Eye of the Beholder

It is mine, and I choose to remain.

Those words, spoken with such quiet authority and brooking no argument from the older man, brought a smile to the face hidden deep within the folds of black serge; the first smile the small figure had felt upon his visage for many years. In point of fact, he could not remember ever having done so.

The boy had courage and strength of will, both of which pleased the cloaked figure; though he’d no more admit to such than he would the smile still on his lips. Perhaps, though, that was the reason for this unaccustomed facial expression. He gave himself a mental shake, ridding himself of these thoughts, and composed his face, silently watching the two before him. The older, arms crossed haughtily over his chest, glared angrily at his stepson. The younger – the boy – merely stood in silence, mild green eyes gazing not at his stepfather but rather, at him, as though awaiting his acknowledgement of the boy’s acceptance to the bargain just proposed.

The cloaked figure let the silence carry on a bit longer before he finally raised his head to address the nobleman. “The sun is about to set. And these woods are not safe to travel after dark. You may stay the night and say your farewells in the morning.” All of this was stated as a matter of fact; no welcome could be discerned in the dark figure’s words or his tone.

Turning his attention to the younger man, the figure spoke a single word, “Come,” then spun on his heel and proceeded back through the high, black iron gate set into the stone wall.

Kurama felt a slight pressure on his arm and turned to face the owner of the hand that lay atop his arm, fingers gripping lightly. Green eyes met blue, a question in them. Kazuya’s eyes widened slightly, eyebrows raised as he nodded back toward the patiently waiting horses. His meaning was clear… Escape!

Kurama made no verbal reply. Rather a simple shake of his red mane ever so slightly in negation indicated his intention to make good on his promise before he turned away from his stepfather and walked to the patiently waiting horses. He picked up the reins lying in the dust and with a slight tug of the leather in his hand, began to follow the cloaked figure, the horses docilely ambling in his wake. With no other recourse (and a heavy sigh), Kazuya caught up to his stepson and together they walked through the gate.

As the two followed the short, dark figure along the gravel pathway that lead toward the house, Kurama raised his voice. “Your pardon, Sir.” The cloaked figure halted abruptly and turned around, arms crossed and silent. The youngster, sensing the man’s stance was, in and of itself, his reply, continued. “Is there somewhere I might stable the horses for the night?”

The figure remained silent for a moment before he turned around once more and began to walk up the path again. “This way,” he finally replied as he continued onward.

He continued to lead them along the path toward the house. As they neared what appeared, at least to Hatanaka’s ice blue gaze, to be a structure built on a far grander scale than the mansion he’d been forced to vacate eighteen interminable months ago, the small figure veered suddenly to the left and with quickened pace, proceeded around the house. Kurama, still leading the horses, lengthened his own stride, following easily in the figure’s wake.

Hatanaka, who had stopped for a closer, albeit brief, inspection of the house, hurried to catch up with the two ahead of him.

At length, the path came to an end and the three halted their progress before a rectangular building of stone and mortar that, while smaller than the house, was every bit as impressive in its own right. A roof of red clay tile covered the structure, which was fronted by a pair of massive oaken doors; circular handles of black wrought iron set into each. With little effort, the small, cloaked figure reached up and grasping the handles, swung the doors wide then marched inside. Kurama followed with the horses, their hooves clacking on the cobbled floor of the stable. Hatanaka chose to remain outside. He folded his arms across his chest and reclined his back against the smooth oak of the opened door.

The interior of the stable was dark and smelled of fresh hay, old wood, horseflesh, and manure. A light flared, and Kurama squeezed his eyes shut, momentarily shutting out the sudden brightness of the lantern the cloaked figure had just finished lighting and hung from a hook on one of the thick, oak stanchions that divided the interior into stalls.

A soft whinny, accompanied by a somewhat louder snort, caught the youth’s attention, bringing his focus back to the task at hand. The noises, though, had not come from his mounts, but rather, from the stalls to his immediate left. Glancing over, Kurama beheld two of the most magnificent specimens of horseflesh he’d ever encountered. A sleek, black stallion with a temperament akin to the dark cloaked figure, if the stamping hooves that followied the snort were any indication, occupied the first stall. The second held a slender, dappled gray mare that seemed as if it had been bred just to accommodate someone of his own lithe physique. Indeed, these two rivaled anything that could be found in the king’s quite impressive stables.

Kurama looked away from the horses only to meet the hooded, crimson gaze of his host. The small figure stood at one of the stall entrances toward the back of the stable proper, his arms folded across his chest; his air one of complete and utter boredom. The boy gave a tentative smile and a nod toward the two mounts already stabled.

“They are beautiful animals,” he commented.

“Hn.” Abrupt, and rather disdainful, as though the dark-cloaked figure was already well aware, and yet, could care less, about the pedigree of his horseflesh or the fact that the redheaded youth had voiced his opinion of it. “Put them in here,” he finished with a nod toward two empty stalls adjacent to that of his own mounts.

Kurama held his tongue. Discretion, after all, was the better part of valor. So he had been taught, and so he believed. Thus, Kurama practiced that discretion now as, with a nod and another small smile, he complied with the direction given and led the horses to their appointed stalls. He took great care to remove the saddle and bridle – first from one and then from the other. After, he gently but firmly curried each animal, using the curry-combs he’d noticed on a shelf that stretched the length of the stalls.

All the while, the hooded figure observed these proceedings in silent indifference as he leaned against the back wall, arms still crossed over his chest. The boy, again to his credit, paid no heed to the man as he continued caring for the horses. Oats, from a large wooden trough found against the inside front wall of the stable, were gathered into the bucket provided next to the trough and brought to each stall where they were poured into one of two smaller troughs.

When he’d finished, Kurama took the bucket and made his way back outside and to the well he’d noticed midway between the manor and the stable. Though there was only pale moonlight to illuminate his path, he found the well easily enough, filled the bucket and return to empty its contents into the second trough.

Once both horses had been fed and watered, he repeated the entire process for his host’s mounts, speaking softly to them both as he did so. Contented whinnies, and a soft nuzzle by the mare, were his reward. The boy smiled and returned the caress, gently running his hand along the side of the mare’s head. A nudge against his back caused the smile to become a soft chuckle.

“Feeling neglected, are you?” He turned to the stallion and found dark eyes regarding him coolly and with just a touch of arrogance. Again, he was reminded sharply of his host, and idly wondered as he raised his hand, this time stroking from the top of the stallion’s head down to his nose, if the little man might be appeased as easily as his soft caresses seemed to gentle the large horse.

A snort, though this one came not from the horse, brought him out of his thoughts, and Kurama turned his attention to the small figure at the back of the stable. The figure was no longer leaning against the wall but was now standing straight. Kurama could feel the man’s eyes on him before he raised his own to meet that red-eyed gaze.

“Hn. If you’re quite done playing nursemaid to my horses,” the little man sneered as he strode toward the opened doors, “the house… now!”

“As you wish,” came the quiet response. Kurama dipped his head in acknowledgement, lowered his hand, and with a whispered ‘good night’ to the four horses, followed the cloaked figure.

As the pair stepped through the doorway, Hatanaka straightened from the position he’d occupied for the better part of the last hour against the outside wall. He made no move to assist the two who were engaged at the moment in closing and securing the heavy oak doors – simply standing in silence as the task was completed.

When he’d finished, Kurama joined his stepfather. The cloaked figure, however, merely turned away from the closed door and silently strode off toward the house. The two men hurried to follow, lest the figure in black be lost to the darkness that now pressed in on them from all sides.

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Dinner was a dismal, near silent affair.

The food, prepared for the most part by Kurama with an occasional assist from their dark-cloaked host, was done in silence. That silence was then carried forward to the actual eating of the meal. Oh, Kurama and his stepfather tried making casual small talk as they ate. However, whenever the redhead attempted to draw their host into the conversation, he was met with a disinterested grunt or the more disdainful and quite succinct, ‘hn’.

The young man quickly discerned that this monosyllabic expression seemed to be the dark figure’s preferred method of communication. With his own attempts thus far successfully thwarted, and with Hatanaka clearly making no such attempt, the conversation – stilted as it already was – quickly faded, until quiet reigned supreme once again.

Thus, was the meal completed.

No sooner had he finished his meal then the hooded figure abruptly stood, and without a word to his ‘guests’, left the room. Kurama stood as well and began to gather and stack the soiled china and silver, which he then carried out to the kitchen. When he returned, he gathered the serving platters and bowls and took them to the kitchen as well. Setting them down next to the pile of plates, crystal and silverware, the young man took the copper kettle from its hook above the fire, filled it with water from the cistern that occupied an entire wall of the spacious room, and returned the pot to the fire.

As he waited for the water to heat, Kurama searched the cabinets until he found a basin large enough to accommodate the dishes. He set the basin on the counter and carefully set the china into it then rolled up his sleeves.

Hatanaka, who’d followed his stepson as far as the doorway separating the kitchen from the dining room and was even now lounging against the opened door, observed the lad in silence. Now, however, as the kettle on the fire whistled and Kurama moved to take it from the hook in preparation to begin cleaning the supper dishes, he spoke up. “You are a fool to keep the bargain you have made with that madman.” Though he spoke quietly, his words were nonetheless vehement. “And I shall be damned if I’ll stand idly by and allow you to….”

“Forgive me, Stepfather,” Kurama interjected, effectively silencing the elder man, “but this subject is not open for discussion or debate. I gave my word, and I fully intend to honor that word.”

The young man raised his head, resolute green eyes meeting blue, and Hatanaka was reminded of his late, second wife. Though rare, he had seen, on occasion, that same fierce determination in Shiori’s eyes. She had been a force to be reckoned with during those times, he remembered. Apparently, she’d passed this trait on to her son. Rather than the exasperation he’d expected to feel at this discovery, Hatanaka felt his chest swell with pride instead.

It was the same feeling the small, dark figure on the other side of the door felt as he stood, listening to the exchange between father and son.

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. Indeed, he’d left the dining room fully intending to spend the remainder of the evening in his room, letting the two find their own sleeping accommodations amidst the many rooms on the second floor. Yet, once he’d reached the relative safety of his own four walls, the figure found he could not stop his thoughts from returning to the red-haired youth currently washing dishes but one floor below.

There was something about the boy that calmed his otherwise restless spirit… something that gave him a peace he’d not felt since his childhood. Yet, steel was contained within that soft, almost feminine shell as well. A good companion, the figure decided… and perhaps after all these years, a friend as well.