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He was a prisoner, though not in the proverbial sense of black and white striped garb and steel bars. Perhaps this absurdity served as a milder form of retribution, a penance orchestrated by Nahida in order to atone for his actions— a punishment he reluctantly endured.
“You act as if going out and fraternizing with bumbling drunk idiots is a good way to pass the time. Why would I want to go?”
Nahida’s gaze locked onto the Wanderer as she considered his defiance, her pointer finger poking and prodding at her pudgy chin. “You’ve finished your first semester studying at the Akademiya exceptionally well, and your peers enjoy your company enough to invite you directly to the celebration. Perhaps you’ll enjoy it more than expected and forge deeper connections. You never know until you try,” the Archon insisted, dropping her arm to nudge him insistently. The Wanderer scoffed, turning away on his heel.
“Fine. But if I come back acting anything like those drunkards, please do me a favor and put me out of my misery. This isn’t for me, Buer.”
And just like that, he was sucked into another scheme he wanted absolutely nothing to do with.
As he came under the entryway to the bar, he caught sight of the crowd. A sweaty mass of voices which melded together into an endless string of laughter and chatter. It was clear he made it late to the party. They were drunk off their asses, stumbling around aimlessly, their speech patterns better matching chittering dusk birds than anything else. How annoying. Most were still in their Akademiya uniforms, and he imagined they made a beeline for the venue as soon as their afternoon classes ended to celebrate.
“Oh, look who it is! Hat Guy! I didn’t expect you to show.” Before he had a chance to adjust to the suffocating noise, one of his fellow classmates was sauntering up to him. He couldn’t recall her name. She was a petite woman with thick glasses and a mole under her right eye. While she was usually subdued and quiet, something which ultimately made him feel indifferent as opposed to irked by her presence in classes, now she shrieked in joy, two glasses of dark liquid sloshing around in her hands. “I just bought everyone a round! This one’s on me, Mr. Hat Guy. Time to party!” She shoved the glass into his hand, and before he could reject it, the woman flicked the brim of his hat and maundered off, completely lost to him.
With a sigh, he looked down at the cup. He was in wonder at how she had managed to keep it so full in her stupor.
He didn’t outwardly dislike alcohol. The taste was fine, and he liked the way it burned his throat. As he swirled the amber drink around, he took an experimental sip. It wasn’t sickeningly sweet, and it seemed to coat his entire mouth with a bitter aftertaste that lingered after swallowing.
The flavor resurfaced a memory of the Mikage Furnace. The sun was just touching down on the horizon, and Niwa had pulled everyone away early from their duties at the forge to reveal a surprise… a tall bottle of sake distributed from Inazuma City. At the time, he knew little of the potency of alcohol, nor the flavor. Everyone had gathered around in a small circle, cast in the campfire's amber hue, taking a swig and passing it. When it came his way, he had barely hesitated before attempting to down a ginormous gulp. The shocked expression of disgust on his face was enough to make everyone erupt in boisterous laughter. Niwa had leaned in and ruffled his hair, making some remark about that always happening the first time anyone tried alcohol.
Well, that was enough to ruin his night tenfold.
It didn’t take being the God of Wisdom to pick up on the fact that he was ditching the party early, and the Wanderer had no doubts that when he returned to the Sanctuary of Surasthana, he would never hear the end of it. So, for a short moment of reprieve, he set off further from the noise, walking aimlessly with his head directed up at the false sky, until he stumbled across a tree to sit under and decompress. It was a bit off the worn stone road, away from prying eyes, and blades of grass tickled his thighs as he slid down against the trunk. Releasing a pent-up sigh, he felt a mix of bittersweet emotions flood over him. He swirled the glass of alcohol one more time before tossing it carelessly onto the ground beside him, watching as the earth swallowed up the concoction greedily.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, pushing away thought after thought… they swirled within his mind, unwelcome guests refusing to depart. At times, their clamor rang louder than others, drowning out all else, but even in moments of respite, they lingered, a constant presence in the depths of his consciousness.
That was until he heard the stirring of underbrush. His head darted up, prepared to ward off any passerby with a signature dagger filled glare.
The moon draped a halo around the man, veiling his form in ethereal shadow, tracing the contours of his slender silhouette and the delicate edges of his haori with a pale glow. Each step he took was one with intention.
“Do you want something?” the Wanderer questioned imperiously.
“The wind whispered its secrets, guiding me to a kindred spirit. Could this oak tree find solace in the company of another, as I do now?”
The Wanderer’s mouth fell open to immediately deny the request, he didn’t want to be stuck sitting by a man who spoke in riddles. Yet, he hesitated. This was answer enough for the other, who let out a soft chuckle before settling beside him.
“I haven’t seen you at the Akademiya before,” the Wanderer offered up blandly, squinting his eyes to get a closer look. His face was both angular and soft, a strange combination that exuded an aura of demure elegance. A gentle, sloping nose, and eyes barely visible under long, sweeping lashes. Wisps of tousled white-blond caressed sharp, defined cheekbones, framing them like delicate strokes of a painter's brush, as he turned his head inquisitively to meet his gaze.
“I’m afraid I don’t find myself in Sumeru City for academics. I am a wandering samurai.” His hand drifted over the grass, caressing the blades with a bandaged palm. A small smile graced his features, fond. “The ship in which I sail docked for a few short days in Port Ormos. I found it befitting to seize the opportunity and explore to the fullest extent during my stay.”
After a beat of silence, he leaned closer, tilting his head. A streak of red hair fell across his eye. “What is your name?”
“I don’t have one.” The other responded tersely.
“You mean you’ve never been given one?”
“I’ve been given plenty. Fickle nicknames born from weakness, placeholders of grandeur and prestige I was never truly meant to fill. All never meant to stay long. All just a web of failures I’d rather not remember.”
He sat back, nodding his head as he turned his gaze to the night sky above. The stars reflected in his eyes, twinkling like distant flames dancing in the night, each gleam a universe born from the fires within. To avoid the pit welling up in his stomach, the Wanderer yanked his gaze away and nudged at the abandoned cup by his feet.
“Names are an extension of who we are. A mosaic of memories in others that define us in the most simple, yet profound ways. If none of the names you have been given suit who you are today, however, perhaps the choice to define yourself is a solution to your trouble. After all, a person as intriguing as yourself ought to be remembered.”
To that, the Wanderer didn’t know what to say.
Irminsul had erased him from that of the past, and in present, obscurity was the only true solution.
“What do you really want?” His question was supposed to come across demanding, impetuous, yet his voice softened, barely a whisper.
“Your company.” He responded simply. “I have always trusted where the wind leads me, and now is no different.”
“I think the wind is sabotaging you. If it had your best interest in mind, you’d be somewhere else.”
He smiled, amused. It was a mischievous, knowing smile. As if he had expected for the Wanderer to say something like that.
“Perhaps it is a bit beyond just the whispers of the wind. My heart stirs, a melancholy pull which I cannot understand. Familiarity, perhaps. Yet I have never seen your face.”
His jaw tightened at the admission. It was true, they had never met. It was impossible for the sole descendant of the Kaedehara Clan to recognize him, to recall a truth permanently erased from the world. To place a face to the puppet once called Kunikuzushi, the rogue who destroyed the Isshin arts, stained the Kaedehara name until it was diminished to nothing, would simply be impossible. Was recompense already underway? Surely that was what this was— fate had caught up to him, and now it was time to repent. Or maybe, Buer had finally tired of her prisoner, simply choosing to dispose of him in the most befitting way.
“You don’t know me… but I know you, Kaedehara.”
The other man looked surprised, fluttering his lashes as he pushed up to his knees, leaning in under the moonlight to study the puppet closely. They reminded him of the flurries of drifting snowflakes across open fire pits at outposts scattered across Scheznaya, a tempest amidst embers which refused to be snuffed out. Much like the flames, Kaedehara Kazuha’s carmine eyes were unrelenting as they searched his.
“You look… pained, my friend. Why?”
Mortals claim you see the most beautiful thing their brain can fathom flash before their eyes leading up to death. A flash of bright light, family or passed loved ones, gracing an audience with a God, passing above the clouds and ascending above even Celestia. All hogwash to comfort the dying mind of an inevitable demise. Yet, as the Wanderer gazed back at the man before him, he realized there may be some truth shrouded beneath the many lies of humans.
Would he thrust that blade sheathed at his side into the Wanderer’s empty chest and twist, pinning him to the tree at his back as a show of justice? He wondered if he would draw it out, keeping him just at the teetering edge, another unfair wager with one predetermined victor from the start. Death. He was ready to meet that fate, ready to vindicate the iniquity of his futile existence.
“You are a fool to call me a friend.” He managed to choke out. His vocal cords felt tight, as if his throat was closing in on itself.
“Am I?” He tilted his head.
“Clearly. You’re living in a life of delusion. If you knew the truth, you would not have given me even the chance to speak.”
“Your troubles are written clearly across your face. Whatever it is you’re convinced to have done against me, I implore you to reconcile with. I take it you do not seek forgiveness, rather, my wrath. Yet I am not a vengeful man. I came to terms with the past outside of my control long ago, if that is what you’re alluding to.” Kazuha’s expression was unreadable, a mix of sorrow, that same indifferent calm which never seemed to leave, and something else entirely.
“Let’s put the virtuous act to the side. There’s no need to beat around the bush. You don’t remember— you don’t know the truth.” The Wanderer spat, his voice laced with venom. He clenched his fists, nails digging into clammy palms.
“And I don’t wish to. What matters to me is the present. Each moment of peace is my purpose. You are not the man you may have once been. For what true evildoer would willingly raise voice on tragedies of the past, only to yield in repentance? Your guilt is misplaced. Knowing the truth would not change this fact, nor would striking you down change the past unknown to me.” Kazuha insisted, placing his palms firmly on the Wanderer’s slender shoulders.
“You choose to turn a blind eye, Kaedehara? You wildly misunderstand. Hah, please. Even if the foul stain which doomed the past never came to be, it would not change a thing, for your carelessness would doom the Isshin arts from the start. Pathetic for a man such as you to hold the title of the Kaedehara clan’s sole descendant.” The Wanderer jerked Kazuha’s hands away with a forceful motion.
It was the first time the Wanderer had seen anger flash across Kazuha’s face. Icy… no. His expression was flaming, as if the gentle embers which flitted across his irises were stoked, now burning so hot they blazed with an intensity that seared the air around him. The expression could be missed in a millisecond. It did not go unnoticed.
“You can end this all right here, Kaedehara. Hells, I’m practically begging for it, aren’t I? Won’t it be gratifying to know the stain on your legacy will be obsolete after this?”
Those cold eyes flashed down to the Vision affixed across his chest, before he finally responded. “So, it is a fight you long for? I do not wish to stoke conflict, even if you do yield a Vision.” Still, Kazuha’s hand fell to the hilt of his blade.
The Wanderer snickered, goading. “If you dare.”
The trembling of slender hands were quelled as the Wanderer summoned an upwards burst of wind from beneath him, muscles coiled tight. He sprung into the air, landing several feet away from the ronin before taking to the air again. His catalyst chimed behind him. Kazuha unsheathed his blade. The air crackled with energy, the atmosphere thick with anticipation. Kazuha’s grip tightened around his sword, his senses sharpening as he braced himself for the impending clash. With a swift motion, he raised his blade, meeting the Wanderer’s sharp gaze with steely determination.
Unsurprisingly, it was the Wanderer who struck first.
Blades of wind gust from his palm with every practiced movement, creating his disharmonious symphony as the conductor of death, and he tore through the air in a flash, aiming his attacks for any weak point he could surmise. Only, his attacks never landed. Limber, graceful twists of a body with admirable precision had Kazuha dodging every dagger shot in his direction. The Wanderer’s attacks came fast and furious, each strike a testament to his honed skill and sadistic hostility. But Kazuha was a formidable opponent, his movements fluid and unpredictable as he countered each blow with finesse.
The oak tree they sat under together reverberated dully as the ronin swiftly avoided an array of quick strikes, and in their wake a flurry of leaves fell from above, creating a shower of color. A large, open gash carved the tree in half, and it creaked before crashing violently. The ground under Kazuha’s feet shook.
“You can’t stay on the defense forever, Kaedehara. Fight me!” He taunted erratically. Kazuha did not respond, simply casting a dark gaze up at him.
The Wanderer growled, driving his fist in an alacritous arc. The wind followed. Soil upturned beneath Kazuha’s heel, creating a crater where he once stood.
Kazuha took to the air, a conjured current propelling him upwards, face to face with the Wanderer.
The Wanderer outstretched his arm to deflect Kazuha’s blade, a crazed grin creeping onto his face. Yes, come to me.
Instead, in the blink of an eye, Kazuha’s leg surged forward, striking his side with a forceful kick, the Wanderer’s body twisting and contorting in mid-air before crashing down into the unforgiving earth below.
He had no time to recover from the blunder as Kazuha descended, blade held high over his head, ready to strike.
The blade pierced the soil. A stray strand of the Wanderer’s cobalt hair was caught by the smite, detached and mangled beneath the marl.
With a flourish, Kazuha pinned the other man by his wrists, hovering over him with that same dark expression flashing in his eyes. His chest heaved, and his grip tightened. The Wanderer thrashed against his hands, snarls of frustration echoing through the air like a wounded animal.
“Clemency does not equate to weakness, nor does acceptance.” Hushed with urgency in his tone, Kazuha leveled himself to the other man, giving him no choice but to meet his gaze. “Just as pain does not define defeat, but rather fortifies the resolve to overcome it. I will not fight a man with a death wish.”
The Wanderer’s face contorted into a grimace, balking crudely. “My, what a saint you are. Will you venerate me of my crimes? Banish the plague which consumes me wholly? It’s impossible. There is no changing what has been set in stone.”
Kazuha ignored the mocking tone, his lips upturning slightly. “The future, however, is uncertain. It is what we choose at this moment that alters that path. What you desire is entirely dependent on the actions you take, not what actions should have been taken.”
“Oh, please. When will you stop spouting this garbage?! Do you truly believe that?”
“I do.”
“So then, what is it that you truly desire, Kaedehara Kazuha? What grand path have you set yourself on?”
“I…” Kazuha’s hand reached out, brushing strands of hair from the other man’s face, brows furrowed with thought, “am not certain.” With a subtle shift, Kazuha’s gaze softened, but the intensity, thick in the air, cloying, remained. “But uncertainty does not diminish purpose,” he murmured, voice soft but resolute, “It only challenges us to find it amidst the chaos.”
“That’s a clever way of admitting you are a lost man.” The Wanderer quipped, a hint of resignation lacing his words.
“Perhaps,” Kazuha conceded, “and you are no different.”
The Wanderer’s lips twitched in acknowledgment. “A poetic sentiment, Kaedehara.” His tone softened, touched by a newfound sense of vulnerability.
“Indeed it is.”
With a barely perceptible nod, Kazuha leaned down, lips brushing against the other man’s in a gentle, tentative gesture. The moment was suspended in time, a fleeting embrace born of shared understanding and acknowledgment of their intertwined fates.
Kazuha sighed contentedly against his cool lips, and the Wanderer swallowed the noise greedily. With reservations gone, needy, assertive lips met lax and unhurried, melding together into a kiss which staved Kazuha of his breath further. He panted, then chuckled slightly, a soft and low resonating hum. Kazuha’s hand slipped away from the Wanderer’s wrist to tangle into raven black tresses.
The Wanderer took the opportunity, rolling Kazuha back into the grass, straddling his legs, tasting him with more fervor. The other man made a small noise of surprise, but did not object as the Wanderer began carelessly untying his haori. In fact, Kazuha welcomed the onslaught of sensations, his eyes half lidded as slender hands explored across sensitive skin with hunger that was wholly consuming. It was as if he was determined to explore every inch of bare skin across his chest, down to his stomach, curling around his waist. The Wanderer groaned, his grip tightening on the other’s hips as his tongue trailed down his neck. He tasted salty, like sweat and the ocean. The Wanderer breathed him in.
He exuded the essence of the outdoors. It was far from the distasteful muck and sour tang of rotten seaweed or fish, however. His aroma evoked memories of thick, humid air after a sultry, rain-soaked night— sweet grass mingled with the earthy scent of mud stirred by a downpour. His sweat mingled with the aroma to create pungent concoction that hung heavily in the air, suffusing the atmosphere with an alluring and intoxicating musk that enveloped the both of them, leaving the Wanderer unable to escape the overpowering presence of his untamed spirit.
The Wanderer’s trembling hands slipped beneath the cinch of Kazuha’s hakama, feeling the hot firm skin of his stomach. The other man’s head fell against the grass, and he watched through snowy lashes contentedly.
“You wish to sleep with me?” He inquired.
The Wanderer paused briefly, an assertive grin peeking through. “I wish to feel the pleasure of agony, and the pain of ecstasy.”
Kazuha chuckled, amused. “So you’re a masochist?”
“Maybe,” He responded simply, “I want you to destroy me.”
They wasted no time stripping one another bare, bodies tingling with base desire. Hands wandered, grabbed, and teased as the Wanderer found himself facing the false sky once again.
Kazuha placed open mouthed kisses down his chest, to his stomach, and along the ridge of his hip bone, tongue grazing the unmistakable puppet’s joint.
Kazuha did not comment on it, and the Wanderer shivered slightly at the sensation.
“I want to taste you.” Kazuha stated against his damp skin.
Hot breath fanned across the Wanderer’s core, and Kazuha nestled between plush thighs, admiring the sight of the other’s pooling desire.
“Hurry up,” the Wanderer grumbled. It did not seem to urge the ronin to go any faster.
After a painful beat of silence, save for uneven breathing and the shifting of the white-blond settling on his elbows in the grass, Kazuha finally made contact with the puffy skin at his quim.
The Wanderer reeled, digging his heels into the ground as his back arched into the wet tongue which languidly explored him fully.
“Fuck,” he cursed, lifting his head slightly to gaze down at the sight before him. Kazuha hummed, nipping slightly at the sensitive flesh before drawing his tongue up his sex. His lashes fluttered, before meeting the Wanderer’s gaze. With a groan, his hand slotted through Kazuha’s fluffy locks, pushing his inviting mouth closer. He ground his hips into the inviting heat insatiably.
“You taste wonderful.” Kazuha’s voice was muffled as he spoke, and he drew back slightly, licking at his lower lip. The Wanderer whinged at the loss, wriggling his hips. “So you desire more? Alright.” His voice drawled out as an open palm trailed across his pubic bone, across his thigh, and finally, right against his apex. The wet, slick sound of Kazuha’s slender fingers breaching his sex was profane. The Wanderer preened at the intrusion, unable to control the gasps which escaped him.
The fingers probed, curving around clenching sensitive ridges, a seemingly never-ending onslaught of mind numbing indulgence.
Kazuha’s teeth grazed lightly at the slope of the Wanderer’s chest, ghosting across his nipples. He drew him in closer, holding him tightly around his waist as his knuckles disappeared inside him. The Wanderer responded in the only way he could— with unwavering impatience.
“More,” he drawled, running his manicured nails across the backside of Kazuha’s neck. “Won’t you fuck me, Kaedehara? Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet?”
Kazuha was, in essence, a patient man. Willing to endure delayed gratification for the sake of upholding his mere principles alone. Now, however, it was seemingly a glaring contradiction to that calm temperament.
“I wish to take my time.” Still, Kazuha climbed over the Wanderer, his toned arms caging him, enshrouding him in an overwhelming aura. Nothing harbored the Wanderer’s mind. Nothing, except for the sensation of the other man’s lips on his, and the burning heat which prodded and slid teasingly against his entrance. “But I cannot deny you this.”
The burn which seared in his core spread to his limbs as Kazuha eased inside of him was addictive. “Yes,” the Wanderer hissed. He felt it, the intrusion of his cock spreading him, filling him, the fully encompassing sting breaking away to a pleasure so jarring his body jolted and trembled. Above him, Kazuha furrowed his brow, lips parted in concentration as he battled his base desires to thrust into the Wanderer with abandon.
“You’re so… You feel so good…” Kazuha murmured, his hold on the Wanderer’s waist tightening as he pulled him further down onto his cock. He began pivoting his hips against the other in shallow, quick movements. It did not last long, as the Wanderer wrapped his legs around Kazuha’s waist, —goading him, daring him, begging him— for more.
“You’re insatiable,” Kazuha admitted in puffed breath, a laugh getting caught by moans as he hastened his pace, wet slaps of skin against skin.
The Wanderer’s body seemed to pull him in deeper, and his nails trailed, creating puffy pink lines along Kazuha’s back as he reveled in the heat which threatened to swallow him whole. He paid no mind to the dirt and grass which tickled and stuck to his backside, nor the possible outcomes that would come once the dust settled. Those thoughts were drifting further and further away, and in their place, a pleasure, thick like honey and other sickeningly sweet things, threatening to drown him.
Did he even want to break away from the feelings which suffocated him?
He didn’t know how long they went at it like that, animalistic, rough, a push and pull until their bodies were completely spent, covered in fluids and damp with sweat. Kazuha laid next to him, gazing idly up at the stars as his hand languidly traced the contours of the Wanderer’s hip.
“Have you decided a name?” Kazuha inquired, voice hoarse, but gentle.
“A name?”
“For yourself.”
“Not yet… But I do have some ideas.”
Kazuha smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “That’s a wonderful start.”