Fated for War

by Travis Bughi

  Nicholas’ strike proved just that.

  The punch wasn’t the hardest Takeo had ever received, but it certainly came close. Short of a rakshasa’s strike or an oni’s kick, Takeo could hardly remember a time when his entire world had exploded in stars and thunder. He was dimly aware of being lifted off his feet and thrown like a ragdoll into the air. When he landed, his senses were still reeling with such disorientation that he felt neither the impact nor the slide through a pace of dirt. Even the world’s sound came back to him slowly, as if he were waking from a dream.

  “Hey! What was that for?” Gavin said, his voice distant.

  Takeo’s eyes adjusted back just enough to see the monstrous, blurred figure of Nicholas turn and hammer a fist into the blurred form of Gavin’s face. The knight sputtered and tumbled back like Takeo had, collapsing from the force of the blow. Then, the blurred figure came over and grabbed Takeo by his clothes before lifting him off the ground. In this instant, Takeo’s sight came back to reveal Nicholas holding him aloft with a bloodied fist ready to strike again.

  “That,” Nicholas said through clenched teeth, “is for leaving without me.”

  “My apologies,” Takeo muttered, trying to work his jaw while tasting blood.

  Nicholas dropped him to the dirt, where Takeo collapsed, as he was still trying to regain control of his body. Nicholas stepped back to join his brother, who kept his thumbs looped in his belt. The two watched in silence as both Gavin and Takeo slowly picked themselves up.

  “She was my sister, you jerks,” Nicholas went on, voice notably deeper than last Takeo remembered. “She was my sister, and she carried those letters for years across the whole world. Who do you think had more right to deliver them, huh? You, Gavin? Was it because you fancied her and couldn’t handle her rejection? Or was it you, Takeo, ‘cause you warmed her nights and left her side when you swore not to? Was that it? Was this repentance for your failure? That don’t mean anything. I was her brother. At the most, I should have gone alone and left you two to wallow in self-pity. At the least, you should have had the decency to invite me along.”

  “As I said,” Takeo replied, wiping blood from his mouth, “my apologies.”

  “We didn’t think to ask you.” Gavin shrugged with one arm, being as the other was attached to the hand checking his nose to make sure it wasn’t broken. “You were in the house mourning. We didn’t even step inside. Didn’t you know we were there?”

  “Yeah, I knew.” Nicholas folded two massive arms over his chest. “Still, though, I was in no state of mind at the time to ask you myself or chase after you once you’d left. However, either of you could have barged inside and dragged me out for my own good.”

  Takeo took a moment to regard Nicholas. Now that his head was no longer reeling from the blow, he could see the changes in the Stout family’s youngest member. Takeo had only met Nicholas once, but he had spent a good few months on a viking’s ship with him. Emily had talked about her younger brother often, more so than she had the rest of her family minus her grandmother. Takeo felt he knew a great deal about Nicholas despite having spent so little time interacting with him.

  Nicholas was two years younger than Emily, which made him a good three or four years younger than Takeo, or as close as he could tell without being sure of his own age. Okamoto either hadn’t known or hadn’t bothered to tell Takeo his birth year or season, but he had at least given Takeo a rough number to go by. The one thing Takeo did know was that he was older than Nicholas, but no one would think so by looking at the two of them.

  The Stout family had peculiar genetics, Takeo thought. The men tended to be sparse of body and facial hair, evidenced by the wisps of brown, wavy hair scattered across Nicholas’ chest and the scraggly beard on his chin, likely the work of a year-long attempt to grow it out. Also, the men of the family tended to grow tall and lanky, while the women, also lanky, fell to the shorter end. Why there should be a difference in height at all, Takeo couldn’t be sure, but nonetheless, Nicholas shared in the height of his male family members and had even grown a good hand taller than his brother and father. However, thanks to dedication and certain life choices, Nicholas had avoided the lankiness. Not content to work only when the farm required and eat only bread when it was brought to him, Nicholas had run away three years ago to become a viking, and those barbaric warriors had turned the boy into a towering warrior like themselves.

  Or at least, that’s what Takeo had been told. When he’d first met Nicholas, the young man had been starved nearly to death for over a year and was like a skeleton given life. It seemed all that was in the past now.

  Takeo stepped forward to give Nicholas an apologetic bow.

  “You’re right,” Takeo said. “You were suffering like we were, and we left you to drown in it instead of giving you purpose. We should have dragged you out, although we would have had to borrow your unicorn to do it. Trust me, though, if we’d tried to drag you away, I’m certain your mother would have killed us.”

  Nicholas’ firm jaw twitched a hair before slowly cracking into a smirk. A moment later it was a smile, then a shallow grin.

  “Aye, my mother’s rage does rival a banshee,” he huffed.

  Takeo managed a smirk and extended a hand. Nicholas looked at it as if offended, bashed the hand away, and grabbed Takeo by the shoulders. Takeo managed to suck in only a gasp of air before being hauled face-first into Nicholas’ bare chest.

  “Damn it, Takeo,” Nicholas said. “For the longest time I thought I’d kill you, yet here I am just happy to see you again.”

  “Likewise,” Takeo sputtered, lungs being crushed. “Only, without the killing part.”

  Nicholas released Takeo and stepped towards Gavin. The knight, unsure of whether he was going to be punched or hugged, but clearly dreading both, took an involuntary step back.

  “And you.” Nicholas pointed. “I know we didn’t leave on the best of terms, or perhaps any terms at all, but my sister thought highly of you, and that’s enough for me. Hey! Get over here or I’ll chase you down myself, you handsome fellow.”

  Gavin relented and stepped forward before being enveloped in flesh and muscle. Nicholas laughed, squeezed tightly, and lifted Gavin off the ground. When he set him back down again, Gavin gave a meager smile.

  “You know, I used to have the biggest crush on you.” Nicholas winked.

  “Um, thanks.” Gavin grimaced. “Your spirits have certainly improved, you know, considering your loss. Not just your sister, I heard you lost your love in that battle, too.”

  Nicholas nodded, his smile disappearing. “Aye, yes, his name was Fritjof Fritjofson, and there will never be another like him. I miss him every night, but a year is a long time, and he would not see me lost in sorrow for all my days. Emily wouldn’t either, and I’ve done my best to respect that. I’ve honored their memories with sweat, tears, and pain, and I have sculpted a body they’d both be proud of.”

  Nicholas lifted his arms and flexed, showing thick forearms, bulging biceps, and flared lats. Even Takeo’s eyebrows rose in awe.

  “All that in a year’s time?” Takeo asked. “That’s impressive.”

  “A body once formed remembers its past glory,” Nicholas said. “At least, that’s what Ragnar used to tell me, and he was right! Given proper work and enough meat—courtesy of my brother here—I was able to reclaim my old self and add a little to it! I refuse to live in the shadows of my time as a prisoner and a slave. I am a viking, damn it! And I will be the greatest viking ever known! I intend to topple even Kollskegg Ludinson the Sturdy’s stories! He will pale in comparison to me.”

  “Well now,” Takeo said, trying to hide his skepticism. “That would be something.”

  “You’ll do no such thing!” shouted another voice from inside the home, this one female. “Nicholas! Did you hear me, Nicholas? And who are you talking to? More visitors? I thought you were going to send them away, Abraham.”

  This was another voice Takeo had heard only a few times, but
memory served him again, and he straightened like a soldier preparing for inspection. Nicholas and Abraham straightened, too, frightened looks coming over their faces, and Gavin stiffened at the sudden tension in the air. A moment later, the backdoor squeaked open, and a short, older woman with brown, wavy hair and a freckled face burst into view.

  “Did you hear me, Nicholas?” she shouted. “You’re not leaving just yet. And Abraham, didn’t I tell you—oh!”

  The woman paused and blinked, her eyes scanning the face of Takeo. He, in turn, saw an aged version of the face he’d once loved, complete with tiny extremities and dark freckles. They paused in their recognition, both forgetting to breathe, and then the backdoor creaked again as another came through it. This one was an older version of Abraham, and Takeo regained his senses and bowed deeply.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Stout,” Takeo said to the ground. “It is an honor to see you again.”

  “Takeo,” Mariam Stout said.

  “Takeo Karaoshi,” Paul added. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  He held his position, not wanting to stand up too early. In the back of his mind, he knew bowing wasn’t expected or well regarded in the West, but old habits died hard, and he didn’t know what else to do, really.

  “Takeo, oh Takeo,” he heard Mariam say. “Please, stand up.”

  He obeyed and watched her take a single step off the porch to approach him. Only a single step, but it was enough to make Takeo’s breathing seize for a moment.

  She looked so much like her daughter.

  “I almost said your name wrong, sorry,” Mariam said. “Forgive me, it’s been awhile.”

  “It has, and there’s no need to apologize,” Takeo replied, nodding his head again. “I would have come back sooner had the situation allowed it.”

  “It’s so good to see you,” Mariam pressed, her voice growing softer.

  Something about the look in her eyes—as if Takeo had been delivered by angels—made him uneasy. He clasped his hands together, and she took another small step towards him, gazing fixedly as if she couldn’t believe he was truly there.

  “You’ve brought a friend, too,” Paul noted, lifting a chin towards Gavin.

  “Gavin Shaw,” the knight said immediately with a nod. “It’s a pleasure to meet you two. I knew your daughter for a short time. She, eh, believed in me when I didn’t. Sorry for your loss. Last I was at your home, I only met Abraham at the door. You were inside grieving with Nicholas, I think.”

  “We were,” Paul confirmed. “We were not ready to . . . receive guests, I suppose is the right word. Unfortunately, that didn’t stop the many others that came after you. Abraham has been dealing with them.”

  “Others?” Takeo asked, bewildered.

  “Yes,” Paul replied. “Emily’s grave has become some kind of a pilgrimage spot, it seems. They’ve made her into a legend, calling her the Angels’ Vassal, saying how she delivered Lucifan from the rakshasa and his army. People come from all over now, thinking to find meaning in her grave. It was worse before, in those first few weeks. People would come in droves. Now, it’s a slight trickle, but still most unwelcome. None of these people knew our daughter, and worse, half of them beg us for help.”

  “I’ve never been happier to be a gunslinger,” Abraham cut in, pulling back his cloak to let one of the six-shooters shine in the sunlight. “One flash of these combined with a pleasant smile is usually enough to turn people away. I’ve probably earned a pretty sour reputation, protecting Emily’s grave, but someone has to do it. Worse things have happened thanks to these morons coming to visit. Some people come aged and sickly, on their own. Some idiots started a rumor that her grave holds a fragment of the angels’ power to heal, so now people near death try to come to our home, die along the way, and raise banshees with their corpses. I can’t believe it! The only good news is that the banshees have taken some of the other pilgrims, putting an end to the rumors—or most of them—and making others hesitate to visit.”

  “That’s terrible,” Gavin said, scoffing. “Stupid people with no respect.”

  “We built a basement with a trap door inside our home just because of it,” Nicholas said. “Now we have a place to hide when we hear wailing.”

  “My first eighteen years of living on the Great Plains, I’d never heard a single banshee,” Abraham tisked, “all thanks to the knowledgeable people who live here. Then, lo and behold, some strangers in Lucifan get the idea that my sister’s grave is their right to see, and I’ve heard more banshees in the past year than bullet shots from my guns. It’s sickening and infuriating.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Takeo said, speaking mostly to Mariam who was still fixated on him, “and I agree with you. However, I think you know why I’m here. I would be one of those idiots, if you’d let me. I’ve come to pay my respects to Emily, Gavin and I both.”

  He bowed again, mostly to her, not entirely certain why he felt the need to be so formal, but doing so nonetheless. Takeo had been less mannerly to royalty, and yet this woman, who would have been his mother-in-law, seemed to demand more consideration than all of them combined. He could not readily explain his desire to earn her respect, but in that moment, it seemed his entire world would be complete if she would simply say that Emily’s death was not his fault.

  Although, even if she had said such a thing, Takeo would not believe her. Not even Ephron could change Takeo’s mind on that.

  As if sensing this, Mariam closed the remaining distance between them. Takeo did not raise his head until her proximity forced him to, and even then only just enough to meet her eyes. Mariam peered into his dark features, her face hard and yet not unkind.

  “You are no stranger, Takeo,” she said. “She loved you, and I would remember that. Also, Gavin, know that any friend of Emily’s is welcome here. Of course you two can pay your respects. Follow me.”

  Chapter 4

  Emily Stout’s grave bore no headstone, yet it was easy to find. Her blood, infused with the poison of a basilisk, had killed all the surrounding grass in a small oval shape. Her grave, this particular plot of soil, would forever remain tainted, and nothing would ever grow there again. In death, as well as in life, Emily had left her mark on this world in such a fashion that time would remember her long after the living did not.

  Takeo thought it fitting. Emily Stout had been the greatest person he’d ever known, and the world should not be capable of forgetting her as easily as it did others. Also, to him, the deadened dirt seemed a metaphor for his heart. Where once life and love had grown, it now lay barren with her death.

  Takeo was fond of thinking of Emily as the sun that had brought daylight to his world of darkness. Now that she was gone, he felt certain the darkness would return, and he hoped he could survive it. She would want him to. Emily would want him to be happy.

  Yet how could he have something she took with her? No, wait—not her. It was not her fault. A rakshasa had taken Emily’s life, ripping her from his arms to a place he could not follow.

  Well, actually, he could.

  As Takeo stood over Emily’s grave, his hand twitched for his sword, and he imagined running the blade through his heart, here and now. He pictured his blood spilling across this barren land, his body following. Joining Emily would be as easy as performing seppuku, an honorable end for even a ronin such as him.

  So easy, unless they try to stop me.

  With Gavin to his left and Mariam to his right, he was unsure of how they’d respond if he did such a thing. For a samurai, the thought of suicide wasn’t met with any particular morbidity or even unfamiliarity. Samurai were raised to understand that their lives were not their own. They were sworn to serve, and if necessary, die, in the name of their lord. The perfect samurai was one who, if so commanded by his daimyo, would draw his blade and take his own life.

  Takeo had sworn his life to Emily once, saying he would die for her. Unfortunately, she had forbidden it, commanding him never to do so. Even in death, with her last words, she had h
eld him to this oath. Being the samurai that he was, he would obey.

  His hand ceased its twitching, yet still he dreamed.

  All his pain would end with his life. All the torment, the emptiness and numbness of his heart, even the sadness of the night, all could be brought to a close if only he would draw his blade and let loose the blood from his veins.

  Okamoto would think him pitiful.

  “You are not my brother,” Okamoto would say, not through words, but with his eyes. “Look at the way you consider taking your own life to gain nothing. I have wasted my time raising you. That is no way for a warrior to think. You are weak. You deserve everything that has happened to you. Is it an escape from this pain you seek? Is this pain in your heart really so bad? I will show you pain, Takeo. I will show you such pain that the world will quake in fear at what you can bear.”

  “Takeo,” came a soft voice, stirring him from his dreams.

  He looked up from Emily’s grave, but saw only through blurred eyes. He blinked and a rim of moisture collected at the bottom of his eyelids. Takeo reached to wipe it away with a wrist and looked over at the diminutive woman beside him.

  “This is going to seem abrupt, but I must ask you a favor,” she said. “I haven’t even invited you inside yet, and we’ve only spoken a few times, but I have to say this now while Nicholas isn’t here. You, too, Gavin. I’m asking you, too.”

  Gavin raised his head to gaze at Mariam. Their silence and attention were all she needed to continue.

  “I fear for Nicholas,” Mariam said, closing her hands in front of her. “Every day I come to Emily’s grave, and I think about the child I’ve already lost, that I never wanted to lose. I warned her this would happen—how dangerous the world was. She told me she accepted this possibility, and she had little interest in whether I did or not. Emily was my only daughter. She was—”