Chapter Text
"As one who stands in dewless asphodel
Looks backward on the tedious time he had
In the upper life,—so I, with bosom-swell,
Make witness, here, between the good and bad,
That Love, as strong as Death, retrieves as well."
Browning, Elizabeth Barrett. “Sonnet 27.” Sonnets from the Portuguese, 1850.
Fuma was born in a time where Feudal Japan was a land bound by duty - a world where honour reigned higher than desire, and death was often easier than disgrace. He was not born noble, nor destined for power; his family were retainers, loyal to their lord for generations. From boyhood, he was taught the language of obedience: A samurai kneels to no fear. Affection is a weakness. Longing is a sin.
He grew tall, disciplined, and feared by boys his age, though few knew he had once been a gentle boy who fed stray dogs beneath the barracks and paused during patrol to admire the first plum blossoms of spring. He excelled in combat, yes, but he was not a man made of violence. He was a man forged by restraint.
Fuma was twenty-three when his life was taken from the battlefield and drawn into the palace.
He had trained for war but still accepted the scroll sealed with wax and crimson thread in silence and read it only once. He was to report to the capital immediately. It was an honour no man refused.
When he arrived at the royal estate under the first blush of morning, the capital unfolded before him like a painting with curved rooftops glazed in amber light. He was given a new uniform that was lacquered black with the crest of the royal household and a residence within the guard barracks inside the court walls.
Court life was unlike any discipline he had known. Men smiled without meaning it and women bowed with eyes lowered, but heard everything. Rumours travelled not by voice, but by silk sleeve, and the flick of a fan.
He spent his first month never seeing the royal family. His duty was to patrol corridors, escort ministers, and observe ceremonies from shadowed alcoves. He had no words for the emptiness it brought. For the first time, battlefields almost felt simple.
Fuma had heard of the royal family all his life, of course. In his childhood, he had stood in crowded temple courts during imperial processions - just a boy among peasants, craning his neck to catch a fleeting glimpse of embroidered palanquins gliding past. He never saw more than a hint of fabric, the gleam of a lacquered carriage, and the hush of a thousand bowed heads.
Legends said the crown prince was born under an auspicious moon, The boy had been blessed with intellect, elegance, and a bearing fit to charm even iron-hearted generals. Poets wrote verses praising his beauty and ministers spoke of a youth destined to unite warring houses through diplomacy rather than blood.
Fuma dismissed it all. Not from disrespect but practicality. Men who bled on battlefields had little patience for silk-draped myths. But here, within palace walls, those myths walked as men. He passed portraits of royal lineage hung across long corridors: eyes as dark as ink, postures straight as calligraphy strokes.
One night, the moon stretched pale and thin over the mountain citadel, casting its light across tiled rooftops and silent courtyards. Hours after the palace had gone to sleep, only the guards and ghosts wandered the corridors. Fuma moved among them like a shadow with his blade at his hip, and dark hair pulled high to expose the sharp line of his neck. He was on night patrol, though he had never believed any threat could reach this place. Not with men like him stationed at every corner.
It was late spring and the air had a slightly cold chill to it still so he did not expect anyone to be awake at this hour. But across the koi pond, under the silver wash of moonlight, a lone figure sat at the water’s edge. A small candle burned beside them, the flame dancing gently against the breeze. White sleeves draped over slender arms, and ripples shimmered outward each time they scattered feed across the still surface.
They were relaxed, as though the night itself had offered them privacy and they hummed something wistful under their breath. A child’s lullaby, perhaps.
The koi gathered hungrily at the surface, flickers of gold and white. The young noble began to lean forward with a smile but as if sensing the weight of his gaze, the figure paused. Their hand stilled over the water and they turned,
“I did not expect anyone here,” the stranger observed. His voice was soft, but carried the unmistakable weight of rank. A prince, Fuma realized, with a chill. He lowered to one knee, hand to his chest.
“My apologies, Your Highness. I did not expect -”
“To find someone else wandering past curfew?” The prince’s lips curved, not quite a smile. “Stand. I have no need for kneeling at this hour.”
Fuma rose.
“What is your name, samurai?”
“Murata Fuma,” he answered, inclining his head “Retainer of the Koga house. It is my duty to look after you.”
“Fuma…” the prince repeated, tasting it. “And is it only duty that keeps you awake tonight?”
The question caught him unguarded. Samurai did not speak of such things.
“I do not sleep easily,” Fuma admitted quietly.
“Nor I,” the prince said. “Perhaps that is why we found the same moon.”
There was a soft splash as another handful of koi feed scattered over the pond. Then the royal rose gracefully, brushing invisible dust from flowing robes, and for a heartbeat, their eyes lifted to his. Moonlight found them and Fuma’s breath stilled.
The royal’s features were soft, almost delicate, and framed by dark hair that fell long past his shoulders, no longer bound in ceremonial pins or combed into court-mandated precision. Under the moon, the strands shimmered like ink brushed across pale parchment. His brow was smooth, untroubled; his nose fine and straight.
He was beautiful, yes. Impossibly so. Yet to compare him to a woman felt inaccurate, almost insulting. Women were trained to appear lovely. This man simply was.
His eyes, when he lifted them, were the worst of it. Fuma had seen eyes hardened by death, sharpened by ambition, or dulled by survival. But these eyes… they were luminous. Like sunlight trapped in soil - soft gold just beneath the brown surface.
“Goodnight,” he said gently and Fuma bowed once more.
“Goodnight, my Highness.”
Fuma continued on his patrol, an unease lingering in his stomach from the encounter. What had just occurred was improper.
A samurai did not meet the eyes of a royal for so long. A man did not linger on the face of another, cataloguing details of the crescent shape of his eyes when he smiled, and the softness that cracked through royal composure. A warrior did not remember the sound of another man’s laughter.
He pressed his palms together, as though prayer might sever this thread forming between them.
Fuma began to see him often, though never by intention. His patrol path carried him through the quieter courtyards of the inner palace, where moonlight pooled like pale ink across worn stone. There, beneath the soft hush of early summer nights, he would find the same solitary figure sitting beside the koi pond, always dressed in simple sleeping robes rather than the formal attire worn during the day.
The figure never seemed startled by him anymore; rather, there was a subtle nod of acknowledgment, an unspoken allowance of I know you are there, and I do not mind.
Fuma knew he should ask for a name. He was a samurai of the inner guard; to stand night after night in proximity to a royal without formal address was improper at best, punishable at worst. But there was something in the scene that forbade intrusion. The young noble sat with an ease Fuma had never witnessed among the imperial bloodline, with his head tilted back as if to drink the moonlight itself. So Fuma remained wordless, folded into the stillness of night, watching a serenity he could neither approach nor name.
It was on a night much like the others, Fuma had taken his accustomed post along the covered walkway, hands folded within his sleeves, gaze carefully lowered. Beside the koi pond, the royal sat as he always did, knees drawn close, candle at his side, scattering feed with the unhurried grace of someone accustomed to solitude. Then, without turning, the prince spoke.
“They’ve grown slower,” he said quietly. “When I was a boy, they would rush to me the moment I approached. Now they drift as though they are considering whether I am worth the effort. Or perhaps they are just growing old.”
Fuma did not answer at first. He had never been invited into such talk before yet something in the prince’s gentle tone loosened his tongue despite himself.
“How long have you kept them?” he asked.
A faint smile curved on the royal’s lips. “Since I was twelve. Some of these,” he gestured to the largest koi, their scales gleaming like tarnished gold, “have known me longer than half the ministers in court.”
Fuma’s gaze followed the lazy ripples. “They are loyal, then.”
The man shook his head. “I don’t know that fish are capable of loyalty.” A pause. “But I like to think they recognize me. Not because I bring feed… but because I have been here. Year after year, season after season. I would like to believe that presence, even wordless, is… remembered.”
His fingers trailed the surface of the water, and one koi rose, slow and unhurried, to meet it.
“They know you,” Fuma said. “Not all recognition requires reward.”
The prince said nothing but in the faint crease of his expression, something softened as though someone had, at last, given him an answer he had not known he was asking.
── ⋆⋅☾⋅⋆ ──
The sun was high as Fuma stood in the barracks courtyard with several other samurai as a senior officer unfurled a scroll bearing the imperial seal. The orders were clear: a select guard would be assigned to escort a member of the royal family on an extended political journey through provincial courts as they met daimyō, quelled disputes, reinforced alliances, and reassured loyalty to the Crown.
Fuma’s name was among those chosen.
It was an honour he accepted without expression.
They were instructed to prepare formal attire, shave, bind their hair, and present themselves for official introduction in the east audience hall at noon.
By midday, he knelt alongside six other samurai beneath the carved beams of the reception hall and a hush settled as the Master of Ceremony struck his staff upon the floor.
“You have been chosen,” the court official announced, “to serve His Highness Prince Yudai, heir apparent to the Throne. You will protect his life, represent his honour, and give your own blood before letting harm reach him.”
Yudai.
It echoed across the room and Fuma bowed deeper, his forehead to tatami.
Prince Yudai entered flanked by his attendants, his formal robes in imperial dark blue rather than the white he wore at night. His hair was bound in a high court knot and his expression was unreadable as his gaze passed over his new guards slowly.
“Rise,” Yudai said, voice smooth as steel drawn from silk. “It will be an honour to have you all as part of my guard.”
Fuma rose, staring fixedly past Yudai’s shoulder.
They did not acknowledge who they had already been to each other and the first days passed in disciplined stillness. They were no longer two restless souls under a moon. They were samurai and sovereign.
Fuma would keep three paces behind Prince Yudai, neither near enough to intrude nor far enough to fail his charge. The sun replaced moonlight, and with it came the weight of protocol. What had once been quiet companionship at the koi pond became rigid distance of samurai and prince, roles carved by centuries of tradition.
Yudai moved through his days with effortless poise. He visited council chambers, sat through petitions, accepted reports from ministers with a calm that bordered on boredom. He observed etiquette with hands placed, back straight, and voice always measured.
Through it all, Fuma remained silent. He did not speak unless spoken to and Yudai, perhaps deliberately, did not speak to him.
It was late one night, long past the final bell, when the sliding door of Prince Yudai’s chambers opened with a soft wooden sigh. Fuma stood in the outer hall, hands folded within his sleeves, gaze fixed forward.
The prince stepped quietly into the corridor, his night robes loose at the shoulder, hair unpinned and falling freely down his back. He paused mid-step, clearly expecting the hall to be empty. When he saw Fuma, his eyebrows lifted in something like chagrin.
“Oh,” he murmured, with a rueful smile. “I forgot they assigned guards to this hall now.”
Fuma bowed with rigid formality. “Your Highness should return inside. It is late.”
Yudai’s lips curved. “And yet here I am, standing outside my room.”
Fuma straightened, unmoved. “It is my duty to see that your rest is undisturbed.”
Yudai continued to exit his room, passing Fuma with the unhurried confidence of someone long accustomed to having hallways bend to his will. He did not look back.
“I assume,” he said lightly, “you intend to follow me?”
“…Yes.”
“Good.” The prince’s tone softened. “Because I would rather not walk alone tonight.”
They made their way through the silent palace, the only sound the soft hush of their robes and the distant cry of insects. When they reached the koi pond, Yudai did not sit on the edge as he once had. Instead, he stood, toes near the stones, hair stirring in the night breeze, and his eyes on the koi drifting like ghosts beneath the surface.
Fuma remained where he was three measured paces behind.
“Come here,” Yudai murmured, without turning.
Fuma did not move. The weight of his station, of centuries-old code, held him like iron.
A soft exhale of half sigh, half amused disbelief escaped Yudai. He turned then, expression caught somewhere between fondness and challenge. With an ease that ignored every line of rank, Yudai stepped toward him. His hand, pale against the muted blue of his robes, took Fuma’s wrist.
Fuma stiffened, breath caught in stillness as Yudai’s long, slender fingers enclosed his wrist gently.
“Come,” he said softly as he pressed something into Fuma’s hand. Koi feed.
“You stand there like a stone statue,” Yudai said, eyes glinting with quiet mischief. “At least pretend to be alive.”
Fuma stared down at the pellets resting in his palm, the ghost of the prince’s touch still warm on his skin. Something inside him trembled - not with fear, but with an emotion he had never trained against.
“Your Highness,” he said, the words heavy in his throat, “this is not -”
“Allowed?” Yudai finished for him. “Then consider this,” he said, turning back to the pond, “an act I shall deny, and you shall never speak of.”
The koi, sensing the promise of food, gathered below, mouths breaking the surface in quiet circles. Fuma remained motionless a breath longer before stepping forward and for the first time, stood beside the prince.
They moved to kneel side by side at the edge of the pond, their sleeves brushing just once, a fleeting whisper of silk against uniform. Fuma held the koi feed in his palm, unsure whether to cast it or retreat. The prince, seeing his hesitation, lowered gracefully to his knees and dipped his own hand into the water, calling the fish with a soft flick of his fingers.
“They’re slow tonight,” Yudai murmured, watching the surface ripple. “Perhaps they’re still sulking.”
Fuma glanced at him. “Sulking?”
Yudai nodded, as though the idea were perfectly reasonable. “This one,” he pointed, as a large white koi with a crimson-marked head approached, “is Akahana. She refuses to eat if someone stares too much.”
Another koi that was smaller and mottled gold and black, swam in reckless zigzags, bumping into the others. “That unruly one is Goro,” the prince continued, voice softening. “He has no decorum. Always impatient,”
“And that one,” Yudai said, nodding toward a pale koi that lingered at the edges, circling slowly as though shy of the crowd, “is Shiro. He takes his time and watches before he joins. A creature of caution.” A pause. “I think he understands more than he admits.”
Fuma followed Shiro’s path through the water, recognizing something of himself in its solitary orbit. The prince said nothing more for a long while, merely leaned back on his hands, sleeves falling loose from his wrists, face tilted toward the moon.
Without turning his head, Yudai spoke again so softly it felt like a confession to the night itself.
“I don’t know why,” he murmured, “but I am… glad you’re here. Your presence gives me peace even in my most restless nights.”
Fuma’s heart, so trained to stillness, answered with a single, undeniable truth: I will never leave.
── ⋆⋅☾⋅⋆ ──
The political tour began beneath the fanfare of banners and the formality of departure rites. Servants bowed as ministers offered final instructions, and then the imperial entourage filed out in structured ranks of horses, carriages, guards, scribes, and silent watchmen like Fuma, stationed where duty demanded.
They travelled through provinces where rice fields stretched gold in the distance, river towns that were hidden beneath mist, and between mountain passes where shrines nestled quietly among ancient pines. Their arrival in each domain was always the same: welcoming procession, ceremonial gift exchange, councils held behind carved doors.
To Fuma, it all felt like an intricately rehearsed performance that was stiff and drenched in formality and yet Prince Yudai accepted every gift with honest gratitude.
When a widow offered him handwoven cloth, clumsily wrapped but clearly treasured, he bowed as though she had laid the most expensive fabric at his feet. When a farmer apologized for the poor harvest, the prince asked how long the rains had been scarce, not whether the tribute would suffer.
While officials ushered him toward halls and thrones, he always asked to see the villages. And though his retainers protested that it was against protocol, he went anyway. He walked beneath wooden eaves, greeted fishermen mending nets, knelt to speak with children bold enough to stare at him. He listened not as heir, but as witness.
And Fuma, who had never cared for courts or crowns, found himself watching Yudai more closely. The other guards whispered behind Yudai’s back that he was too soft to rule but Fuma understood the truth. Prince Yudai was not soft, he was strong. He was as strong as a lantern in stormlight - one that chose to remain lit, even when wind would have excused its extinguishing.
The guest house in the village they were currently visiting was modest by royal standards - a single room of cedar and tatami, faintly perfumed with smoke and pine. Outside, the night hummed with the sounds of summer: frogs in the stream, crickets singing, and the creak of wood settling after heat. Fuma stood at his post by the door, listening to it all, every sense sharpened in quiet vigilance.
Inside, the prince had long since dismissed his attendants. He was seated near the open veranda, still in his formal robes, though the outer layer had been cast aside. Candlelight painted his profile in gold and shadow.
“Fuma,” Yudai said suddenly, voice clear in the still air.
The samurai straightened immediately. “Yes, Your Highness.”
“Come in,” Yudai murmured, turning his head slightly toward the door. “You’ve been standing there for hours.”
“It’s my duty,” Fuma replied, his tone even, though his pulse quickened. “I must remain - ”
“I know.” Yudai’s interruption was soft, but certain. “But it’s only the two of us here. You can stand just as well inside.”
Fuma hesitated. The wooden threshold between them felt suddenly wider than any battlefield trench. To cross it would be to cross into dangerous, unspoken territory. And yet, Yudai was looking at him the way he always did: patient, as if the world itself would not continue until he obeyed.
Reluctantly, Fuma stepped in.
The door slid shut behind him with a faint click. The air inside was warmer than outside, carrying the faint scent of sandalwood from the brazier in the corner. Yudai gestured toward a place near him on the floor.
“Sit.”
“I shouldn’t - ”
“Sit,” Yudai repeated, a small smile ghosting over his lips. “If you remain standing, I’ll start to think you dislike my company.”
That caught him off guard. Fuma moved to kneel, hands resting lightly on his thighs. He kept his gaze lowered, though the proximity drew every sense taut. The candlelight flickered over Yudai’s face, turning his eyes into pools of molten amber.
For a while, neither spoke. It might have been minutes, it might have been an eternity. Fuma listened to the wind pushing at the shutters, to the soft shift of the prince’s breath.
Yudai reached for the teapot beside him, pouring into two cups - a simple act, done with the grace of a man unaccustomed to serving anyone. He set one cup before Fuma, steam curling faintly between them.
“Drink,” he said, smiling again. “It will make me feel less like a tyrant.”
Fuma hesitated, then took the cup with both hands. The porcelain was warm, smooth against the rough calluses of his palms. Across from him, Prince Yudai lifted his cup with both hands, sipping carefully, the motion unhurried, as if savouring not the tea but the silence between them.
Candlelight caught the fine edges of his face - the curve of his cheek, the line of his jaw softened by weariness. He looked impossibly young like this, not the heir of a great empire but some quiet spirit dressed in silk and moonlight.
Fuma’s gaze faltered, drawn down the slow fall of Yudai’s robe where it had slipped slightly open at the collar. Beneath the loose fold of fabric lay the faint hollow of his throat, the pale plane of skin leading to his chest - a shade of ivory the candlelight turned gold. Fuma looked only long enough to feel the strike of something sharp and foreign in his gut before his eyes jerked away.
He blinked hard, as if clearing dust from his sight.
What - what was that?
His chest felt tight, as though his armour had been refitted a size too small. The air seemed different in the room, thick and warm. His pulse, which had weathered battles and bloodshed, now stumbled over the sound of the prince setting down his cup.
Perhaps I’m unwell, Fuma thought. It was the only explanation that fit within the laws of his world. A soldier’s body could not lie, after all and yet his stomach turned traitor, twisting each time Yudai’s sleeve brushed his wrist or when his voice softened to speak another word.
It was absurd, this unease. The same body that had endured cold winters, katana wounds, and endless drills now felt feverish from the sight of a single exposed inch of skin.
Pathetic.
Morning came cool and gray, and the mountains still veiled in mist when the entourage began to move. Horses stamped in the damp soil and Fuma adjusted the reins of his mount, the familiar weight of armour grounding him in the routine of command. He had requested to ride at the front.
It was practical, he told the captain. The path ahead was narrow and unpaved, prone to rock slides. A samurai should scout first for the safety of the prince’s procession. It was the most logical reason and yet even as the captain nodded in agreement, Fuma felt the lie settle bitter in his throat.
The road eventually wound through a thick stretch of cedar forest, the kind where even sunlight seemed reluctant to enter. The air was still cool and damp, carrying the faint scent of moss and rain-soaked bark. Birds had been calling earlier with notes that echoed between the trunks but somewhere along the path, their song had stopped. The air on the back of Fuma’s neck rose.
He drew his gaze from the horizon and let it drift toward the trees. The cedars stood unnaturally still, their needles unmoving despite the faint breeze. A crow lifted from a branch and vanished soundlessly into the deeper wood. His horse shuddered beneath him, ears flicking to the west causing Fuma to slow his pace.
Something was wrong.
He couldn’t say how he knew - only that he did. Every soldier develops this sense after enough battles: that moment when the world inhales and forgets to exhale again.
Fuma raised a hand, a silent signal for the men behind him to halt. The caravan creaked to stillness as he slid from his saddle, one hand already resting on the hilt of his katana. The world was utterly quiet now, A shape moved between the trees, gone before his eyes could catch it, He drew his blade.
“Form up,” he said quietly to the nearest rider. “Now.”
Then, from the woods, came the faintest snap - the brittle sound of a branch breaking underfoot. Fuma turned toward it, muscles coiled tight, eyes narrowing.
A single arrow loosed through the silence. It thudded into the chest of the rider beside him.
The air split open with the scream of arrows and the crash of steel. Horses reared, men shouted, and the road that had been calm only heartbeats ago was suddenly alive with terror. Fuma was already moving before thought caught up to him.
“Protect the Prince!” he barked, voice cutting through the din. The words came from instinct but the urgency in his chest came from something else entirely. He could not see the prince. The royal banners had fallen back among the chaos, and through the dust and the shouting, there was only confusion - soldiers turning, horses scattering, the sharp sound of blades being drawn.
He sprinted toward the center of the caravan, ducking beneath the hiss of an arrow that buried itself in a tree behind him. He shoved past a fallen rider, eyes scanning desperately through the chaos for white silk and the glint of the imperial crest. Another arrow whistled past, close enough to tear through the sleeve of his armour.
There was a flash of imperial red as someone struggled to get their rearing horse under control and Fuma’s world narrowed to that single figure. He drove forward, cutting down one man who lunged toward him from the trees. The blade struck flesh, bone, then nothing.
“Your Highness!” he shouted, this time unrestrained. “This way!”
Yudai’s head whipped toward him his eyes wide and startled.
Fuma reached him just as another volley cut through the air. He caught the horse’s reins, jerked them hard, and pulled Yudai down from the saddle before the next arrow could find him. The prince stumbled, landing against Fuma’s chest with a force that knocked the breath from them both.
“Stay behind me,” Fuma said, voice raw. He could barely hear himself over the clash of steel and the shouts of dying men.
Yudai’s hand gripped his sleeve, trembling but sure. “Where - ”
“Into the woods.” Fuma grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward the trees.
Behind them, the caravan was a storm of motion: smoke, fire, steel, and terror. Fuma didn’t look back. His mind had stripped itself bare of everything but the single thought pounding through his veins - keep him alive.
Branches whipped against their faces as they crashed through the underbrush as arrows continued to hiss behind them. Fuma turned once, slashing down another attacker that burst through the trees, and then pushed Yudai onward. The prince stumbled once more, catching himself against Fuma’s arm.
“Go!” Fuma barked.
And then they were running again, into the thick, unbroken darkness of the forest. The sound of war faded behind them, leaving only the echo of breath, blood, and the terrible, fragile truth that Fuma would kill anyone who tried to take Yudai from him.
A small, strangled sound broke the quiet.
“Fuma,” Yudai’s voice caught, thin with pain. “My ankle…”
He staggered, and before Fuma could stop him, the prince’s knee buckled. The weight of him folded inward, and warrior drove forward. He caught him around the waist just as Yudai would have fallen, his other hand finding the prince’s arm and pulling it firmly over his own shoulders.
“Easy,” Fuma murmured, though his heart was still hammering like war drums. “Lean on me.”
Yudai didn’t argue as the warmth of his body pressed against Fuma’s side. Through the torn layers of fabric, Fuma could feel every tremor that ran through him. The prince smelled faintly of rain and smoke and something faintly floral from the oil used in his hair. It was dizzying.
They moved slowly, half-walking, half-stumbling between the trees. Each time Yudai faltered, Fuma bore more of his weight without complaint, jaw tight, and eyes fixed ahead.
“Almost there,” Fuma murmured, though he didn’t know where there was. He just needed enough distance for Yudai’s heartbeat to slow beneath his arm.
Rain began to fall lightly at first, then heavier, pattering through the canopy in silver threads. The forest darkened and then the water beaded on their skin, soaked through Yudai’s robe, and plastered Fuma’s hair to his temple.
When they finally stumbled into the mouth of a small cave that was shallow and half-hidden behind a curtain of wet ferns, Fuma guided Yudai toward the flattest part of the floor, setting him down against the stone wall where the dripping from above wouldn’t reach. Only then did he release him, his hands lingering a moment longer than necessary.
Outside, the storm pressed against the trees, the sound of rain striking leaves like distant applause. The world felt sealed away, the air heavy with the sharp scent of wet earth and fear slowly receding.
Fuma crouched immediately before the prince, breath still rough from the run. “Let me see,” he said quietly, already reaching for Yudai’s injured leg.
“It’s fine - ” Yudai began, but the look on Fuma’s face silenced him.
Silk slid up pale skin, over the curve of calf, the sharp bone of the ankle. Fuma’s calloused hands, made for steel, now brushed flesh sacred by birth and law. Fuma’s touch was careful as his thumb traced the swelling, testing for fracture. The muscle beneath twitched and Yudai’s fingers fisted in his own robes.
Fuma lowered his eyes immediately, bowing his head over the prince’s ankle as though in apology. “It is not broken,” he said, voice low. “But you must not walk on it.”
Yudai let out a shaky breath, eyes half-lidded in both pain and exhaustion. “I’ll live, thanks to you.” He tried to smile, though it faltered when he noticed the dark stain spreading down Fuma’s arm.
“Your sleeve…” He gasped. “You’re bleeding.”
Fuma glanced down as if just remembering the arrow that had grazed him in the chaos. The tear in his sleeve was small but deep enough to reveal the long, shallow slash glistening with blood and rainwater.
“It’s nothing,” he said simply. “A scratch.”
“Nothing?” Yudai’s tone carried reproach. “You call this nothing?”
Before Fuma could stop him, the Prince leaned forward, reaching for his arm. His fingers closed around the limb with surprising firmness. Yudai’s hands were warm, and they trembled faintly as he examined the gash.
“This must be cleaned,” Yudai said, his brows furrowed in concentration. “You’ll make it worse if you ignore it.”
“It will close,” Fuma replied, voice a little too tight. “You should rest.”
But Yudai wasn’t listening. He had already torn a strip of cloth from the inner lining of his robe, his movements quick as he reached for Fuma’s arm again. The samurai started to protest - the prince should never soil his hands like this - but Yudai looked up at him with a mixture of exasperation and something gentler.
“You’ve done enough,” Yudai murmured after a while, his voice so low it was almost lost beneath the rain. “If it weren’t for you, I might have - ”
“Don’t,” Fuma interrupted, harsher than he meant to. The word cracked in the quiet space between them. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
Yudai looked at him, eyes deep and still, and for a heartbeat, Fuma almost forgot to breathe. The prince’s hand was still on his arm, fingers light but firm, and all the world’s formality felt impossibly far away.
The rain eased slowly as the night deepened, the rhythm softening from a downpour to a steady hush against the mouth of the cave. The storm’s fury had passed, leaving behind the sound of dripping water and the faint rustle of wind through wet leaves.
Yudai lay near the back wall, his damp robe loosened, his injured ankle elevated on Fuma’s folded cloak. The faintest colour had returned to his cheeks, a fragile sign of calm after all the panic.
Fuma sat a short distance away, knees drawn, katana resting across his lap. He had not moved for some time, gaze fixed on the cave’s entrance - the forest beyond now a blur of black and silver beneath the rain.
“You should rest,” Yudai murmured, voice softened by exhaustion. “You haven’t closed your eyes since before the attack.”
Fuma didn’t turn. “I will stay awake, Your Highness.”
Yudai smiled faintly, though his eyes remained closed. “Of course you will.”
“I must be alert,” Fuma continued. “If they return - ”
“They won’t.” Yudai’s tone was gentle but certain. “No one would brave this weather twice. ”
“It isn’t worth the risk. You should sleep. I’ll keep watch.”
“If you intend to watch all night, you’ll have no eyes left for the morning. How will you protect me then?”
Fuma said nothing. The argument was sound, yet he couldn’t bring himself to yield. His purpose was all he knew and to rest now, beside the prince he had nearly died to protect, felt impossible.
“Fuma.” Yudai’s voice was softer now, the syllables drawn out like a lullaby. “I told you - we are safe here.”
“You cannot know that,” Fuma said.
“Perhaps not,” Yudai replied. “But I believe it.”
“Who were they?” Fuma turned to face him fully, frustration softening into curiosity. “The men who attacked us. Bandits do not ride in formation or use armour from the capital’s forges. They were trained. What could they possibly want?”
Yudai’s gaze dropped to the fire. He was silent for a moment before answering, his tone measured, quiet. “Not what,” he murmured, “who.”
Fuma frowned. “You mean - ”
“Me,” Yudai said simply, then sighed, the sound heavy with resignation rather than fear. “Or at least, what I represent.”
He reached toward the fire and fed another piece of kindling into it, his movements elegant, even now. “The northern territories have been restless for months. The western lords grow nervous watching their alliances shift like sand. Every whisper in the palace speaks of divided loyalty, of neighbors who smile during feasts but sharpen their blades afterward. I am to visit them all to remind them of their oaths.” His lips curved in a faint, tired smile. “Perhaps some prefer not to be reminded.”
Fuma’s eyes narrowed slightly, the soldier in him already running through the implications. “Assassins, then.”
“Or a warning,” Yudai replied. “Politics is never without both.”
The prince leaned back against the wall, eyes unfocused, voice growing softer. “This is what diplomacy often means, Fuma. Smiling through the knowledge that someone, somewhere, is calculating the value of your death.”
Fuma’s hand tightened over the hilt of his katana. “Then you should not have been travelling without more men. Or better intelligence.”
Yudai glanced up at him, amusement flickering in his expression despite the exhaustion. “You speak as though I command the entire army.”
“Perhaps you should,” Fuma said before he could stop himself.
Yudai tilted his head, studying him in the firelight. “You sound like a man who has seen too much war.”
“Enough to recognize its shadow.”
“I’m sorry you’ve had to see more of it for my sake.”
Fuma shook his head. “It is my duty.”
“Duty,” Yudai repeated quietly, almost to himself. “Such a heavy word.”
Night crept slowly into the cave, the rain outside softening from storm to curtain. The air had grown colder, enough that Yudai’s hands were drawn into his sleeves, breath faintly visible.
“Fuma,” he murmured, shifting against the cloak he lay on, “I can’t seem to get warm.”
Fuma glanced over from where he sat near the entrance. “You should rest under the cloak instead of using it for your ankle, Your Highness.”
“I’ve already tried,” Yudai said softly. “It’s the air… it feels colder here than outside.”
When the silence lingered too long, Yudai spoke again, gentler this time. “Come closer.”
Fuma stilled. “That would not be proper, my lord.”
Yudai’s lips quirked faintly, a smile half-amused and half-tired. “Proper?” he echoed. “Do palace rules stretch into the mountains now? Do they bind us even here, with no court, no eyes, no ceremony?”
“This is not right,” Fuma said at last. His voice was more wounded than his arm. “This… manner. This way of speaking. Our proximity. It defies order.”
Yudai’s brows drew together. “Order?”
“I am your guard,” Fuma continued. “You are heir to the imperial line. I should not kneel here speaking freely. I should not… lift your robe. Tend your skin. I should not - ”
He stopped. The words themselves felt like trespass.
Yudai tilted his head, eyes unwavering. “Should not. Should not. All I hear from you are laws I did not write.”
Fuma’s breath tightened. “They exist regardless.”
“And yet,” Yudai said, gesturing faintly to the cave around them, “they do not seem to exist here.”
Rain crackled outside. No banners. No palace. No witnesses. Just a storm, and the tremor between two breaths.
Fuma lowered his gaze again. “This closeness… it is dangerous.”
“Why?” Yudai asked, too softly.
“It invites misunderstanding.”
“By whom?” the prince challenged. “The trees? The rain?”
Fuma’s jaw clenched.
Yudai leaned forward. “Tell me, Samurai,” he said quietly, “if no eyes are upon us, whom do you still fear?”
Fuma’s answer was scarcely audible.
“Myself.”
“Well, I am cold and you are sworn to my safety. It is your duty to keep me warm.” Yudai said at last. “Then I shall make it an order. If you refuse to act as a man, I will command you as your prince.”
Fuma exhaled through his nose, a quiet surrender wrapped in the breath of a sigh.
“As you wish,” he murmured.
He crossed the cave, each step heavy with restraint. He sank beside the prince, keeping distance but Yudai looked at that empty space, then at him.
“Closer.”
Fuma moved closer, settling beside Yudai on the thin layer of cloak. He meant to stay sitting upright, katana across his lap as always, a barrier of habit and restraint between them. But Yudai, still half-drowsy and entirely unconcerned with decorum, rolled over until his shoulder brushed against Fuma’s arm, then further, until their sides met in quiet, unmistakable contact.
“I’ll be warmer now,” Yudai murmured, eyes closed. “Thank you.”
Fuma lay rigid, afraid that any shift of breath would shatter the fragile stillness between them. He could feel the prince’s hair brushing against his shoulder, the faint scent of rain and cedarwood oil clinging to him. His own pulse thundered so loudly he half-wondered if Yudai could hear it.
The prince’s features, so often arranged in composure fit for court, were softened now by exhaustion. His lips were slightly parted, the faintest trace of colour returned to them. A small crease lingered between his brows, even in sleep the echo of pain, or perhaps worry lingered. Fuma’s fingers itched to smooth it away.
He did not. He kept his hands folded neatly in his lap, as though touch alone might undo him.
Fuma told himself this was only duty. That the prince slept because he felt safe. That the ache rising in his chest was not desire but devotion - not longing, but loyalty.
He should have moved him, covered him with a cloak, and resumed his watch. That was what a samurai would do. That was what he would have done - any other night, for any other man. But this was not any other man.
── ⋆⋅☾⋅⋆ ──
When Fuma woke, it was to warmth. The air smelled of rain and pine; somewhere outside, water dripped from the leaves in slow rhythm. Light pooled into the cave in pale threads, soft and golden, catching on the edges of Yudai’s hair.
The prince’s head rested on his chest, one arm draped across his middle as though claiming him in sleep. Their legs were tangled beneath the cloak, bodies pressed close from the night’s chill. Fuma’s arm, traitorous thing, was wrapped firmly around the prince’s shoulders.
For one fragile moment, he let himself exist there. It was the most peaceful rest he’d had in years, perhaps ever. No nightmares, no midnight alarms. Only the sound of the quiet, even rhythm of Yudai’s breathing against him.
Then panic bloomed. What had he done? What had he allowed? He was supposed to watch over the prince, not hold him. He was supposed to guard, not crave.
Fuma’s hand twitched as if burned, but he stopped himself from pulling away too abruptly. The motion might wake Yudai and some small, wretched part of him didn’t want that yet. His gaze fell to the prince’s face: serene, untroubled, faintly smiling even in sleep. The sight hit harder than any arrow.
How could something so simple feel so ruinous?
Slowly, carefully, he began to shift his arm away but Yudai stirred anyways, the faintest sound leaving his lips, and Fuma froze.
The prince blinked awake with the lazy confusion of someone not yet fully aware of the world. His eyes, when they met Fuma’s, softened in recognition.
“Good morning,” Yudai murmured, voice low and husky with sleep.
Fuma bowed his head instinctively, though his movements were stiff. “Forgive me, my Prince. I - it grew cold during the night. You asked that I stay close -”
Yudai’s lips curved into a small smile, one hand still resting against Fuma’s chest where his heart thundered. “I remember,” he said quietly. “And I’m grateful. You’re much warmer than I expected.”
Fuma’s pulse stumbled. “It won’t happen again.”
The smile faltered for only a second before Yudai drew back slightly, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his own ear. “You speak as though it were a crime,” he said, his tone unreadable. “It was just sleep, Fuma.”
Fuma rose swiftly, as though distance could erase the warmth still lingering on his skin. He busied himself with checking his katana, scanning the forest beyond the cave for movement. Anything to keep from looking back at the man who’d just undone him without trying.
By the time the clouds began to thin, Fuma had already ventured out. The forest, washed clean by rain, gleamed beneath the pale light of early day and droplets still clinging to the leaves like glass beads. The smell of damp cedar filled the air, and somewhere far off, birds had begun to sing again as if the night’s violence had never happened.
There was little to be found in the way of food. A few early summer plums, half-ripe but sweet enough to eat, and some wild berries tucked beneath the undergrowth which he gathered in the folds of his sleeve,
When he returned, the prince was awake, propped up on one elbow, the morning light cutting across his face in delicate lines. His dark hair fell loose around his shoulders, glinting faintly gold at the edges.
“You found something?” Yudai asked, eyes brightening.
“Not much,” Fuma said. “But it will do until we rejoin the others.”
He set down the fruit carefully on a scrap of cloth between them. Yudai reached for one of the plums, the movement slow and a little stiff from sleeping on the hard ground. He bit into it, and the faintest smile tugged at his lips when the juice ran down his fingers.
When they had finished, Fuma gathered the pits and leaves, tidying the small space with habitual care. “Let me see your ankle,” he said at last.
Yudai nodded. “If you insist.”
Fuma shifted closer, the movement precise as if by keeping his motions mechanical, he could ignore the tremor of awareness between them. He knelt before the prince, his knees sinking into the damp earth, and gently reached for the injured leg.
The silk robe fell easily away beneath his hands and Fuma’s breath caught before he could stop it. He cradled the prince’s calf between his palms, rough calloused hands against skin soft as water. The contrast was almost indecent in its simplicity. He pressed lightly along the swollen area, testing but careful not to cause pain.
“Does it hurt here?” he asked quietly.
Yudai exhaled, the sound small but not from pain, but something else. The breath trembled, quick and shallow, and when Fuma looked up in alarm, Yudai’s lashes were lowered, his lips parted slightly as though caught off guard by his own reaction.
The space between them seemed to contract. The sound of the forest, the birds, the wind - all of it blurred until there was only the pulse in Fuma’s throat and the weight of that quiet breath hanging between them.
Fuma cleared his throat, the sound rough. “It’s… improving,” he managed, withdrawing his hands too quickly, as though the touch had burned him. “The swelling will fade in a few days.”
Yudai smiled faintly, his composure returning like the tide. “You seem quite sure of that.”
“I’ve seen many injuries, my lord.”
“And treated many with such care?” There was teasing in Yudai’s tone, soft but deliberate.
Fuma looked away. “Only those under my protection.”
“Then I am fortunate indeed.”
The words landed somewhere between jest and truth, and Fuma couldn’t find a place to set them down. He stood, turning toward the cave’s mouth to hide the flush creeping up his neck. The air outside was cooler, easier to breathe.
Behind him, Yudai flexed his ankle carefully and let out a small sigh, watching the samurai’s back. The morning light stretched across both of them, warm and golden.
Once they set off, Fuma led the way through the dripping foliage, the map of the land still etched in his mind from the nights he had spent studying it by lamplight. The northern ridge, he remembered, curved toward a river that wound east; if they followed it for a few hours, they would reach the village that had been meant to house the prince’s entourage.
Behind him, Yudai moved more slowly. His ankle, though not broken, protested every step. They had improvised a walking stick from a fallen branch, and Fuma had adjusted his pace so subtly that Yudai probably hadn’t noticed. For every three steps he could take, Fuma took one less.
“Are we going the right way?” Yudai asked after a while, his voice a little breathless.
“Yes,” Fuma said, glancing back over his shoulder. His expression softened when he saw Yudai trying to hide a limp behind the veneer of composure. “If we continue east, we should reach the river and from there, another few hours walk to the village.”
Yudai nodded, though his brow furrowed faintly as he stepped over a root. “You seem certain.”
“I studied the maps before we left the capital,” Fuma replied. “It’s my duty to know the ground before I set foot on it.”
“And to ensure I don’t get lost, I imagine.”
“That as well, my lord.”
The faintest smile touched Yudai’s lips. “Then it seems I am in good hands.”
Fuma looked away quickly, pretending to check the forest’s edge. “You should rest when we reach the river.”
“I’ll be fine,” Yudai said, though the small strain in his voice betrayed him. He gripped his walking stick tighter and pushed forward. “We cannot delay too long. If my people reached the next town without me, they will have sent word to the capital already.”
“Even so,” Fuma said, “the men can wait. You cannot walk on an injured leg all day.”
“You sound like my physician.”
“I sound like someone responsible for keeping you alive,” Fuma replied, though there was no bite in his voice, only worry.
For a while, they moved in silence. The path sloped gently downward, the air warming as sunlight filtered through the leaves. Each time Yudai stumbled, Fuma’s hand was already there, light at his back, guiding him forward without a word.
At one point, Yudai paused, leaning slightly against a tree trunk, his face turned toward the sunlight breaking through the canopy. His hair caught the light like dark silk. “You’re too patient with me,” he said, a small laugh in his voice. “You walk as though I’m a child learning his first steps.”
Fuma bowed his head, the hint of a smile ghosting across his lips. “Then I will be patient until you learn them all over again.”
Yudai’s laughter faded into something quieter, something thoughtful. “You make it sound as though I might forget.”
“Even a prince forgets how fragile his body can be,” Fuma said gently. “But I haven’t.”
The words hung there, heavier than he meant. Yudai’s gaze lingered on him for a long moment, an unreadable expression flickering through his eyes, before he straightened again with a small nod. “Then I suppose I’ll rely on you a little longer.”
Fuma’s chest tightened, though he gave only a silent bow in reply.
The village came into view just as the sun began to fall behind the mountains. There was a small scattering of thatched roofs and smoke curling from cookfires, framed by the wide shimmer of the river. The faint sound of voices carried through the air, followed by the startled cry of a lookout.
By the time Fuma and Yudai reached the outskirts, people were already running to meet them - guards, attendants, local farmers who had been helping the royal entourage search the surrounding woods. A shout went up, echoing down the narrow road like a prayer finally answered.
“The prince! His Highness lives!”
The crowd surged forward, relief breaking through like sunlight after a long storm. Fuma instinctively shifted, positioning himself slightly ahead of Yudai as the men dropped to their knees. One of the senior guards, eyes wide with disbelief, stepped forward.
“My lord… we thought…” His voice faltered, choked by emotion. He turned to Fuma. “We searched for you both for days. When we found the wreckage of the carriage, the blood on the road…” He bowed deeply, so low his forehead touched the earth. “We believed the worst.”
Yudai’s expression softened, his voice stable though his throat tightened. “You did all you could,” he said. “I am the one who must thank you for not giving up the search.”
His words rippled through the group like warmth spreading from a fire. But it was Fuma who bore the brunt of their gratitude. One by one, the soldiers approached him to salute or clap him on the shoulder, murmuring words of thanks that blurred together until they sounded like distant rain.
“Quick thinking,” one said. “Pulled His Highness from the field.” “Cut down three men alone, maybe more.” “If not for him, the prince -”
Fuma bowed his head under the weight of it, his face unreadable. “I did only what was required,” he said.
The commander, an older man with streaks of gray in his beard, shook his head firmly. “You did more than that. The gods themselves must’ve guided your blade. The prince is alive because of you.”
There were nods all around, murmurs of agreement. Yudai’s gaze lingered on Fuma through it all, quiet and intent. When the crowd pressed close to guide the prince toward shelter, it was Yudai who reached out, fingers brushing briefly against Fuma’s wrist before slipping away again.
Inside, the attendants rushed forward to prepare tea and summon the physician. Fuma lingered near the doorway, silent as ever, watching as Yudai accepted the physician’s examination with gentle patience.
He had spent hours keeping Yudai alive, had fought through blood and storm for the right to see him breathing and now that they had returned, it felt as though the prince was already being carried away again. Back into the world that owned him. Back into the hands of duty, of ceremony, of everything Fuma could never touch.
When the physician declared the injury minor and the attendants began to withdraw, Yudai glanced toward him again. Fuma bowed deeply.
“Your Highness,” he murmured, his voice as even as he could make it. “I will resume my post outside.”
Yudai opened his mouth as if to speak, but before he could, an attendant stepped forward with another report, and the moment passed. Fuma slipped quietly out the door.
The cool evening air hit him like a blade drawn across the skin. He took a slow breath, eyes turning toward the fading light over the rooftops. The village buzzed with life, with joy, with faith renewed.
But Fuma stood apart as the man in the shadows, the protector returned to his place. And though the prince was safe, Fuma could not remember the last time he had felt so profoundly lost.
The night had deepened by the time the summons came. A servant slipped through the doorway with a bow, her voice barely above a whisper.
“His Highness requests your presence.”
Fuma rose immediately. The courtyard outside was lit by paper lanterns, their orange glow wavering in the soft wind. When he entered Yudai’s chambers, steam clung faintly to the air with the scent of warmed water and camellia oil drifting from the adjoining room.
Yudai sat on the edge of his bed, hair unbound and falling like ink over his shoulders. The fatigue of the day still touched him, but his expression softened when he saw Fuma.
“Forgive me for calling so late,” he said. “The attendants offered, but I would rather not trouble them. My ankle still protests - would you…?”
“Of course,” Fuma said quietly, bowing his head. “Allow me.”
He crossed the floor, offering an arm. Yudai accepted it without hesitation, his fingers curling lightly against the crook of Fuma’s elbow. Together they made their slow way to the adjoining bath chamber. The warmth struck immediately, heavy and fragrant, fogging the lacquered screens and veiling the lantern light until everything glowed gold and soft.
At the center stood the bath, shallow but wide, steam rising in curls from the water’s surface.
“I can manage from here,” Yudai murmured. But when he stepped closer, the edge of his robe brushed against the rim of the tub and his balance faltered, the slightest stumble that made Fuma’s hand fly out on instinct. He steadied him, one hand firm at his waist, the other braced against his back.
“Careful,” he said softly.
Yudai’s breath caught, and for a heartbeat, neither moved. Then he straightened, and with a small, almost shy smile, began to untie his robe.
“Thank you,” he said. “I won’t keep you long.”
Fuma should have turned away. He knew he should. But the air felt thick and slow, the lantern light too warm, and before he could force himself to move, the silk slid down from Yudai’s shoulders.
It was not the first naked body Fuma had seen. The military offered no privacy as men bathed, bled, and burned beside one another. Yet what he saw before him now struck something altogether different.
Yudai’s form was slender but not fragile, the lines of his body drawn with deliberate grace, pale skin kissed faintly by the steam. Fuma’s mouth went dry.
He tried to look away, but his eyes betrayed him, tracing the curve of collarbone, the elegant slope of shoulder, the fine tendons at the base of Yudai’s throat. His heart stuttered in his chest, a rhythm out of sync with reason.
The prince turned slightly, his profile catching the lantern glow as he set one foot carefully into the bath, then the other, sinking down with a low sigh as the water reached his chest. Steam rose in delicate veils around him, blurring his outline, turning the moment into something dreamlike. Fuma stepped back at once, folding his hands before him, his eyes lowered.
There was that strange feeling again. The same one that had haunted him since the night in the cave, since the moment he’d held Yudai close beneath the storm.
A rush of heat curled through him, pooling in a place he had not let himself acknowledge in years. His stomach tightened, his pulse quickened, and for one terrible instant, Fuma feared that if he stayed another moment within those walls - within the scent of steam and oil and Yudai’s voice humming faintly behind the screens - he might disgrace himself.
“You’re dismissed, Fuma,” Yudai said after a pause, the trace of humour threading through his voice. “I won’t torture you with boredom by making you stand there and watch me bathe.”
Fuma stiffened faintly. “It isn’t torture, my lord. I only wish to ensure your safety.”
“I think the assassins would have to be particularly foolish to attack me in the middle of my bath,” Yudai countered, a light laugh slipping free. “Besides, I’d hate for you to suffocate in all this steam. Go. Rest your eyes for once. I’ll call when I need help out.”
Fuma hesitated as the weight of habit holding him in place for one heartbeat too long before finally bowing low. “As you command, Your Highness.”
The sound of soft splashes followed him as he slipped through the doorway. Outside, the cooler air struck him like a reprimand. He exhaled and pressed a hand briefly to the center of his chest. His heartbeat still thudded too loud in his ears.
Fuma exhaled, his breath ghosting in the cool air. The ache did not fade, but at least it dulled, folded under the armour of his resolve. He straightened, retying his sash with trembling hands before returning to his post outside the prince’s door, silent once more, every trace of what he felt buried beneath the steady calm of a soldier.
For a soldier who had seen a thousand battles, Fuma thought bitterly, I’ve never felt so utterly defenceless. And when he looked up at the moon, it resembled the colour of Yudai’s skin.
Steam still curled faintly from the bath as Fuma re-entered at Yudai’s call. The scent of camellia oil lingered in the air, mingling with the faint, clean sharpness of night. The prince was standing, the water running in rivulets down his body, catching the lantern light like threads of molten gold.
“Forgive me,” Yudai said, glancing over his shoulder, his tone almost teasing. “I may need your help again.”
Fuma stepped forward immediately, eyes lowered, forcing his movements to remain measured. He held out a robe, and Yudai turned toward him without hesitation. The silk slid across bare skin as Fuma draped it over his shoulders, his hands careful, never touching longer than necessary.
He tied the sash with steady hands, then stepped back immediately, eyes fixed on the floor. “You should rest now, Your Highness.”
“Rest,” Yudai echoed, a small smile playing at his lips. “Yes, that might be wise.”
Fuma guided him back to his room, his arm firm around the prince’s waist as Yudai limped slightly, still favoring his injured ankle. When they reached the bed, Yudai lowered himself with a soft sigh. The lantern light caught on the loose strands of his hair, painting them bronze.
“I’ll remain outside your chambers,” Fuma said quietly, bowing. “Call for me if you need anything.”
Yudai’s gaze lifted to him, eyes gleaming faintly with mischief or perhaps something deeper.
“Outside?” he said lightly. “You intend to leave me alone again, after everything?”
Fuma hesitated. “You are safe now, my lord.”
Yudai tilted his head, that small knowing smile deepening. “Am I? The air feels cold without a guard near.”
“I can fetch more robes,” Fuma offered, grasping at formality like armour.
Yudai shook his head slowly. “No. I think I’ve robes enough.” His gaze softened, voice dropping to a murmur that seemed to hum just beneath Fuma’s skin. “You’re more than worthy to help me warm up.”
The words struck through Fuma like the echo of an arrow in the ribs. His training screamed for distance, for decorum, yet his heart refused to obey. It isn’t right, he told himself. Not here, not now, not like this. But the thought of stepping away, of leaving Yudai alone after everything felt unbearable.
He bowed his head to hide the turmoil in his face. “Then I will remain,” he said softly.
The prince smiled faintly, the expression equal parts gratitude and quiet triumph. “Good.”
Fuma took his place near the bedside, every muscle tight with restraint, as Yudai settled beneath the quilts. The silence between them stretched, filled only by the sound of their breathing and the faint rustle of silk.
── ⋆⋅☾⋅⋆ ──
By morning, the village had fully awakened to life again. Smoke drifted lazily from cookfires, merchants called to one another along the road, and the river flashed silver beneath the brightening sun. Inside the guest house, servants hurried to and fro, preparing for the royal party’s departure.
Breakfast had been lavish - a display of gratitude from the villagers who still whispered in awe that the prince lived. Dishes of rice and grilled fish, miso broth, and early-season fruit filled the table, though Yudai ate little. He smiled politely, thanked every offering hand, but his mind was elsewhere, his thoughts turning again and again to the journey that would now remain unfinished.
When the head of the royal guard bowed low and announced that the political tour was cancelled, Yudai’s expression flickered with visible disappointment.
“All of it?” he asked quietly, setting down his cup.
“Yes, Your Highness,” the man replied. “The emperor has ordered your return to the capital immediately. Until the threat has been investigated and neutralized, travel beyond the outer provinces is forbidden.”
“I see.” Yudai’s tone remained calm, but the faint crease between his brows deepened. He looked out the window where sunlight filtered through the shōji screen, soft and golden.
By the time they departed, the road was already crowded with soldiers and attendants. The repaired carriage gleamed with fresh lacquer and new horses were brought forward, snorting softly in the crisp air. Fuma oversaw the final preparations in silence, his movements efficient - anything to keep his mind from lingering on the warmth of the night before.
When Yudai emerged from the guest house, wrapped in travelling robes of pale green, the entire entourage bowed. He thanked the villagers for their hospitality, his voice carrying easily over the morning air, every inch the prince once more but as he stepped into the carriage, he glanced back just briefly, his eyes finding Fuma among the guards. The look was fleeting, hidden from all others, but it lingered in Fuma’s chest like an ember. Then the door closed, and the horses began to move.
The capital greeted their return with fanfare as banners unfurled, bells rang from temple towers, ministers assembled in their finest robes to welcome the prince home. Life resumed its order or at least, the illusion of it.
Fuma was reassigned to the prince’s personal guard, a post of great honour that once would have filled him with pride. His days were spent in silence again: standing outside council chambers, patrolling the gardens, escorting Yudai to and from audiences with ministers. He spoke when spoken to, bowed when expected, breathed when allowed.
And yet, every time Yudai passed, that fragile thread between them pulled taut.
He saw it in the prince’s fleeting glances when no one else was watching, in the way his voice softened for just a heartbeat when addressing him, in how his hand brushed Fuma’s sleeve as they exchanged documents, only to retreat as though the contact had burned.
But there were always eyes. The court was a nest of gossip, and affection here was a weapon.
At night, when the corridors emptied and the lanterns dimmed, Fuma would sometimes walk through the outer gardens, tracing the familiar paths beneath the cherry trees. The air was sweet with blossoms, the pond glimmered with moonlight and yet, all he could think of was the sound of rain, the scent of smoke and silk, the weight of Yudai’s head against his shoulder.
Fuma had once told himself that duty was his shield, but it had begun to feel more like a chain. Every bow, every salute, every quiet step down the polished corridors only reminded him how far apart they were. He was a soldier - a servant. Yudai was the sun itself, burning too bright for anyone to touch without being consumed. And yet, even knowing this, he could not pull himself from orbit.
There were moments when he wondered what would have become of him had he not been assigned to this post - if he had remained in the field, another nameless blade among thousands. He had been content once with simplicity, with orders and honour. But Yudai had made him feel these emotions he didn’t even know he had, and now there was no returning to silence.
He was standing outside the prince’s quarters as always, still and alert, when the door slid open. The attendant bowed quickly.
“His Highness requests your presence.” she whispered.
Fuma’s brows drew together before he could stop himself. “At this hour?”
“He was insistent.”
Fuma nodded once. “Very well.”
He dismissed the attendant with a gesture and stepped inside.
The room was dimly lit, only a few candles burning near the screen where Yudai sat, his posture loose, robe untied at the throat. The scent of incense lingered in the air - faint sandalwood, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. Outside, the night hummed with the sound of distant rain beginning to fall again.
“Your Highness,” Fuma said, bowing low. “You called for me.”
Yudai lay reclining against silk cushions stuff with the softest of feathers. His hair unbound, night robe loose at the throat. A moon-pale lantern flickered beside him, shadows trembling across his face. He did not sit up at Fuma’s entrance - only watched him with dark, exhausted eyes.
“You should be sleeping, Your Highness,” Fuma murmured, keeping a rigid distance.
“I cannot.”
“Shall I summon tea? Incense?”
“No. I just need you.”
Fuma crossed the tatami and knelt beside the prince’s bed, posture straight, hands on his thighs. Yudai turned slightly toward him, head bowed, eyes fluttering closed.
“Will you keep watch?” he asked.
“Until morning,” Fuma replied.
“Then I will sleep.”
Fuma watched as the tension in the prince’s brow released, and his fingers loosened from where they rested on his stomach. He lay turned partially toward Fuma, cheek against silk, hair spread across the pillow. In repose, he looked impossibly young. Mortal.
Fuma remained seated beside him, knees grounded to tatami, shoulders squared in silent vigil but somewhere between one breath and the next, Yudai shivered. Without thinking, Fuma moved.
He shifted closer, lifting a corner of the quilt and settling it over Yudai’s shoulder. When that did not still the tremor, he laid a hand, steady and careful, over Yudai’s forearm. Yudai’s brow furrowed, as if chasing something in dreams. His fingers twitched, searching.
“…stay… Fuma…”
The sound of his name nearly undid him. Fuma leaned forward, forehead bowed close enough to feel the prince’s breath on his skin.
“I am here,” he whispered, voice breaking on a vow he was never meant to make. “I will never leave.”
The words hung in the hush of the chamber and Yudai’s breathing eased as he sank deeper into sleep, no longer troubled, as though some fear had finally been soothed.