In the garden of the brothel house, the sakura trees were in full bloom. From the pleasant shade of her patio, Sumire gazed out. A soft smile graced her lips as she smoked from her slender little pipe. Watching the breeze ripple through the crenellations of pink and white petals, she felt the blossom of new beginnings quicken in her soul.

The promise of good tidings to come.

Something about the day had the stirrings of fortune. And so she wasn’t terribly surprised as the sun began to dip behind the high, steepled walls and a clamor from the reception hall drew her from her solace. The whores were in a tizzy as she entered, but the guards were wary. At a glance, Sumire could see why.

A regiment of soldiers was still filing in through the gates. By the crest they bore, Sumire saw that they must hail from afar, for this hollyhock sigil was unfamiliar to her. She had seen many coats of arms over the years. Her city was something of a waypoint for passing armies, for better or worse. The daimyo had always kept things civil, but he was an aging man. If Sumire’s harrowing experiences had taught her anything, it was that most men were more like prowling wolves than not: primed to lunge at the first scent of blood.

To her relief, these strange soldiers seemed quite well-behaved. Cheery and good-natured, they flirted with the girls, who were quick to ply them with drinks, sweets and other treats as they tittered and flirted back, leading them off into the gardens or to more cozy corners of the hall for now. For the men’s tame behavior, Sumire and her guards were grateful. At a nod from her, the wizened captain inclined his head in turn. His grip relaxed upon his sword hilt as he and his men withdrew to their normal stations.

If not too unruly, soldiers were good customers. Either fresh from battle or on the cusp of it, they tended to be generous with their gold, as only men who live under the specter of death could be. Many were unmarried young men with no reservations. Sumire could spot a few married ones who would soon forget theirs.

A little while after the common soldiers had taken up residence, the samurai appeared. Their katanas and pleated armor aside, Sumire would have recognized them for their bearing alone. Stoic and aloof, even those whom the girls led away retained their air of lofty nobility, of bushido detachment. But most raised a gauntleted hand in polite, yet firm, refusal. These were the married ones, whom, even with their wives and children removed over some great distance, would not dishonor them by lying with whores. Together they sat at the finest table, content simply to be served the best wine and fare Sumire’s cooks could muster up. These men she entertained herself, as madam of the house.

A few seasons shy of thirty, she was still youthful and lovely. Lovelier now, she thought, than she’d been even in the bloom of her youth. Lovelier now that she lived freely here, as did all of her girls. Though Sumire had not worked as a whore for some time now, she enjoyed playing hostess, conversing with her esteemed guests who had a mind for the pleasure of good conversation. Throwing in the occasional flirtatious remark never hurt, however. In this way, Sumire gained valuable information. Often she knew of skirmishes well in advance, and was able to protect her interests and others’. She had stakes in several businesses in the city. Other proprietors paid her well for keeping them apprised of the latest happenings. More than one supply train had been safely diverted by her knowledge, which would have otherwise surely been beset.

This small army, she learned, hailed from the east and had departed not long ago from Edo castle, under the banner of their liege, who led the Tokugawa clan. Theirs was only a fraction of a much larger force, encamped some half-day’s journey to the north. Tomorrow, they would rejoin the rest of the contingent and march together in battle with the armies of three other allied lords, including Sumire’s own daimyo.

Hearing of the east made her heart give a curious flutter. It was a fluttering that turned to dizzying lightness as the samurai about her stood to bow to their liege lord as he entered. From the foyer, the daimyo crossed with his retainers in tow. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, he strode forward with a hunter’s lithe, stealthy grace. The heavy armor he wore seemed not to weigh upon him at all. Though his sharp, handsome face had lost what little had remained of its boyish softness, Sumire knew him at once. As his dark eyes flashed to hers, she saw that he knew her as well.

“Madam,” the young lord greeted her, smoothly yet briskly, “it’s been some time. You’re even more beautiful now than you were before.”

Sumire’s cheeks heated like a silly young maid’s. “Your eyes deceive you, my lord.”

“Never,” Kohaku said, his gaze locked upon hers still.

Sumire glanced away, hiding her face behind her fan. At his approach, she was forced to raise her eyes to his again. As they met, he smiled.

“You look well, Sumire-san,” he said, lowering his voice though his subordinates had by now averted their gazes. “Truly.”

“And you, Kohaku-kun.” Her eyes skimmed over him. “You are a lord in truth now, I see. That is a story I should like to hear.”

Kohaku’s smile thinned. “It’s not altogether a pleasant one.”

Smiling softly back, she laid a hand to his arm. “The pleasant parts then,” she said.

As Kohaku nodded, she led him away, to a place where they could speak in private. If his men’s eyes followed them in furtive question, Kohaku seemed not to heed it. If her girls’ eyes did the same, nor did Sumire. Let others think what they wished. At this point in their lives, the two of them were beyond caring. Beyond reproach, for that matter.

Together they passed through the central courtyard, dark and heavy with the fragrance of iris and wisteria. When they arrived at the solar, his face betrayed no reaction, apart from a faint glimmer of recognition. Here, some five years past, she had instructed him in the art of love. He had been a boy of sixteen then; she, a young woman of twenty-four. It seemed to Sumire as though an eternity had passed since that night, and yet, somehow, no time at all. Stepping forward into the room, Kohaku skimmed his callused fingertips over the silk of the settee within.

“This place is exactly as I remember it,” he said, glancing back to her. “Nothing has changed.” His eyes fell to his gauntleted hand, which curled to a fist. “No,” he murmured darkly, as if to himself, “only I have changed.”

“We both have changed,” Sumire said, crossing over to where he stood. As Kohaku shook his head at this, she resisted the impulse to reach out and soothe her touch along the clenched, stubborn line of his jaw. Instead, she said to him gently, “There is tea here, Kohaku-kun. Let me pour you a cup.”

To this offer, he said nothing. Heavily, he sat down upon the settee. When she set the steaming cup beside him, he took it up and drank it down in one sullen, scorching gulp. Sumire frowned. Kohaku glared.

“I shouldn’t have come here,” he bit out, though she saw he made no move to correct his misstep. “It’s no good to dwell upon the past.”

“No,” Sumire said mildly, clasping her hands before her, “but still, I am glad that you came. It is good to see you alive and well. I have thought of you often over the years, and prayed for your health and good fortune.”

Kohaku’s mouth twisted. “Your prayers are wasted on me, Sumire-san. The gods turned their eyes from me long ago.”

“I do not believe it,” Sumire said firmly. “I cannot.”

He gave her a long look then, a piercing look. Sumire fought to remain still beneath it. After a while, he relented, and her tension eased.

“I am married now,” he said to her, with a cold and bitter smile, “to a priestess.”

“The one you loved?” she ventured, though she knew the answer even before he said it.

“No.”

He might have said more, but a sudden presence at the door arrested him. As his brow furrowed, Sumire turned. Gasping, she rushed over in a whisper of silk.

“Shurei!” she exclaimed in a hushed tone. “What are you doing out of bed?”

The little girl peered up at her from the threshold, her onyx eyes misted with sleep. Clasped in her tiny arms, a pure white kitten dangled purring.

“Mama,” Shurei mumbled, drawing the kitten closer as she peeked around, “who is that man?”

“An old friend,” Sumire answered, smoothing her daughter’s long, dark hair back from her face.

“Hello,” the little girl greeted shyly, lifting the kitten in her arms. “Yuki-chan says ‘hello’ too.”

“Hello,” Kohaku replied, one corner of his mouth twitching ruefully.

Sumire’s chest constricted at the sight. “You and Yuki-chan run along now,” she said quietly to her daughter. “Go back to sleep.”

“Yes, Mama,” the little girl said, her eyes straying to Kohaku once more as she turned. “Bye-bye, mister.”

Kohaku stared back, his expression chagrined. Sumire watched her daughter return to her own court across the yard. Sliding the outer door to the solar shut, she turned, to find Kohaku grimacing outright.

“That little girl,” he said stiffly, “is she…?”

“She is mine,” Sumire said, in a tone that brooked no further question.

Slowly, Kohaku nodded. At length, he said, “I have a daughter as well. She’ll soon be two years old.”

Sumire smiled softly at this. “Tell me more about her,” she urged. “Does she favor you?”

Kohaku laughed, brittle and short. “No, not at all. She takes after her mother, thank the gods.” Though Sumire wasn’t offended in the slightest, he looked abashed all the same. Hastily, he said, “Your daughter is lovely, like you.”

“Thank you,” Sumire said demurely, though it was plain to them both that Shurei favored her father more. “But here now,” she said with a playful little smile, hoping to set him more at ease, “won’t you take off your armor? It seems a great burden.”

“It is,” Kohaku replied, eyeing her even as he reached for the straps. “Yet it protects me as well.”

Sumire laughed. “You need fear no attacks from me, Kohaku-kun.”

“No?” he said, his dark eyes glinting back. “Then indeed I have nothing to fear.”

Sumire’s smile slipped, but only inwardly so. Harmless flirtation, that was all this was. It would go no further than that. She could read in it in his eyes. She had read it in his eyes from the moment they’d seized upon hers in the foyer.

Between she and Kohaku there existed an unspoken accord. She felt it even as she moved forward needlessly to help him with his armor. She felt it even after the plates were gone, and he was himself once more, in the flesh. Taller now, and more strongly built, but she recognized the lines of his body through the layers of fabric. She remembered the flow of his dark hair through her fingers, smooth as water. But she did not skim her fingers through it now. That would be crossing the line, which though invisible was yet somehow discernible to them both.

One night of shared passion. This was all that they had allowed themselves. In the years since, Sumire had contented herself with the memory. That fantastical evening from which her greatest and truest joy had been born. Why now, she wondered, did she feel this strange lack?

This ache in her heart mystified her, as she sat and talked with Kohaku long into the night. They spoke of their daughters, of their homes, of their labors. They spoke of all the pleasant parts of the past five years. Unspoken went the griefs, the disappointments, which for once in Sumire’s life had been few, yet for Kohaku, seemed so immense and terrible their shadow was ever upon him, inescapable.

It haunted Sumire as well. How could it not? Perhaps this ache in her heart was for him, she told herself, for his unspeakable suffering. As she began to drift off, she touched her hand to his and felt his strong fingers grip hers in turn.

Yet when she woke at first light he was gone. He and all his men. Wandering through the sprawl of the brothel house, she gazed about at the girls lying in their languorous, luxurious repose. Among other things, coin was spilled everywhere. Sumire had never seen such a scattering of wealth.

Checking in on her daughter, who was already awake and playing with her kitten, Sumire felt her eyes go wide. In the place she would have least expected to see it was a great heaping purse of gold, spilled over at the bedside. It was too much—there was no question in her mind this purse had been stolen, if not first by her daughter, then by one of the whores. Sumire’s face went white as she strode forward.

“…Mama?” Shurei said, frowning as she shrank from her mother’s rare display of anger. The white kitten slunk behind her.

“Shurei,” Sumire said sternly, taking her daughter by the arm as she marched her over and pointed at the purse, “where did you get this? Answer me!”

“T-the man gave it to me!”

“What man?” Sumire asked sharply, not believing her.

“The handsome man,” Shurei whimpered, blushing a little. “Your friend.” Her lip trembled. “He said I could keep it. He said it was all for me. He told me to be a good girl, and to mind you. And he gave Yuki-chan that little charm, too—see, Mama? Isn’t it pretty?”

Sumire’s hold on her daughter relaxed as she glanced back. Strung on a cord of blue silk, the silver charm jingled as the kitten licked her paw. It was sure enough Kohaku’s sword tassel and talisman. She herself had glimpsed them last night on his person. There was no stealing from him—of that Sumire was certain.

“It is very pretty, Shurei. I hoped you thanked the nice man.”

“Oh yes, Mama!” The little girl beamed. “I bowed just like you taught me.”

Sumire nodded. She smiled down at her daughter, though her thoughts ran miles away. To some far-off field, where even now Kohaku and his army might very well be charging into battle. Yet Sumire was unafraid. She had faith in Kohaku, gods or no.

The purse of gold she took in keeping for her daughter’s dowry. To her surprise, a year later, an even greater sum of gold appeared from afar. There was no note, no message. Yet Sumire knew. Her daughter as well.

“It’s from your old friend, isn’t it, Mama?”

“Yes, Shurei. It’s from him.”

And for every year thereafter, the gold came with the turning of the season. With the sakura blossoms and the end of the snows. She and Shurei marked its coming, and knew that the nice, handsome man from the east was still alive and well. And they were glad in their hearts to know it was so.

---

Inuyasha © Rumiko Takahashi

A series within a series?? Lol guess so. Helps me get the updates out there quicker in more manageable chunks, not that this sub-series trumps other unrelated one-shots. So the next part in The Rebel Anthology may or may not be ‘Part 2’ of Seasons of Life or something entirely different. We’ll just see where the muse takes me. Fun, right? XD

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