Don't Fade Away (Past Lovers)

The End Of One Story And The Beginning Of Another

It's short, but I hope you like it.
Samurai(侍): the military nobility of medieval and early-modern Japan.
Kimono(着物): a traditional Japanese garment
Date Masamune(伊達政宗): a Japanese warlord, known for his military prowess and skills with weapons, despite only having one eye
Yagyu Munenori(柳生宗矩): A swordsman under both the Regent Hideyoshi's rule and the Tokugawa Shogunate.
Azai Gou(江): Niece of the deceased Oda Nobunaga. She and her sisters were "taken in" by Hashiba Hideyoshi after he killed their father, then stepfather and mother. Her eldest sister became Hideyoshi's concubine, then his second wife. Her hatred for "the monkey" was infamous, though she was unwilingly adopted so Hideyoshi could force her to divorce her first husband.
-chan(ちゃん): an affectionate suffix, used for children or girls.

She hovered high over the keyboard, her problem of what to write next making her gnaw at her lip. She had to tell someone-anyone-what had happened, because the memories would drive her crazy if she didn't. Memories of a warrior, (well, three notable ones to be precise, but only one that truly mattered, no matter how long it took for her to see that) and kisses that drove her mad with longing.

Her fingers clenched and she let her hands fall into her lap before bunching the fabric of her clothing. She wasn't comfortable in anything else anymore, so she simply wore the clothes she'd been given by the warrior. Jeans and T-shirts made her uncomfortable and awkward. Sneakers made her feel uncomfortable, high heels clumsy, and anything other than toe-socks, bare feet or simple sandles felt wrong.

She had spent too long there, tried too hard to adjust.

She couldn't ride in a car anymore-she got carsick no matter what she did. Trains were intolerable too, and so was the city. Too loud. Too obnoxious. She had found a new appreciation for walking and horseback riding, though she knew he'd glare at her if she was able to tell him and say "then why did you complain so much?" with that look he wore well.

He wore many things well. Even his ever-present ponytail (he refused to call it that, insisting it was called a queue or benpatsu) and the feminine bells on his sword. Of course, ponytails (queued hair, she added out of force of habit) had been in fashion then, even if bangs weren't, but he had both. All of them had.

All of them carried swords, too, to signify their rank as warriors and samurai, and they all moved like wild cats. Powerful. Sure. Beautiful. Protected by their knowledge. She sighed, sinking back in the too-soft armchair and closing her laptop gently. She had to tell someone, and if writing a book could tell it, then she should do it.

But how was she supposed to start? It was a long, tiring story, one with laughter, tears, learning and love, not to mention adaptation and a brutal lesson in history. Like a madwoman, she had learned all she could upon her return, hoping to find a way back and be able to help them by knowing what would come in their lifetimes.

And her friend. Gou had been a good friend while she was in Osaka, though it was her step-father who had ordered her as a hostage from the lord of Ueno in place of a promised concubine. Gou was a fiercely loyal woman who hated Hideyoshi with a passion. The monkey-Saru, as she called him with a sniff-killed her father, uncle, mother, stepfather, forced Gou to marry against her will, reclaimed her (also against her will), and married her off twice more. The lecherous monkey also married her elder sister Chacha against their mother's dying wishes.

She did not like Monkey, and neither did Gou. She'd told her what would happen to Hideyoshi, but not to her sister and beloved nephew. It would be too much for the gentle girl.

And then there was that Portuguese bastard, a hater of Christians and a false Catholic. He was a lout-a true koushoku na yakkaimono, a lecherous bastard who delighted in cruel executions and lovers of any sex-willing or unwilling.

Still, despite the brutal conditions, straw pallets, and originally uncomfortable clothing, she'd grown to love post-Feudal Japan and its wonders-the One-Eyed Dragon not the least of such awe-inspiring men. The Sword of Yagyu, master of the blade, was another exceptional man renowned throughout Japan. She had never gotten to meet Gou's uncle Nobunaga-she was seven years too late for that-but she'd met Hideyoshi, The Monkey who eventually held Japan in his thrall.

Ishikawa Goemon was another. Kirigakure Saizo remained the most beautiful man she'd ever seen, though he'd been twenty at their time of meeting. The rest of the Ten Braves were all notable, as was their master Sanada Yukimura. Sanada was an interesting man. Even at twenty-one, he was heavily praised and a man who knew his own allure. He walked like a warrior, not even needing to hold his sword to threaten someone.

She had good memories and bad, and most of them involved the same people. Usually, the bad memories came first, then the good. Her fingers automatically pushed her bangs behind her ears, then she bit her lip as she remembered another pair of hands gently pushing her bangs behind her ears and tucking them there, eyes softening into molten dark-nearly-black-chocolate.

Her hands lifted to her chin and she propped her elbows on the desk, cupping her chin in her hands, remembering the feel of soft hair tangled in her fingers and soft lips, kissing and finding the most sensitive spots on her skin. Her exhalation was ragged and she thrust her fingers partway through her hair, pressing the heels of her hands gently against her closed eyelids. The memories of gentle kisses there made her throat tighten and her heart constrict tighter than the oh-so-familiar chokehold.

And then there was that voice. "Are you sure, Ra-chan? You want this? Want me?" His voice had broken a little on her name, had gotten a little higher on the final sentence, like he was scared that she would refuse him and change her mind. But she wouldn't. She never had, never would.

And just like that, with one final glance at the paintbrush and letter in the frames on her wall, the inkstone on her desk and one last sigh, Farrah knew where to begin telling her story.