| |
The boy in front of him appeared half-starved, a raspy and shrill voice begging and weeping. Always, humans and the lower spirits came only to ask something. He couldn’t recall how long it’d been since a human did actually come to beg something in person. However, he found it no more amusing or moving as the last time. It’d been the lesser spirits with their own agendas for the last century, hoping to play the games of court and elevate themselves.
He was tired. Too much to pay attention to the child’s rambling explanation. A lengthy tale, undoubtedly rehearsed.
His energy spent in preserving the doe’s soul, before it was too late, took its toll on him. Could he weep for the loss, in the privacy of his room, he would. Things were different now. For over fifty years, he hadn’t the will to smile for courtesy, let alone to mourn a loss.
He’d given his judgement, lacking the conviction to entertain anything more.
Syaoran walked to his side, taking instruction and making some question about what ought to be done.
“I’ll deal with this tomorrow morning,” said Kwan before leaving. He shut out the sobbing of one child, and the impetuous cries of the twin, walking back to his room. He shouldn’t have even entertained a hearing. There were more pressing matters.
In the last twelve years, more Kurai trespassed with impunity. Not only on Mount Tora, but in other parts of the land as well. It was a constant test to see if they had the strength to hold back the surmounting evil. If he had the strength. Gumiho had a fragment of his soul in her claws. Naturally, the others would press their luck, assume him too weak.
The trouble was: they might soon be right. It’d been getting harder to banish and fell wicked creatures without his soul. But he wouldn’t risk letting another part of it be taken.
For twelve years, more brazen Kurai used the humans near Mount Tora to lure him out. Using innocents as pawns and play things to get at him. Droughts, floods, pestilence... anything to force his hand and cause him to spend too much of his energy.
He leaned against the north facing wall of his room, opposite the door, and looked out the window beside him. His breakfast went largely ignored. Events so early in the day souring his stomach. Staring out, he watched the birds as they chirped and went about their way, and the breaking of the clouds to allow the sun to shine. Insects sang loudly in the balmy summer day, and the wind sighed pleasantly, bringing the smell of jasmine and tea trees with it.
He was tired. Tired enough to slumber for a century, but unable to sate the desire.
A butterfly landed on the window’s ledge, flexing its wings to drink in the warmth of the sun.
He watched it, wondering if it was alone in the garden. Not likely. Why would it tolerate loneliness? What was the most beautiful of gardens to a butterfly if it was alone? He no longer had the time to compose poems to capture the idea, nor the drive to ponder the musings deeply.
Gumiho was out there. Waiting. With so many of the most powerful Juneun busy against forces elsewhere, who was left to stop her if he fell?
He should’ve sent away the boy, rather than allow himself to indulge the tale and offer a trade. It already took so much of his strength to spare the spirit of the doe. And now its mate, the sacred stag of the mountain, would be without her. There was no fawn between them. Not that he knew. And he pitied the thing, knowing it’d search for its mate to no avail. Until the next life.
The butterfly left as the door opened.
“Lord Kwan.” Syaoran made his polite greetings, waiting for an invitation in. Only after an acknowledgement did he go on.
“Any news on the Kurai?”
“I,” hesitated Syaoran. “I’m not sure.”
Kwan grunted, returning his gaze out the window.
“My lord, about the prisoner.”
“I will carry out the sentence myself in the morning.”
His servant stumbled. “Yes. But, my lord, don’t you think it’s a bit cruel? The child has already—”
Kwan whipped his face to look at his servant, a sever expression marring his features. “Then carry it out yourself. It’s of little interest to me.”
“If that’s the case, why not—?”
Kwan slammed his palm to the floor, a loud thud reminding Syaoran of his place and his overstep. “We are finished discussing it. You can carry out the execution today, or I can carry it out tomorrow.”
Sadness filled Syaoran’s expression. “Yes, lord.”
Kwan relaxed himself, leaning against the wall again, and letting the back of his head thump softly with him on the cool wood. “I’m so tired.”
The young fox spirit said nothing, watching his master with a curiousness.
“Truth be told, I’m glad of the delay. I didn’t know if I’d have the strength to bear such a thing today.”
Silence.
“A tiger’s legs are strong. The strongest part of it.” A smile tried to form on his face, failing completely. “When it dies, it’s legs will continue to hold it upright, while the rest of it falls limp.” It wasn’t the first time he’d said this, and swam in the romantic tragedy of the words.
“The tiger’s fur is orange and black,” said Syaoran, “Against a forest of green. It walks through, proud, yet remains unseen.”
Kwan managed the smallest smile, returning his gaze to his friend. “That’s a good one.”
Before further conversation, a reprieve from recent events, could continue, frantic footfalls echoed. A scout, still half-coated in mud and leaves, slid into view.
“Lord Kwan,” called the scout, making a quick bow. “There was a sighting of the fox clan.”
Kwan’s voice went cold, and his eyes steely. “Gumiho?”
He shook his head. “We’re not sure. But several from her clan were confirmed.”
Before the scout finished his words, Kwan stood and grabbed his sword in swift movements. He rushed past the others in a blur, a bolt of lightning without thunder. He put aside any further thoughts of the prisoner boy, hurrying to stop whatever calamity his quarry planned.