me in enjoying my insulation. After all, it wouldn't be very patriotic of me to let one of our brave knights sleep cold. Don't you agree?
Incidentally, I've been meaning to speak to you about this exasperating habit of yours. You seriously have to start telling me if something I make fails. You did this last time with the night-light as well. There are few things I hate more than spellwork failing in front of you, but just because I get a bit annoyed does not mean you mustn’t tell me. How else am I to fix it?
I'm getting tired of debating the gods. I do know what they mean, but I also know exactly what I make of them. My answer remains unchanged, but know it is not for a lack of that good faith you taught me. I have read your letter and in full, more times than I care to admit. Yet even the most careful consideration of it has not led me to any new conclusions.
Tenma, you forget yourself as always, and I mean this in the truest sense of the expression. For someone with such exuberant confidence you elevate anything but your own self; it's as frustrating to see as ever. Everything you worship so dearly you can reach forward and take. You speak of it with such awe. Don't you want to touch it?
You could simply take the throne, you who understands its weight. One looking to serve the people as you say might as well do it properly and don the crown. You would certainly make a fine king. Has the thought occurred to you? Be honest—I won’t tell.
Perhaps this is one of those faults of mine you speak of, but everything I deem sacred I wish to make my own. Have you not seen me bend magic to my will? I've spilled blood for the right to make my own fate. And as for the sun…
The sun… you are absurd. What has the sun ever done for me that you haven't? What do I need the sun for, Tenma, when I can feel its burn reading your words?
You forget yourself. Have you even tended to your wound?
In the best of faiths,
Rui
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Tsukasa could not, by his own goal, be a selfish man.
“An escort?”
Tsukasa nodded as he put his hands on hips, ignoring the burning sensation slowly crawling up his forearm. “It’s dangerous in these parts of the woods! Especially recently. Forgive me, but I can’t in good conscience leave you to your own devices, Mister…?”
“Kamishiro Rui,” Kamishiro filled in, tilting his head at him with an assessing look. “And if I still have business here?”
“While I can’t recommend staying…” Tsukasa pursed his lips in dissatisfaction. “Neither can I interrupt you so rudely.”
The silver of Kamishiro’s eyepiece glinted as he gave a considering hum. “Can’t you, now.”
Tsukasa blinked, not fully understanding the response. Pushing past it, he asked, “were you foraging?”
“…In a manner of speaking.”
“Then I shall do my best to assist you, if only to get you back to safety faster.” Putting one hand on the hilt of his sword, he smiled brightly. “Rest assured knowing Sir Tenma Tsukasa will be watching your back!”
“Oh?” Kamishiro looked amused. “A royal knight, taking on the role of bodyguard for a lowly civilian such as myself?”
“There is no higher duty,” Tsukasa agreed.
There was a pause, Kamishiro’s brows furrowing a moment before smoothing out again. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again, one hand reaching for the pouch at his waist.
Tsukasa followed the motion, offering a dip of his head. “I assume you’d like to lead the way? You know better than I what it is you need.”
Kamishiro’s fingers briefly dug into leather, but then his mouth curved in a genial smile as his hand dropped again.
“…Of course. Follow me?”
They spent perhaps the better part of an hour walking, Tsukasa keeping careful watch on their surroundings. Kamishiro didn’t seem like much for idle conversation in the pursuit of his task, which he could respect, and thus kept the silence.
He really did seem well-versed in the woods—it felt like every other moment he’d nearly disappear, his figure swallowed by a brush or a peculiarly-placed shadow. Tsukasa couldn’t help but wonder what exactly it was Kamishiro was looking for, as he appeared to grow more tense every time he found him again.
“Was there a specific destination you had in mind, or—”
“You do realize that’s a temporary measure?”
Nonplussed, Tsukasa asked, “pardon?”
“Monkroot.” Kamishiro finally turned in full, smiling. “It treats the symptoms of infection, not the source.”
His gaze trailed meaningfully down to the wrap around Tsukasa’s right wrist.
“Oh—” Tsukasa chuckled uneasily. “I suppose it’s a rather distinctive smell, isn’t it?”
“The symptoms, not the source,” Kamishiro repeated. “Meaning the infection spreads still. In such a thin, bottleneck area, the speed at which the nerves are affected is considerably higher.”
Sobering, Tsukasa met his gaze. “I have hours yet.”
“And yet the risk exists. Tell me, sir knight, are you so confident in your ambidexterity? Why are you still here?”
Selflessness didn’t bother him—if it had, he would have chosen otherwise. But he’d chosen knighthood, so the one thing that was entirely his to covet was the duty itself, and the rest he gave away.
The answer was easy.
“Because you are.”
Kamishiro stared back at him for a long moment. Then, he held out a palm.
“Give me your hand.”
“Huh? As I said, there’s plenty of—”
With an impatient noise, Kamishiro strode decisively over and snatched up Tsukasa’s wrist, his other hand flicking open his pouch to grasp something within. And then, before Tsukasa could utter a word of protest, Kamishiro’s fingers lit bright, otherworldly gold, ripping the roots away and drawing the light across the wound.
Tsukasa’s skin crawled with a vicious urge to itch even as it knitted together right before his eyes, angry red and yellow soothing into the colors of a healthy scab.
When the light died down again, Kamishiro kept his wrist in his hold, thumb tracing the rough line. It was in this inspection that his face split into a smile—far too wide and impolite to be anything less than pure, uncomplicated satisfaction.
“…There,” he said, guiding Tsukasa’s hand back to the pommel of his sword. “I believe this proves I have no need of a guard, and there are no sacrifices here for you to make.”
Tsukasa stared, an odd squeeze in his chest as he tightened his grip around the hilt, painless.
Selflessness didn’t bother him. But…
“You’re amazing,” he breathed.
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Dear Kamishiro,
I will hope that your readiness to give implies the season has left you unbothered. I’ve heard tell of blockages on the roads leading outside of the city—have they affected you? It’s unfortunate, but with the state the castle is in right now, I haven’t been able to see for myself. Of course, you may just scoff at the idea that a paltry few feet of snow could ever be an obstacle to you! But if you find yourself obstructed from what you need, please let me know and I will find time.
Without fail, even at your most giving you start your letters with a redefinition of the word 'abrupt.' While I could pretend your questions serve as your courtesies, it would be willful ignorance, which I know you abhor. So instead, your words soften considerably when I picture you sulking as you write them, and that will have to be enough.
Please don’t take my amusement as a slight! It's just that our definitions of failure, like so many other things, appear to differ. It didn’t occur to me to consider that anything might have malfunctioned with the cloak you gifted me, and even now that you bring it up I still don’t believe that it has. It is of fine wool and does its work well. What's more, the dye practically shimmers under my thumbs, and from the way the fastening gleams I suspect it may be silver. Even in the lining, I found my own initials seared by the cut of the neck.
For something you bought and altered as just a vessel, was this all necessary? This cloak of yours has occupied my thoughts for longer than it probably should. I have no affinity for magic, but I hope you will accept my amateur assessment in regards to your beating heart—when it is draped over my shoulders, I feel it continue to beat, stronger than ever. It makes me reluctant to even scold your blasphemy.
All this to say I would protest very firmly at having it taken away! Forgive me, but I could not accept a replacement.
This talk of clothing reminds me—did you know, Kamishiro? In the year of the third Queen’s accession came heavy restrictions on what could and could not qualify as a royal garment. As a result all new additions to the wardrobe are thoroughly vetted, from the style down to the tailor’s family line. And even then additions happen very rarely—more often the new monarch inherits the garb of their predecessors, as if to abandon their own selves to become part of something timeless.
Oh, the scrunch of distaste that must be on your face—it's for the best that this repels you. I know your tendency to dig to the bone on every subject, and in the case of tradition I must concede that there’s no end. Despite the challenges you pose, your letters are welcome relief.
Really. I still can’t agree that I forget myself at all—but how could you not accuse me of it, when compared to how attentively you remember me? You say my words burn, but I wonder if you didn’t spell your own. I find it so difficult to let go of the pages.
Ah, honestly! For someone so uncaring of the regard of others, you really make yourself impossible to avoid forgiving.
With love,
Tsukasa
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Rui read, brushing idle fingertips over the words. When the sentences were finally branded into memory he paused on the last page, shutting his eyes with a deep breath.
Then, with aching care, he buried his nose in the paper and pressed a kiss to the signature.
With love,
It was not nearly enough.
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Dear knight,
While your confidence in my wellbeing flatters me so, it is with great shame that I inform you of its inaccuracy this time. Indeed I have found myself once again forcefully subordinated to nature and its stubborn whims.
You see, I am in urgent need of food. This poor sorcerer hasn't eaten even a grain in days. The snow, you understand… I fear I won't be long. Should you find it in your chivalrous heart to brave the elements and help your loving friend, I would be much in your debt.
And those are certainly pretty words, but I simply must insist you bring the cloak.
Yours,
Rui