Rekkonji's Silence

Sesshoumaru's usual petty abuses and gloating had become more infrequent, and while his manner of speech was still somewhat rude, his tone had grown smoother and more controlled. Perhaps he was refining himself in his own ways, Kuroihi thought. Only time would tell. To be honest, she found herself somewhat anxious when he left, whether it was with one or two of his attendants or not. His active presence gave more weight to her requests within the castle‐base, even if there was grumbling. In his absence, however, the servants challenged her more and sneered down at her, as though trying to force her back into an inferior station for the time being.

Every time he left, they tried.

Every time they tried, she side‐stepped.

She neither acknowledged nor dismissed their implied insults‐they were little things, really, just breaches of etiquette‐and it had done well for her thus far. She knew, though, that she was only avoiding the issue and not dealing with it; truth being, she wasn't sure how to. For now, she continued to maneuver around it all.

At the mid‐day meal after combat practice, she secured her place toward the head of the table near the Warmaster Rekkonji, much to the displeasure of the lesser fighter that had tried to take the spot for himself.

Rekkonji said nothing.

When the servants came around with damp cloths so they could clean their hands before eating, and the one offered her was frayed and off‐white, and she politely declined and waited for the next batch.

Rekkonji said nothing.

Later, as they prepared for their usual sparing rounds, she took the first choice of weapons directly after the older, higher-ranking fighters, much to the grumblings of their lessers.

Again, Rekkonji said nothing.

It was the same with Fuyutoka in the times she was forced to encounter or interact with the overseer, though the hawk let his expression sour when he thought she wasn't paying attention. but she was, and mentally she kept track of that and every time one of the servants he commanded chose to make things difficult for her. It was easy for them, for her schedule was predictable. Combat, sewing, freshen Lord Sesshoumaru's quarters, literacy practice, Go with Kazawa, Aoki, and Ide, archery, rest, and so on; and she rarely if ever was off‐schedule. In such a manner, the weeks passed.

It was again her day of combat practice.

Kuroihi was not the best fighter, but she won more than she lost, and did her best to keep her pride out of the matter. It would only lead her to be hasty and partial in her strikes and form, and that was how one ended up dead. Today was no different, and as she waited her turn, she studied the movements of the pair of veterans, giving quite the masterful display. She loosened her joints and coaxed her muscles into preparedness as the next pair took the field. She barely took notice of their fight. She was more concerned with focusing herself on the task at hand. The antics of the servants were starting to weigh on her, and she was letting it distract her.

It was the soft snickering behind her that brought her attention back to the present. She opened her eyes to find one of the fighters, now finished, offering her his bouken. That was well enough, save for the manner in which he was doing it, clasping it palm down in the center as one would offer it to an inferior. She knew this man had been here for only a few years, and while he was one of Rekkonji's rising favorites, he was far from a well‐practiced combatant of any real note. Kuroihi's inner demon, half though it was, snarled, and she snapped.

'Easy,' she warned herself.

She squared her shoulders, calmly looked from the weapon to the man's face, and blinked, giving him a chance to correct what she had decided was an error. This was clearly communicated in her manner of response. Instead, he raised his brows insistently, continuing to offer the practice sword in the same way.

She blinked again, then narrowed her eyes.

'No. Enough of this foolishness.'

Kuroihi no longer cared if, in doing so, she was committing her own breach of etiquette; she would take no more of this. Flicking her eyes to the weapon's keeper nearby, she nodded at the line of bouken within his reach, indicating she wanted one. The keeper, smirking with the rest, shrugged slightly but obliged, offering it to her in the appropriate way. She fixed her gaze squarely to that of her offending party, determined that there would be no misunderstanding here.

"You are challenged, sir," she said simply, loud enough that he who would have been her sparring partner could hear.

Observing the situation, the other fighter returned to his place of waiting as Kuroihi strode out onto the field. The offending man snickered, disbelieving, but as he glanced at the Warmaster for support and found none, he realized that this was indeed not a jest.

Crossing his arms to watch, Rekkonji said nothing.

Kuroihi watched as the offending man hesitated, searching for some excuse to not engage in what was still clearly a joke to him. Kuroihi's inner demon snarled again, burning through her veins, and for the first time, she found authority in her voice.

"Will you disgrace yourself by backing down already?"

It was all she needed to say. A lethal silence fell across the field. All eyes upon him, the man found he had no choice. He straightened his shoulders and took his spot across from Kuroihi.

The sight, sound, and scent of her prey filled her senses as they bowed and took a stance.

So focused, so incensed was she, fingers digging deep into the grain of her weapon, that she missed the smell of poison on the wind. Her eyes burned, and she forced herself to block everything else out. All her frustration, all her anger, every needle and jab and jest she'd suffered flowed through her like quicksilver, animating her body without much of her own conscious input. She heard him grunt in pain, felt the impact of their weapons, heard the soil give under their feet as they danced.

She would not submit, not even an inch. She could not afford to, and she knew it. This, here and now ‐his insult, her challenge‐ was a matter of pride, a matter of honor. She cared not how little it was, how petty or meager it seemed to those that surrounded her, restrained her; it was hers, and she would defend it.

She took her blows gracefully, using the position to gain the advantage.

She pushed him back, on the defensive now.

She could smell his effort, his surprise, a tinge of‐

'Fear. It fears me. Punish it. More! Make it scream!'

Kuroihi used the effort of disarming the fighter to simultaneously push the thing inside her back down…but her aim was all wrong as she did. She heard his bones crack, but did not pause until she had him on his back, weapon to his throat.

She forced herself to breathe.

"Do you yield?"

Her voice sounded foreign to her own ears.

The fighter sneered up at her, cradling its broken hand, but eventually submitted. Kuroihi watched as he gathered his weapon and exited the field, beginning to set the bones in his hand back in place to heal.

Confident her point had been made, Kuroihi turned to exit the field as well. She slowly began to relax, and she smelled it before she saw him, poison on the wind. She shifted her gaze to find him standing near Rekkonji, who seemed to have the slightest of smirks pulling at the corners of his mouth. He gave her an almost imperceptible nod but said nothing. As she handed her weapon off to the keeper, Sesshoumaru made his way toward the castle, and Kuroihi fell in line behind him.

She breathed deeply, calming herself. Lacquer, polish, silk, poison, blood, sweat, viscera; it had been quite the journey for Lord Sesshoumaru, it seemed. Her mind flitted back over her own quick tussle, remembering where she erred and where she had executed her strikes correctly. Most definitively, though, she recalled how it had begun.

Any of the other fighters could have stepped in and dismissed the whole thing, but they had not. Had this been a confrontation with one of the servants, she knew Fuyutoka would have been there in an instant to tell Kuroihi off, even if she had been in the right.

But Rekkonji… had said nothing; at any time. In the past four years that she had been

training with his fighters, every slight made toward her and every time she'd demanded the

respect due her, which had culminated in today's duel, Rekkonji the Warmaster, long‐time

advisor the Inu no Taishou, even as he had given her an approving nod, had said nothing at all.

There was no need to, and Kuroihi understood.