The Long Road to Freedom Part 1: The Dastardly Prince

Rekkonji's Silence

Sesshoumaru's usual petty abuses and gloating had become more infrequent, and while his manner of speech was still somewhat rude, his tone had grown smoother and more controlled. Perhaps he was refining himself in his own ways, Kuroihi thought. Only time would tell. To be honest, she found herself somewhat anxious when he left, whether it was with one or two of his attendants or not. His active presence gave more weight to her requests within the castle‐base, even if there was grumbling. In his absence, however, the servants challenged her more and sneered down at her, as though trying to force her back into an inferior station for the time being.

Every time he left, they tried.

Every time they tried, she side‐stepped.

She neither acknowledged nor dismissed their implied insults‐they were little things, really, just breaches of etiquette‐and it had done well for her thus far. She knew, though, that she was only avoiding the issue and not dealing with it; truth being, she wasn't sure how to. For now, she continued to maneuver around it all.

At the mid‐day meal after combat practice, she secured her place toward the head of the table near the Warmaster Rekkonji, much to the displeasure of the lesser fighter that had tried to take the spot for himself.

Rekkonji said nothing.

When the servants came around with damp cloths so they could clean their hands before eating, and the one offered her was frayed and off‐white, and she politely declined and waited for the next batch.

Rekkonji said nothing.

Later, as they prepared for their usual sparing rounds, she took the first choice of weapons directly after the older, higher-ranking fighters, much to the grumblings of their lessers.

Again, Rekkonji said nothing.

It was the same with Fuyutoka in the times she was forced to encounter or interact with the overseer, though the hawk let his expression sour when he thought she wasn't paying attention. but she was, and mentally she kept track of that and every time one of the servants he commanded chose to make things difficult for her. It was easy for them, for her schedule was predictable. Combat, sewing, freshen Lord Sesshoumaru's quarters, literacy practice, Go with Kazawa, Aoki, and Ide, archery, rest, and so on; and she rarely if ever was off‐schedule. In such a manner, the weeks passed.

It was again her day of combat practice.

Kuroihi was not the best fighter, but she won more than she lost, and did her best to keep her pride out of the matter. It would only lead her to be hasty and partial in her strikes and form, and that was how one ended up dead. Today was no different, and as she waited her turn, she studied the movements of the pair of veterans, giving quite the masterful display. She loosened her joints and coaxed her muscles into preparedness as the next pair took the field. She barely took notice of their fight. She was more concerned with focusing herself on the task at hand. The antics of the servants were starting to weigh on her, and she was letting it distract her.

It was the soft snickering behind her that brought her attention back to the present. She opened her eyes to find one of the fighters, now finished, offering her his bouken. That was well enough, save for the manner in which he was doing it, clasping it palm down in the center as one would offer it to an inferior. She knew this man had been here for only a few years, and while he was one of Rekkonji's rising favorites, he was far from a well‐practiced combatant of any real note. Kuroihi's inner demon, half though it was, snarled, and she snapped.

'Easy,' she warned herself.

She squared her shoulders, calmly looked from the weapon to the man's face, and blinked, giving him a chance to correct what she had decided was an error. This was clearly communicated in her manner of response. Instead, he raised his brows insistently, continuing to offer the practice sword in the same way.