evilpii

After living over eight decades, Masaki Katsuhito had declined the invitation to join his grandson and his friends at the palace for the grand ball.  While the princess had been quite insistent that he attend, the Shinto priest had cited exhaustion and soreness from the long trip from Earth to Jurai as reason for him to recuperate, leaving the youth to their fun.  Admittedly, his aged frame had been aching due to the lengthy journey, but he had had other reasons not to attend the soiree.

Before bed, Katsuhito had offered a silent prayer to his ancestors on this first night once more upon his homeworld, wishing them peace, much like what he had found on Earth.  He had felt the demons of his past looming at the edge of his thoughts, wanting to blame him and condemn him, to shame him.

But, his peace had remained unshaken, letting the past lie in those distant memories as he then had found his way to sleep.

Morning came early for the legendary warrior, rising before the dawn.  While his family, the ruling family, had offered for him and Tenchi to reside in the family’s ancestral home during their visit, Katsuhito had kindly declined and had chosen a more humble hotel nearby Heaven’s Tree.  As consolation, the Jurai royal family had covered the room and board, assuring that neither would need to pay for this event.  Naturally, Ayeka and Sasami had chosen to sleep in their own beds in their late father’s estate.

The octogenarian had no notion of what Ryoko’s plans were, but he was certain she would find a place to rest.

As the old priest stretched, feeling each of his joints crack and pop, he glanced to his grandson’s bed, finding it still empty.  More precisely, the cot seemed completely untouched since his departure last night to meet Ayeka and her friends.  Given the trouble with the other young Juraians yesterday, a concern crossed the Masaki patriarch’s brow.

However, he dismissed the worry.  Tenchi can handle himself, he thought, and Ayeka will likely keep his etiquette in order.

Dressed in the modest attire of his profession, the gray-haired man exited the hotel and walked through the Juraian city.  Near the base of Heaven’s Tree, the canopy of the immense living structure loomed high above the buildings in her shadow.  As the sun began to rise, the rays of light were filtered through the leaves of the Juraian palace, keeping the town in a perpetual veil.  At this early hour, the people were just now waking and rushing to their jobs, whether by foot or conveyance.

Katsuhito smiled softly to himself, letting himself blend into the bustle of the morning routine.  Since he had taken residence on Earth, he had rarely ventured into a city.  While his heart yearned for the pastoral life and peace he had found in Okayama, a part of him missed the days of his youth among his people.  Occasionally, the swordsman would dodge to the side, letting a young man rush past on his way to work, or would catch a plate knocked from a young woman’s hand.

Yet, the Juraian prince had intent in his walk today beyond merely a constitutional of good deeds.  He had chosen the hotel purposefully due to its proximity to an unassuming cemetery, which he had promised the ghosts of his past to visit.  Despite the morning sunlight filtering through the leaves of Heaven’s Tree, this quiet memorial site remained steeped in shadows due to its own sakura trees nearby.

But, one tree stood out from the others.  A Juraian camellia had grown strong in a forgotten corner of the graveyard, a deep red among so many soft pink flowers.  He approached the tree and gently set his hand upon the trunk of the tree, letting his mind wander to strong, distant memories.

As a Juraian nobleman, Katsuhito could psychically commune with the mighty flora of his homeworld, those that descended from Heaven’s Tree.  However, he felt no power from this tree, no mind, no identity.

This tree is not hers, he told himself.  Her tree came from Ryuten.

As he lowered his hand, he felt a presence behind him, a dark shadow looming large over the other spirits inhabiting these grounds.  He recognized the aura about this entity, leather wings stretching out beyond the shadow of Heaven’s Tree.  Long forgotten by most, the shadow spoke softly to his ear, her breath cold and her words quiet.

“She misses you, Yosho.”

Slowly, the Juraian prince turned to face her.  Despite the dark power radiating off of her, her physical form appeared as a woman in her prime, maybe 30-years-old.  Her ruddy-brown hair was tied behind her head, while her aquamarine eyes had a distinctly feline shape.  Her black dress was sleek and elegant, trailing down to her feet with a crimson seam tracing down her side.

The woman smiled knowingly to Katsuhito, who took a careful breath.  He knew well her power, that her graceful hand could easily tear a man in half or crush a starship, like unto a goddess.  He chose his actions and words quite delicately.

“Sadly, our love was not to be.”

With a humorless grin, she retorted, “How many of your loves were not meant to be?”

For a moment, the aged prince could feel the years weighing on him, the people he had known and lost.  His parents were long dead, as were his wife and daughter.  Most of the people he had known here on Jurai either had passed or no longer had the memory to reminisce about the time past.  While many knew him as the “legendary warrior Prince Yosho”, that fame felt hollow without his friends and family.

Indeed, he acknowledged the true reason he did not attend the ball with Tenchi and Ayeka.  His family and heart now resided on Earth, not Jurai.

Gently, he replied, “Spring never lasts forever.”

Her eyes narrowed as she leaned closer, her smile widening.  Tenderly, she brushed her nails along his cheek, whispering, “It could.”

Briefly, he felt her shadow cascade over him, casting a vision upon him.  In this moment, he was once more young and virile:  muscles full and strong, hair black and soft, all the aches and pains of age gone.  Physically, her touch gave him relief and energy, and a temptation.

“You could be young forever,” she hissed softly into his dark hair.  “We could be together, Darkness in love with the Light.”

Mentally, however, Katsuhito felt this all as a betrayal.  He had seen where such temptations led, the type of man who made such pacts, and he had sworn never to tread this path.

His hand rose slowly and took her fingers softly away from his cheek, breaking the vision and reverting him to his true aged form.

“That time has passed, Yuzuha,” he said somberly to her, his garnet-colored eyes meeting hers.  “Our time has passed.”

Her smile faded, her heart breaking, tears filling her eyes.  The Juraian prince could feel the immense shadow of her power shrinking back as she stepped back from him.  Stoically, he watched her recoil from his rejection, her confusion and hurt plain in her face.  He had seen the expression from her once before, nearly 75 years ago.  At the time, he had only been a boy, and the hurt had been inadvertent, caused by the horrors of her true self.

Now, as a man, he chose to deny her, knowing full well what she was and what she offered him.

That said, he did feel remorse for breaking her heart, but as he reached for her, she spun away from him.  Her body darkened, losing all of her color before her form swirled and split into shadows.  Her gloom melted into the waning darkness, dissipated by the dawn.

Katsuhito took a heavy breath, relaxing for a moment as he felt her presence vacate the hallowed ground.  While she could easily return, he doubted that she would, given the anguish he had seen in her before her departure.  His old heart beat laboriously as he forced the past back into its place in his thoughts.

However, he realized the irony of the mental exercise, given his purpose here.

Folding his arms, the priest resumed his walk through the grave markers, reading them idly as he passed.  At the back of the graveyard, he left the maintained stone path and tread onto the grassy soil, leaving behind the marked memorials and tombs and entering an empty field.  These grounds were meant for future residents of this final resting place, but Katsuhito knew of one exception.

Far in the back, flanked by two mighty Juraian oaks, was a single gravemarker, purposefully left blank.  During his last visit to Jurai, the aged prince had arranged this interment, on the condition that its owner’s identity would remain only with him.  After the last three years, the marker now had moss and lichens growing upon it.  In time, he expected that it would be completely overrun and forgotten.

Silently, the warrior pressed his hands together in prayer, greeting his old friend and rival.  Despite the man he had become, despite how power had corrupted him, Yosho still chose to remember Kagato as a wonderful man, someone who could have been a hero of legend in his own right.  He chose to remember their training together, their studies together, their friendship.

Then, the priest heard footsteps softly approach him from the main grounds of the cemetery.  While this person’s aura felt familiar, the energy had a different aesthetic, a different texture, than he remembered.  Clearly, they were descended from the Jurai royal family, and quite close to the ruling family line.

The fellow visitor stopped at his side and likewise held their hands in prayer.  After a moment of silent reflection, a woman’s voice whispered to him, strong and proud.

“Rare for someone to honor a usurper.”

Katsuhito lowered his hands and turned toward her, a gesture she returned.  Her amaranth eyes spoke of years of experience on the homeworld.  Her chartreuse hair clawed around her face and extended down her back in an elegantly braided tail.  A silken kimono delicately enclosed her mature and full figure, in keeping with a noblewoman’s modesty.

He was taken aback, expecting someone different, someone far older, in her eighties rather than her fifties.  However, the piercing gaze of her amaranth eyes was beyond familiar, as was the lotus scent of her perfume.  For a moment, his garnet-colored eyes examined her features, so close to a woman he had known very briefly in his youth, one he had scorned.

However, given the grave before them, and his fellow visitor’s appearance, the old prince could easily speculate about her identity.  Though he had no proof, he deduced why her aura felt familiar, but different.

He kept his suspicions to himself as he bowed to her.

“Even the souls of the damned appreciate a friendly visitor now and then.”

She bowed gracefully in return, replying, “That’s most kind of you, Lord Yosho.”

As the pair faced one another, Katsuhito adjusted his glasses while he regarded her carefully.

“I prefer ‘Katsuhito’,” he corrected.

“Ah,” the lady acknowledged as she deduced, “your Terran name?”

“Yes,” he affirmed as he motioned toward the grave before them.  “‘Jurai Yosho’ perished when our swords first crossed.”

Yet, her piercing eyes gazed deeply into his as she asked, “And, when was ‘Katsuhito’ born?”

The prince could feel a shadow stretching out from her, skimming at the edge of his thoughts.  Unlike Kagato, whose power crashed forward like a merciless torrent, her talents were far more subtle, akin to waves slowly rising over an isthmus to create an island.  Again, the nature of her energy seemed increasingly familiar, and the more she reached out with her power, the more he could detect the taint of darkness within her.

Standing firm, Katsuhito kept centered upon his peace, not letting her shadow touch his mind.  He focused on his wife’s face, her joy, their family, their legacy.

“I took my name when I married my late wife,” he answered.  “She and her family welcomed me and shared their ways, their peace, with me.”

Her brows furrowed as she then asked, “Your wife was Terran?”

The old priest nodded and affirmed, “She was.”

He could feel her power withdraw as she glanced to the side in thought, clearly confused.  In that moment, he motioned toward her and inquired, “You have me at a disadvantage.  I don’t think that we have been introduced.”

The noblewoman shook away her doubts as she rested a hand on her chest and announced herself, “Kamiki Seto.”

‘Kamiki’ was her name too, he thought, her name all but confirming his suspicions.

“How did you know our friend?” the prince asked.

Seto produced a small baton from her obi and opened it, revealing it to be a small fan.  Demurely aerating her face, she answered, “I didn’t.  Certainly, I heard about him when he posed as you, and I was as surprised as anyone when his true identity was unmasked.”

As her fan paused over her lips, her amaranth eyes pierced his, and Katsuhito could taste the falseness of her words.  Despite the silken timbre of her voice, clearly practiced and rehearsed, the legendary prince began to discern the familiar nature of her power.

Perhaps you didn’t know him personally, he considered, but you are very much like him, and her.

Outwardly, he accepted her claim.  “As were many.  What brings you to his memorial today?”

“You, actually,” Seto said plainly, lowering her fan.  “Have you seen your grandson this morning?”

Katsuhito’s eyes narrowed.  His thoughts shot back to the hotel room, Tenchi’s untouched bed.  “I haven’t,” he answered honestly.  However, he felt his skin crawl, seeing Seto less as a courtly lady and more as a serpent, coiled and waiting for her opportunity to strike.  He thought back to the incident with the other young Juraians accosting Ryoko, how he and his grandson’s friends had stood at the young woman’s side to protect her.

Coolly, the lady of House Kamiki stated, “There was an incident late last night outside the grand ballroom.  A white Ryoan vessel arrived, carrying not only your grandson, but my niece and four others.”

The prince’s brow raised.  “White?”

Seto nodded.  “Belonging to one of the two Ryoan women in their entourage.”

The priest calculated quickly several of the six identities involved.  The white vessel would be Ken-Ohki, belonging to Nagi, who would be one of the two Ryoans, Ryoko being the other.  Her niece would be someone connected to the Kamiki family, but also close to Tenchi and Ryoko.

His eyes met hers as he deduced, “So, your niece is Ayeka then?”

The noblewoman affirmed, “My late sister’s elder daughter.”  Flicking her fan open, she inquired, “She came to the throne room and told quite the tale to both the emperor and myself.”

A dark image passed through Katsuhito’s imagination:  this serpent slithering next to the emperor, hissing into his ear.  Distantly, he could hear his old friend’s haughty laugh, that his influence had not yet left this world.

However, given Seto’s kinship to the violet-tressed princess and her apparent influence in the throne room, the legendary prince knew that the matter would require finesse and tact.  While he was quite confident that Tenchi could handle himself in a duel, and that Ayeka could handle herself in a debate, he had his doubts about them facing a woman like Seto and the influence she might wield.

Moreover, he worried, what has befallen them to cause both Ryoko and Nagi to become involved?

“Where is my grandson now?”

“Juraiko Kamidake escorted him and the two Ryoan women to the royal hospital,” the lady replied, “as well as the two others.  Apparently, several of them had injuries from their battle.”

Respectfully, he bowed to her, saying, “Thank you for visiting my old friend’s grave, and for the information.”

Seto returned the gesture before Katsuhito turned away and made his way out of the cemetery.  Meanwhile, the Juraian lady remained at Kagato’s grave, smiling to herself, feeling the usurper’s presence standing with her, both of them watching Yosho leave the hallowed land.