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Kirigakure Saizo's master wishes to believe the best of everyone. It's a commendable trait, to be sure, if not one that Saizo himself shares. If he has misgivings about this war, he has chosen not to share them; if he has misgivings about those who he has been called to serve, even less so. And though Saizo expects no less, Saizo cannot accept this war or its circumstances with the same ease. Besides, there is a pall over this house, a current of power seething under the surface that makes Saizo's skin crawl. Sasuke, too, has felt it. Even his master must have. And if his master will shut his eyes so stubbornly, it's Saizo's duty to tell him what he does not, or will not, see -- for the sake of them all.
The house is quiet, cast in gloom and shadow, and it is no trouble at all for Saizo to melt into those shadows and make his way to the place that even dust seems to shy from. The door to the basement is not locked. There's no need for it to be; the chill emanating from it, the soft scratching -- or is it chittering? -- from behind, is more effective than any lock. Slowly, Saizo turns the doorknob. To reduce the sound it makes, he tells himself, but that doesn't entirely explain the tension in his fingers, the heaviness in his bones.
The stairs behind the door are silhouetted in a faint green light. Saizo descends.
Saizo is no stranger to creatures that thrive in the darkness and feast on fear. He could be called one himself.
But the things that writhe before him, carpet the floor in a hissing mass -- what can he possibly call them? His breath stalls in his throat, blocks the words from coming out even if he could find them.
He must not let these creatures transfix him. He must leave, and report to his master at once. This must not be hidden.
***
"Master," Saizo says, kneeling before him, and Lancer can't miss how his hands tremble on his knees. To see such a thing in Saizo -- a knot forms in the pit of his stomach.
"What is your report?" he asks, because he must.
Saizo opens his mouth as though to answer, then closes it, shakes his head. "Come with me," he says. "Please."
The way he says that last word disquiets Lancer most of all.
Silently, Saizo leads him down the hall, stops in front of the door to the basement. "Look," he says, "and forgive me for what I have shown you."
"I do not think I am meant to enter -- "
"Master, I fear more for what will happen if you do not."
As Lancer nudges the door open, stories he heard as a boy spring to mind: of women wed to wealthy and mysterious daimyo, and given free reign of their husband's castles save for one room, which must never be entered. Of course, none of them could resist such temptation. And what they found --
-- oh.
If Saizo is still present behind him, Lancer does not notice. If anyone else is present behind him, Lancer does not notice. Lancer wishes, desperately, that he could see nothing at all.
Your Ladyship rises in his throat, and dies just as rapidly. Even his pulse is faint, his blood sluggish. Someone -- Saizo -- is tugging on his arm, pulling him out, closing the door. That matters little; the sight is engraved on Lancer's eyes, as sure as the ruins of Sekigahara and the mud of Tennou-ji. But even those were products of human grievances, human wars. This...
Lancer sinks against the door, stares at his hands, and does his best not to shake.
The house is quiet, cast in gloom and shadow, and it is no trouble at all for Saizo to melt into those shadows and make his way to the place that even dust seems to shy from. The door to the basement is not locked. There's no need for it to be; the chill emanating from it, the soft scratching -- or is it chittering? -- from behind, is more effective than any lock. Slowly, Saizo turns the doorknob. To reduce the sound it makes, he tells himself, but that doesn't entirely explain the tension in his fingers, the heaviness in his bones.
The stairs behind the door are silhouetted in a faint green light. Saizo descends.
Saizo is no stranger to creatures that thrive in the darkness and feast on fear. He could be called one himself.
But the things that writhe before him, carpet the floor in a hissing mass -- what can he possibly call them? His breath stalls in his throat, blocks the words from coming out even if he could find them.
He must not let these creatures transfix him. He must leave, and report to his master at once. This must not be hidden.
***
"Master," Saizo says, kneeling before him, and Lancer can't miss how his hands tremble on his knees. To see such a thing in Saizo -- a knot forms in the pit of his stomach.
"What is your report?" he asks, because he must.
Saizo opens his mouth as though to answer, then closes it, shakes his head. "Come with me," he says. "Please."
The way he says that last word disquiets Lancer most of all.
Silently, Saizo leads him down the hall, stops in front of the door to the basement. "Look," he says, "and forgive me for what I have shown you."
"I do not think I am meant to enter -- "
"Master, I fear more for what will happen if you do not."
As Lancer nudges the door open, stories he heard as a boy spring to mind: of women wed to wealthy and mysterious daimyo, and given free reign of their husband's castles save for one room, which must never be entered. Of course, none of them could resist such temptation. And what they found --
-- oh.
If Saizo is still present behind him, Lancer does not notice. If anyone else is present behind him, Lancer does not notice. Lancer wishes, desperately, that he could see nothing at all.
Your Ladyship rises in his throat, and dies just as rapidly. Even his pulse is faint, his blood sluggish. Someone -- Saizo -- is tugging on his arm, pulling him out, closing the door. That matters little; the sight is engraved on Lancer's eyes, as sure as the ruins of Sekigahara and the mud of Tennou-ji. But even those were products of human grievances, human wars. This...
Lancer sinks against the door, stares at his hands, and does his best not to shake.
