Eye of the Beholder

The sun had not yet fully risen; the earth still bathed in the dusky rose of dawn’s first light when Kurama finished his task; the patiently waiting mare now saddled and ready.

“How long do you anticipate the journey might take, Sir?” the boy asked his stepfather as Hatanaka came through the door of the cottage and negotiated the short distance between the house to where his stepson stood, holding the reins of the roan-colored horse.

They… no, Kurama… had bartered the use of the horse and saddle from the Yukimura hostel. Hatanaka would have nothing to do with it. He’d sooner walk the 50 leagues than be beholden to someone. Therefore, his stepson had taken it upon himself to strike the deal: the use of the mare for however long his stepfather needed to be away in exchange for supplying the hostel with fresh fruits and vegetables as well as the promise that the younger Shuuichi would aid Yusuke in the daily hunt for meat for the hostel’s tables. God, but he abhorred this genteel poverty!

“A fortnight,” Hatanaka answered, adjusting his traveling cloak until it settled perfectly across broad shoulders. “Perhaps a bit longer. I won’t know for sure until I can see the condition of the ships and the remaining wares they bear for myself, as well as to arrange for buyers for the goods and re-outfitting the ships for their return voyage.”

“You’ll need lodging, then, for the duration of your trip,” the red-haired youth stated as his stepfather put his foot into the stirrup and swung himself up and into the saddle.

The former nobleman snorted. Looking down at the boy he replied. “You and I both know there is no money for such luxuries. I shall have to depend upon the kindness of someone among the peerage of the city for such things as a bed and meals.”

“Perhaps you should be wary of accepting such kindness,” Kurama returned. Reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat, he withdrew something, though Hatanaka could not see what it was for the boy held it tight within his fist as he spoke again. “At any rate, I do not think it will be necessary for you to depend upon the hospitality of your former friends and acquaintances.” With that, he extended his hand up to his stepfather and opened it.

Hatanaka’s gaze left his stepson’s face to settle upon the object that rested in the boy’s upturned palm, the early morning sunlight reflecting the deep ruby stone set within the burnished gold of the band. He recognized the signet ring at once, having heard its history, and that of the Minamino family, from his beloved Shiori.

The Minaminos were a noble family; soldiers in the king’s army since time immemorial, if one were to believe the legends, though Hatanaka himself found them simply too fantastical to believe.

However, even he could not deny the family’s valor and unfailing devotion to their sovereign. After all, the signet ring, the family’s crest carefully carved into the ruby, was proof of that. It had been presented to the first Minamino who’d pledged his fealty and sword to the king as tribute to that same courage and loyalty. Since that time, the ring had been passed through the generations from first-born son to first-born son.

Thus had it come to Shiori’s first husband, and upon his untimely death in the service of his king, to her (Kurama being but an infant at the time).

No longer wishing to remain at court after her beloved husband’s death, Shiori had been granted leave to retire quietly to a small cottage and plot of land away from the city. Along with a monthly stipend, the cottage and land had been a gift from the king to honor her husband’s bravery.

It was here, in the cottage Kurama now possessed and in which Hatanaka and his son resided with him, that Shiori raised her Shuuichi until, when the lad was 15, she’d remarried. During all those years, she’d kept the ring safe until Kurama had finally come of age. Hatanaka well remembered the day she had finally gifted her son with his legacy for that day, Kurama’s 16th birthday, had also marked the first anniversary of his and Shiori’s marriage.

Now, as the memories flooded his mind, Hatanaka tore his eyes from the ring and once more, met the emerald gaze of his stepson.

“No, Kurama,” he said with a firm shake of his graying head. “I cannot accept your offer. This is your legacy.”

A small smile graced the boy’s elfin features. “I need no bauble to know who I am, Stepfather,” he responded, “and the ring should fetch a fair price. I would consider it an honor if you will allow me to be the one to see to your comfort during your journey. Please… take it.”

With those words, Kurama reached up with his free hand and took his stepfather’s gloved hand into his own. Pressing the ring into the palm of the hand he held, he closed the older man’s fingers around it and stepped back, green eyes still locked with deep blue.

“Are you sure?” Hatanaka asked, and at the boy’s firm nod, bowed his head. “I… I don’t know what to say to such munificence, except… thank you,” he finished softly.

Again, Kurama smiled. “Such gratitude is unnecessary, Stepfather,” he responded, “but… you are welcome.”

Hatanaka raised his head and studied his stepson for a long while. The boy had always been something of a puzzle to him; an enigma. Even now, at this very moment, Hatanaka could not fathom just how easily Kurama had parted with his family heirloom, the only remembrance of his natural father the boy possessed. Yet it was this very ease, so typical of the boy, which perpetually confounded the older man. He stifled a sigh. He cared deeply for the boy, and though it was not the same love he felt for his own Shuuichi, it was love nonetheless.

Yet, now was not the time to ponder such things. He had far to travel and the sun was climbing fast into the sky. Best to take his leave then, and save these thoughts for another occasion when there would be time to consider them fully.

With those thoughts, the former nobleman withdrew his eyes from his stepson. Opening his fist, he glanced briefly at the ring nestled in his palm before carefully placing it into the innermost recesses of his waistcoat pocket. He then met Kurama’s patient gaze.

“I shall find some way, one day, to return this to you,” he vowed, patting the pocket wherein the ring rested. “You have my word on this.”

Kurama said nothing, letting the gentle smile that graced his full lips and the look held within his jade-colored eyes speak far more eloquently than his words could ever do.

In actuality, he cared not if the ring was ever returned to him. Though he was proud of the man who’d sired him, he had not known him. His father had died when he was but a babe, and so he had no recollection of the man save for the memories of him that his beloved mother had imparted to him. It was the man who sat on the horse above him now that he remembered; the only father he’d ever really known.

Again, silence stretched between the two men until Hatanaka cleared his throat and took up the reins of his horse. “Best I’m off then,” he harrumphed. He gazed a moment longer at his stepson. “I leave my son’s care in your capable hands, Kurama.”

“Then I shall do my utmost to be worthy of the confidence you’ve placed in me, Stepfather,” the boy replied.

Hatanaka nodded then gently touched booted feet to the horse’s flanks. As the roan began to move forward, Kurama called out. “Take care… and hurry home, Sir.”