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The victory march rode through the thickly forested land, returning to their home after the wins of a battle with waving banners and reeking of blood. The Valley of the Owls was most known for its wondrous woods, twisting barks and entwined branches, full of watching eyes and whispered secrets. The lord of the land was most noticeable, riding first in the procession. His sword bore the highest honor of a luminous curved hilt, decorated with thin etchings of winged beasts, and the metal shone with both a milky brightness and lustrous sable. His was the finest of capes, his was the fiercest of smiles, and his satchel had been splashed with the deepest red.
The knotted roots and arching branches began to smooth and build, wood upon wood, into a tunneling gate. The familiar sights of a market, the coarse-threaded merchants, the wandering knights, the children, appeared before them. Through the cheers, the castle rose from the distance, a mortar shelter once housed by falcons, and won rightfully by the clan of owls, who were ruled by the blessed son. The lord turned his hand and basked at the wooing words, the applause, the cheers.
Yet ahead, the sage of the land stood by the gate. He had intelligent eyes and a sharp gaze, like the glint of a well-performed spell. In his arms, he held a child who was swaddled in fine blankets and still sleeping, despite the noise and clatter. The lord dismounted from his steed, hand steady on the horse’s neck even while he wandered closer to the sage.
“Akaashi,” the lord said. “You now have a child?”
The sage smiled. The raucous clattering of the procession slowed and quieted. The sage was well known for his magic, spell-casting from his books and sprouting fire and thunder from his hands. These hands steadied on the babe in his arms.
“No, my lord,” the sage said. “I have brought you a child.”
***
She was soft. Her downy hair was feather gray, her small fingers twitching weakly against the carefully woven fabric. She was a bundle of wiggling arms and legs, a keening wail always threatening on her lips.
“Good,” Bokuto said. “It is good that she is loud! She has learned well from her father.”
Akaashi was patient with the child in his arms, hands patting down her back soothingly, but he had already adopted a haggard and tired expression, face drawn even tighter at the words.
“Let us hope,” he said, “that she has not picked up any other of your bad traits.”
“Be careful with your treacherous tongue, Akaashi,” Bokuto said, finger whisking against his child’s soft cheek. She burbled happily at the touch, arms moving.
“Forgive me, lordling. What will the lord of the castle do to this murderous traitor?” Akaashi asked lightly. The light from the sallow window caught in his hair. In Bokuto’s private chambers, Akaashi sat at the chair of the empty desk. From where Bokuto sat, he could see the thicket of dark trees in the courtyard below. But he looked now at his love, the wandering mage who had caught his heart, and who now held his child in his arms. Bokuto rocked forward on his chair and caught Akaashi’s mouth hot against his own. He nipped sharply at Akaashi’s tongue and was rewarded with a quick inhale. He kissed him softer, and drifted his hand across to Akaashi’s strong shoulder.
“You have been punished,” Bokuto said grandly. “Now, we must celebrate our child’s arrival with a grand feast. She shall lack for nothing. The strongest of steeds with the finest mane, a tutor for her sword, a legion dedicated to her name. She shall have your learning and my sharp wits.”
“Is that what the lordling considers his best trait?” Akaashi passed the quiet bundle to Bokuto, already practiced in the arts of lightly pressing the child’s arms and legs to best accommodate the cradling. “I have already prepared her accommodations, but I will ask the servants to prepare the feast.”
“Akaashi,” Bokuto said, mesmerized by the face of his cheerful child. “Just as she will lack for nothing, you must be rewarded. Anything you wish, I shall grant, in thanks for the blessings of our child.”
“All I wish,” Akaashi said, “is for your love.” He gazed outside the window distantly. A wind whispered through the grove.
“Then it is granted. My love for you is unshaken and undying,” Bokuto said immediately, though he knew his mage was playing nothing but a game.
When Akaashi was a mere mage who arrived at the castle, he was mangy and dangerous, clutching to his spell book and offering his services with a well-practiced speech, delivered at many castles. In a land where honor was best shown by a warrior’s weapon, the people sneered at weaponless mages. Even clerics could wield an axe and a thief could show his battered dagger. Yet even distrusted mages, like all wandering warriors, were paid only by lending their skills to protect a lord’s land. They hoped one day earning the lord’s favor and a place at the castle table. Despite his adviser’s hurried whispers, Bokuto had decided to give him that chance.
Bokuto was no fool, or at least not a complete fool. Though he had grown to love Akaashi, sharing his tent and his bed and his tithes, he knew mages would do far more than simply lie about their love in order to secure a place of honor. Even merchants who had previously spit upon mages now bowed their heads when Akaashi strode into the room. And perhaps a part of Bokuto did sincerely believe in Akaashi’s sweet words, supple and luxurious like a cascading waterfall to his cracked lips. Bokuto had built a room for storing Akaashi’s spell books and brought him cloaks woven with protection spells and charms blessed by their cleric and glistening fruit dripping in sugar and a prestigious seat at his left arm. In return, at night, Akaashi would share his bed and sometimes kiss him, fingers tracing over Bokuto’s back.
“I will commence with the preparations,” Akaashi said. He cast another lingering glance at the courtyard, and then walked quietly from the room.
***
There were the sounds of the forest and the silence of the forest. While the cries of his child were celebrated for her health, this was often celebrated in Akaashi’s arms while Bokuto darted around like a worried bee. “Is she hungry,” he would ask. “Does she need a rest? Do you feel a fever? Is she cold?” And Akaashi would gently rock the child and answer, “She simply overtires herself—like her father,” to Bokuto’s indignation. But he would be soothed as well by the gentle lull of Akaashi’s voice. Akaashi would plant his feet on the cobbled floor and cast useless spells for the child’s entertainment, a whisk of jubilant wind or a jag of lightning from his raised finger. His scepter would rest beside him, the ocean blue of his gemstone embedded in the ash wood. It shimmered in the daylight.
Bokuto rarely stayed in his castle for more than a full moon’s rising, but he felt no yearning to leave his child. To protect his land from bandits, he asked his strongest and most trusted warriors, accompanied by the less trustworthy mercenaries, to guard the borders. Akaashi, with his sharp tongue, was always gifted at dividing up the steel and bronze weaponry, advising their routes through treacherous mountains and winding paths of the forest. Bokuto stayed close to his child, watching her movements with something akin to a feverish need.
They sat in the courtyard. Akaashi rubbed a soft oiling cloth over the gem of his scepter and Bokuto cradled their child in his arms. The crooked branches of the trees wove together to provide a gentle shelter. The shadow of the trees descended like a soothing curtain over them.
“She’s perfect,” Bokuto whispered. The day had warmed enough to peel off the top layer of swaddling blankets, and she breathed lightly in her soft ivory and coal clothing. A furl of citrine decorated around the center, a sunshine yellow that matched her eyes. He loved her—fearfully, for himself, because he loved her with all that he knew. When he held her in his arms, he would fight the world to keep her safe and placate her whims. Akaashi appeared to feel the same, always keeping a watchful eye upon her. But Bokuto was already changing, keeping further away from his beloved battlefield and more cautious for assassins. She had a weight to her, a heaviness in his lap, that pulled him towards her. She was connected to him. He knew this.
“She is far more perfect than you, lordling,” Akaashi said. “You could learn from her peaceful ways.” His hand moved methodically over his precious scepter, and Bokuto could only snort sadly in response to this barren truth.
The grove of their courtyard was especially prosperous. The kingdom was renowned for their lumber, sturdy in the way the wood of other kingdoms’ would creak and splinter. Bokuto gazed now at the small grove that had been left as his inheritance. His child would one day laugh jubilantly in these woods, perhaps adopting more of his wayward spirit than her other father’s studiousness. He spotted, however, a sapling of dull green colors.
“Have we planted a cypress?” he whispered. The soft soil yielded to the small roots of the growing cypress sapling. Akaashi stopped from his polishing. He gazed at the growing tree with a hard look in his eyes.
“No, my lord,” Akaashi said. “If it displeases you, we shall uproot it immediately.”
“No, not displeasing. Something else.” Something that worried him. He clutched onto his daughter closer, but she did not stir. Rarely did Bokuto truly understand what Akaashi felt, but he suspected Akaashi’s wayward gaze to their child was the same worry.
“I want a tome,” Akaashi said suddenly, breaking the terse tension. “If you are sending a royal merchant to trade with Nekoma for their fishing goods, then send additional lumber to trade for a spelling tome about banishments.”
“If you wish,” Bokuto said mildly. “Was the last exchange not useful enough for you? Were you not interested in seeing into the future?”
“Upon further reading, it appears no such ability exists in our world. In the end, it was but a passing fancy, lordling. As someone like the honorable you is quickly interested in passing fancies, I can be assured your most revered lordling will understand,” Akaashi said, and while Bokuto suspected his tongue was dancing in sarcastic wit, he could not quite pin down the inaccuracy of the statement. It mattered not to him how much lumber needed to be exchanged for Akaashi’s pleasure.
“Very well,” Bokuto said. “Will you be teaching spells to our daughter?”
“I would never infect our daughter with the ideas of mages,” Akaashi said, but Bokuto frowned.
“If it is better for her, then she should learn. She is not limited to the sword, though she shall surely be crafted a magnificent and powerful sword,” Bokuto said. He rarely saw Akaashi surprised. Even when he first lead the way through the hallowed halls to show Akaashi the castle, back when Akaashi wrapped his fingers around the worn pages of his tome and crossed his eyebrows in a perpetual threat, Bokuto never suspected the wealth of the beds and shine of the armory could impress him. Yet Akaashi’s eyes widened now, though he resumed his bored expression before long.
“There is no use for magic,” Akaashi said indifferently.
“How can you say such lies? Surely you must know the value of your own magic. The most important property,” Bokuto added, “is that it protects me. So it must be valuable.”
“The lordling is as thoughtful as he is selfless,” Akaashi said. But good humor shone from his eyes, a blush of healthy red returning to his cheeks. He cast another affectionate look upon their daughter, and Bokuto was reminded of their courtship ceremony, when Akaashi had worn his cloak low on his head, but his eyes glinted with such fierce light.
***
Their daughter was to be blessed by the clerics of the forest god. Bokuto had not been surprised that, when the word spread, the gifts began to arrive in their owlery. The farmers under their protection provided more food, scrolls promising faithfulness to their allegiance arrived in curling scrolls, and gold crowns embedded with twinkling beryl and tourmaline were enclosed in soft boxes. Yarrow flowers decorated the stands in the castle halls. The fine linen arrived as well, dedicated to the service of the first child, but Bokuto wished her blessing clothes to be needled from the old king’s cloth. While she was carefully dressed in the soft cloth, Bokuto found himself in a perilous situation.
“Will you not at least chain the latch of your cloak for our daughter’s ceremony?” Akaashi asked, nimble fingers quick over the metal chain of Bokuto’s sable cloak.
“It is too much of a constraint,” Bokuto said, unable to swat away the threaded chain. He scowled in frustration.
“It is ceremony,” Akaashi said.
“It is nonsense!”
“I am glad,” Akaashi said, bending to fit the black boots over Bokuto’s feet, “that I am capable enough to be entrusted with the whims of two children.”
They passed the growing cypress in the courtyard to reach the temple, a majestic structure said to have been built in the old days, before the sun and stars. Cedar trees provided the majority of protection, the banners of white, gold, and black draped upon the branches. Their house shield, an owl, was boldly painted across the temple gates. The house motto had also been painstakingly painted, but most knew the house by a different name—the strongest from the east.
“All hail the lord,” the cleric said, bowing her head and extending her empty hands. The bone white of her cloak stood out starkly against the gentle stone behind her. Her heavy battle axe had been strapped to her back.
“All hail.” Bokuto’s knightly escorts responded in kind, bowing and showing their hands. Washio, whose armor was always louder than himself. Konoha, who wielded as many skills and weaponry as he was able. Only Bokuto and Akaashi remained silent, as Akaashi held the child in his arms.
“Please, enter our sacred grounds,” the cleric said. “They await your arrival. Though, peace, milord. Will you not walk with me to the atrium? I wish to discuss my disciple’s decision with you while you have graced us with your presence.”
“If you wish, Shiorofuku,” Bokuto responded in kind. While Akaashi took the escorts into the temple, Bokuto hooked his hands behind his back and began to amble with his old friend. The nobles and the clerics were often educated together, and his companionship with Shirofuku had been no different. He remembered her more as the girl who had eaten his supper.
“For Suzumeda,” he said, once they had reached a pathway through the slender trees, “then she will be surely welcomed into my knights. I have seen her way with her sword. It is most honorable.”
“Milord, I have had a dream. I did not wish others to hear. And if you forget what I have said, then I will not repeat it.” Shirofuku lowered her hood, the braid of her hair falling along her shoulder. “In my dream, I saw twin birch trees. They grew naturally, but too close, and they grew entangled. While one decayed, its bark flayed and foliage drying, the other prospered. In my dream, I saw a blessed owl rest on the branches of the prosperous tree and release a most mournful sound.”
“I have had better dreams,” Bokuto said, scornful. “I enjoy the ones in which I take flight.”
“Milord,” she reproached. “I believe I dreamed about the sacred grove. Those trees were a sign.”
“A prophecy?”
“No. We do not prophesize. That is only reserved to our forest god, or have you forgotten our lessons already?” The severity of her face faded into a gentle humor. They approached a statue of the forest god, a bronze statue with the infamous branches in the god’s hair, feathered wings replaced for arms, feet as arched talons. They bowed accordingly to the visage, careful to avert their gaze to the surrounding forest.
“Then your dream only gazes into the past. The things that are already done are done, Shirofuku. They matter no longer.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “But visions from the sacred grove must be rightfully considered. Will you say otherwise, milord?”
“Peace, peace. I will consider it. I will not forget so quickly. Not again.” Bokuto strode through the fallen leaves with a graceless thoughtfulness. “Akaashi, in his research, has not discovered any methods to see into the future. Does this please you? That this great art of future-seeking has been reserved to our god?” Though he recollects the heaviness of the cloth-bound books more than its contents, he is faithful to the forest god of the land. The god was said to have performed many fearsome deeds, and a few old scrolls, written by older clergy, record the god’s uncanny ability to find prosperous lands that yielded the most growth for the farmers.
“I see nothing about Akaashi that would not please milord,” Shirofuku said. “And I see milord has ignored your knight’s pleas. I know none that did not first mistrust his wiles into your heart. But we all must breathe easier, seeing his strict influence on your capricious ways.”
“Do you dislike Akaashi, still?”
“I do not believe mages should be so denigrated from our clergy,” she said. “Mages are close to the five elements, and I have seen Akaashi’s abilities with wood magic. In this respect, I bear no grudge against him.” Though she spoke vaguely, Bokuto had heard enough of Akaashi’s dodging answers to understand her meaning. The clerics, like the wandering warriors, disliked the clerics. The warriors held the testaments of the forest god close to their hearts, seeking salvation to their souls in cleaning their honorable swords. But mages, with no form of weapon, were illusionary and untrustworthy.
“All should love Akaashi,” Bokuto said. In their wanderings, they had wound to the atrium, a spot of land where the branches twisted like throbbing veins above them. The scent of moss and wildflowers was steeped into the air.
“Milord,” she said, “would you be so trusting? I congratulate you heartily for your child, but perhaps your beloved has torn the child from the hands of the unwilling or the dead. Are you so enamored that you believe he would not strategize to secure your purse and your blessings?”
“Peace, Shirofuku,” he said. His sword felt heavy on his hip. The latch of his cloak bit coldly into his swallowing exposed throat.
***
The child slept in his chamber at night. Akaashi stood by the window, but Bokuto had already climbed into bed. He had spent the day with his feathered quill in hand, penning messages of gratitude, while his drowsing owl slumbered on his shoulder. Though the visit to the owlery had been pleasant, and many dispersed into the wind to deliver his messages, he still desired a restful sleep, dreams clear of curling letters.
“Come, Akaashi,” Bokuto said. “The child has settled into slumber. Sleep now.”
Akaashi quietly turned from the window, drawing his tunic up and above his head. The bedside candle, giving off a sweetened scent, flickered from the sudden gust. The laddered shadows of his ribs stood out all the more starkly, the lean muscles of his arms. He slipped under the blanket of the bed, twisting to pinch out the flames of the candle.
“I have missed this,” Bokuto said, curling a protective arm over Akaashi’s stomach. “I have missed you. I know you were not able to fight in the last skirmish, but you did not witness my valiant self in battle.”
“My apologies, lordling,” Akaashi said. “I attended to some urgent matters, but I am certain you were valiant in battle. A dashing figure. A reckoned force.”
“Yes,” Bokuto said, emboldened despite Akaashi’s dry tone, “I was all of that and more! I slew fifty men with my sword, and my blade spoke the farewell to the leader of the bandits. Oh, he was fierce, Akaashi, but he could not be as strong as me.”
“It is as my lordling says,” Akaashi said. “Such strength, strong enough to throw off the shackles of common sense and speak loudly of his virtues in the time of sleep.”
“Do you desire punishment for your mocking tongue?” Bokuto kissed Akaashi’s cheek. The royal chambers, at night, cast strange shadows along the wall.
“Such harsh punishments,” Akaashi murmured. “Have the arrangements been prepared for Suzumeda?”
“Yes,” Bokuto said slowly, words rolling long enough for Akaashi to twist towards him.
"You hesitate, though you spoke at length with Shirofuku about her,” Akaashi said, studying him. “Was the talk merely to discuss your mutual youthful indiscretions?”
“The indiscretions were all hers,” Bokuto said, without any reprieve for his childhood friend, “but—no, we were discussing far more. A little of you, perhaps. Do you feel mistrusted, Akaashi? Have others been unkind to you, the one who is a father of our child?”
“You worry about this now?” Akaashi’s mouth twitched into a wry smile before it smoothed into an indifferent line. “Peace, lordling. I would think less of your loyal retainers if they treated me with blessings. They must be wary of outsiders, especially those so close to your heart.”
“They should be kinder,” Bokuto said, rising to his elbow.
“To what end? I need not their kindness, but their loyalty to you. I have visited many kingdoms to offer my skills. Assassinations are not so uncommon, but you have never seen hide or hair of such an attempt. Because your knights are loyal. Because you are protected. Because you are beloved,” Akaashi said. He spoke with a sense of pride, a tone usually absent when he reflected on his past. On the rare occasion when he spoke about his wandering days, he would drink heavily from his goblet and gaze into the hallowed halls of statues.
“Beloved most of all by you,” Bokuto said. Perhaps he wanted to hear assurances from Akaashi, but Akaashi only hummed distantly.
“Magnitude is not the only measure of love,” Akaashi said. “Measuring it would be worthless. You only need to know you have a most beloved daughter.”
“Of course I love her,” Bokuto said. Then, hesitantly: “Is—Will there be others searching for her? I love her, Akaashi, but if she is stolen—”
“She has no one else in this world,” Akaashi said, “except for us.”
“Good,” Bokuto said. “That is good.” But his unsuitable suspicion lingered between them. He touched Akaashi’s shoulder in apology, hand covering a long, engraved scar. Bokuto bore his own scars, long slashes and deep points, skin knitted together to recover from the strong blades and true arrows that had struck him. In the few times Akaashi spoke about his past, he would rub his hand along a scar, a physical memory of his time protecting other lands.
“It is only right that you should ask,” Akaashi said.
“No. No, I should trust you. You are my love, and I have not proven this to you enough.” Bokuto kissed the hard scar of his shoulder. “Come, ask me for anything.”
“You have already agreed to trade with Nekoma on my behalf,” Akaashi said, though Bokuto thought it was nothing he would not have normally done for Akaashi. Nekoma had always been in friendly relations with their kingdom.
“Is Nekoma particularly strong with magic?” Bokuto asked. When he visited their lands, he had noticed no particular sign of enchantment.
“They are simply—interesting. It is said their royalty possess nine lives, though that is not quite true. They simply possess a gem that allows them to peer into other lands, other dangers.”
“Is future-seeking not reserved for the forest god?”
“It is not future-seeking. Not quite. But worry not about the sanctity of your god, lordling. I desire to hear more of your legendary prowess on the battlefield. A tale, perhaps. Or a song.”
“I have been composing a song,” Bokuto said, baring his teeth. “A lullaby for our daughter. It is about my unshaken and undying love for you. It has not been fully composed—the rhymes lack, the rhythm falters—but I will regale you all the same.”
“It is my blessing to hear my lord’s beautiful voice,” Akaashi said, mouth twitching and eyes narrowing.
Bokuto must have sung only himself to sleep because he awoke in the dark room, warmth still seeped into the side of his bed. He had been woken by the beginning cry of his child, a wail that had begun to build. But Akaashi was already holding her, walking in quiet steps around the room. The scars of his back still appeared by the moonlight, as did his calm expression, and the child’s arm harmlessly close to his old wounds.
***
In the autumn, the yellow leaves blanketed the royal courtyard. Wetness still clung to the leaves, lacking their latent crunch beneath his boots. In the heather of the sunset, Bokuto strode around his land. The child slept in his arms, though he held his breath whenever she stirred. Unlike Akaashi, who cradled her with expertise, Bokuto was far more nervous. His knights were no help—Komi, who had formerly been a thief, had nicked a gray owl doll to give as a present, but had taken to calling the doll as ‘my lord,’ causing confusion and enough upset to usually stir her awake.
Though nothing of odds had occurred during the day, no wars waged or battles fought, Bokuto still felt restless. A tired restless, certainly, especially from tending to his daughter. But he wandered through the courtyard, as if searching for the sacred grove where the forest god resided. Instead, his feet took him down the familiar path to the whittling bench, close to the cypress. He halted in his steps when he drew closer to the tree, and huddled his child closer to his chest.
The cypress had been a murky, ugly green, but now it sprouted flowers from the tips of the hard needles. It was a spread of white, painting the tree into a chalky feather that stuck starkly from the ground. In the center, a cluster of red flowers had sprouted. In straight lines, the red flowers had grown into long lines from the center, like they were dripping down from the tree. Bokuto thought he did not want his daughter to see this revolted sight, or even breathe the same air around the cypress.
“Akaashi,” he said, mostly to himself. Still, he was surprised when Akaashi emerged from the grove. The knees of his trousers were coated in dirt. He had a smooth face, unsurprised by either Bokuto or the revolting tree before them.
“My lord,” Akaashi said. “This is not a safe place for the child. We should return to the castle.”
“It does not feel unsafe. Merely—“ Bokuto hesitated. Akaashi’s face was drawn and unhappy. He had a deeply settled frown on his face. The flowers of the cypress stood out strongly amongst the other trees.
“Peace, my lord,” Akaashi said softly. “Will you not leave this place and return to your safe quarters? We will prepare the warmest soup, full of meat.”
“Has it not been unusual to you, Akaashi? That this child—this child is mine?” Bokuto cradled her head, staring at the mesmerizing tree. “It troubles me, Akaashi. I would love her if she shared no blood or bone, but I see myself in her eyes and I do not understand. I cannot understand.”
Akaashi scowled, almost suspiciously, but he held himself with great dignity. After a moment’s recollection, he gathered himself up again.
“It was wrong of me to hide this from you,” Akaashi said smoothly. “There was a woman who had spent the night in your chambers. She has perished from the coughing sickness, and left behind a child. I spent many fortnights such as this to search for her and bring her to you.”
“But Akaashi, I have never loved another. It has only ever been you.”
The wind rustled the rattling dried leaves. A few tumbled towards the ground, some suspended perpendicular by a lazy gust. Akaashi slowly brought his hands together, bridging them in thought. He looked the same as if he was planning the tactics for a difficult battle.
“So it is your love for me,” Akaashi said softly, “that is to be my undoing. It is rightfully so.”
“Whatever you have done, it cannot be so unforgiveable.” Bokuto was eager to invite a smile back to Akaashi’s face, but Akaashi only looked to the cypress tree.
“Do these stories often begin with ‘once upon a time’? Once upon a time, I discovered magic. Once upon a time, I wandered the lands in search of a home. Once upon a time, I had a desire to grant you future sight. If your forest god could see into the future, would that not mean that it was possible? At some time, before our farmlands and castles? But in my studies, I saw only impossibilities. The very act of magic distorted the future. In our world, it was simply not possible.” The sunset stained Akaashi’s face.
“Then it is impossible,” Bokuto said, puzzled.
“In our world,” Akaashi repeated slowly. “Only in our world. Nekoma had devised a way with their gemstone to communicate with another world, one in which the future could be seen. Even stranger, the inhabitants were similar to ours.”
“Then—”
“Though it was not my intention, I drew out another me from another world. He carried the child in his arms, but he was wicked and evil, my lord. He would have deceived you with his lies. Perhaps he would have pretended to seek sanctuary here, though he had been ordered to kill you. And perhaps he would not be convinced by your kindness to protect you, to not be charmed by the way you kissed his scars and loved him. No, he was wicked, a shadow of myself. A truly despicable man who sought sanctuary. In this other world, you had been slain and now left behind a child, but how could you trust him? A man who would have let you die before he died himself?” Akaashi grimaced. “You would have been fooled by his ways, my lord. But he was wicked.”
“But is he here?” Bokuto ventured, holding the child close.
“Perhaps, despite all of that, I would have let him live. But when I told him that you were alive and that you were my lover, he had a most despicable gleam of his eyes. He would have killed me for your love, my lord. I merely struck first. I do not regret my action. In the night, I buried him in the courtyard, but he appears to have sprouted himself a tree.” Akaashi challenged the cypress with a sharp glare. “It was only right, my lord. I do not know a single world where I would not wish to earn your love.”
“Would you not have told me this if I had not asked?” Bokuto asked, voice venturing on a cry. His head now spun, soft and woolen from the bewitching truth. The dull red of the tree seemed to seep into the bleeding sky.
“But you are too soft-hearted on me, my lord. You would despair to hear that another me has been killed, though it is only right to execute him.” Akaashi smiled thinly. “He deserved nothing. Not your bed, not your chambers, not your love. But you would have granted him any gift.”
“He deserves a proper grave—”
“He deserves nothing.” Akaashi scowled. “I know, my lord, you are generous of heart. They will strum beautiful lullabies about your love for me. It is pure, and passionate, and good. But my love is not so kind. I would not think twice about striking through beating hearts, coating my hands in blood, to protect your love. That—is how I love you. Treacherous and low and greedy.”
“You have still done wrong, Akaashi. This man only sought sanctuary. His blood is on our hands.” The flowers before him bled, the needles weeping in agony.
“I understand,” Akaashi said softly. “Do you love me less for my crime?”
Bokuto loved songs and dances, the elaborate plays about his great deeds. He would sit at his table and feast upon his meal and enjoy the jangling bells. He felt the same flattery now, but not in the joyous light of the lanterns or the raucous drunken rabble of his kin. It was a slow flattery, a creeping assurance of Akaashi’s feelings, enough so he could ignore the weeping needles of the tree. Or not ignore—he would mourn, in the crepuscular moments, untouched yet by the scorn of the moon and the brunt of the sun—but he could only accept the impassive, impartial, indifferent mouth of the man he loved who did not love himself.
“My love for you is unshaken and undying,” he said. The child began to wake in his arms. Akaashi smiled.
Bokuto knew every square of his land, painstakingly inked onto smaller maps, where the coastline unfurled into the ocean and the feather marks could only represent where the groves of trees grew the thickest. He knew the scent of pine and the crushed dirt beneath his feet, the ferns sprouting from fallen logs, the rolling farmlands, and the quiet eyes of owls watching from above the stern branches. But what would it have been like to know a world beyond? A land where the copses grew thick and strong, the leaves were lined with the gold of the sun, the amber-touched peaks stretched into the yawning clouds, the peaceful glen alight with fire? Where the blades sliced through flesh and bone, where a child wailed amidst the flames, where someone once desperately wished for a better world? But he could only see the single cypress tree, and could only imagine a land where those who see into the future like it was the past, and still flew, soundless, into the unrelenting forest. He thought it must have once been a beautiful land—where their ancestors once took silent flight with their winged arms.