Tears of Crimson - chapter 5

“Dairo?” Ayane says, taking a timid step towards him.  The fear is prevalent in his eyes, having grown twice their size, his mouth hanging agape.  This is why she hadn’t wanted him to see her in combat, to see what she does to survive.  He can’t understand. He...
“No! Stay away!” he yells, slamming his fist into the floor and disappearing in a burst of flame.
“Dairo,” she yells, running towards him, not thinking of how the flame will affect her.  The reaction to her body is almost instant and she sees the ice on her hands recede, the claws melting away, blood on them hissing violently.  
She pulls her hand back, looking at the tips of her fingers where the ice has receded. She closes her hand into a fist, fighting back the tears that run down her cheeks.  He runs.  From her. This is not the way she wanted it.  She wanted him to be able to see her as someone he could trust.  So why has it ended this way?
As she kneels she notices the blood on the floor, blood that should not be there if it belonged to anyone who is not a pyromancer. She places the tip of her fingers against it, feeling the warmth coming from it and stands back up, looking over her shoulder.  He’s injured, he will not get far.
She bites back her tears and grits her teeth.  He needs her and wether he wants it or not, she will be his master.  She sets on the path up the trail, glaring down at the faceless body as she moves down it.  She won’t let any stand in her way, she will be master.


The mud crunches beneath his boots, the rain rolling down his back, over his forehead, slick in his eyes.  The storm thunders above and thunders ahead of him, having come in during the evening quicker than expected.  Shiro stops, making himself listen to the sounds before him, buried within the cries of thunder and the patter of rain.  It is faint at first, but distinct.  The clash of metal against metal as warrior pits herself against warrior. It is a sound that is common to Shiro.  For one raised within the pits of the frozen earth within the ice clan, it is a sound that is all too familiar.
He crushes the papers within his left hand and opens the soggy material again to look down at the contents.  The ink begins to blur into a black mess, the paper absorbing the stains with holes ripping through it as the rain beats at the thin material.  He sighs and tosses the paper aside.  He has reread it so many times since Shaiya gave it to him that it is of no consequence if the paper itself is lost.
What is on it brings to mind the duties he has, not as a warrior, but as a brother.  Though both intertwine.  His older brother, of skin of darkest hue with eyes that shine like embers with a tabard about his body matching the color of his eyes.  His brother of the fire clan.  The opposing one to Shiro’s own ice clan.  A rival both as an older sibling and as a combatant from a rival clan. And still, the duty hangs heavy on his heart, a weight on his shoulders that can not be removed.  One his own brother knew well when he came to the ice clan of his own accord, knowing the risk.  Now it is Shiro who must stake himself for his brother.
“Do not let your memories of regret have you falter,” says a sharp voice in the back of his mind, chiding him.  “I would have come along with you if I believed you to falter.”
He stops and nods, looking over his shoulder towards where the sound originated.   “I understand, master,” he says.  “I will not be distracted.”
He senses her body tensing, several miles away, her emotions clear in his mind through their shared bond.  Her fear and anger still hangs heavy upon her and he notes that she is still unsure of having allowed him to come to this place alone.  
“I can do this, master,” he repeats, hoping to calm the tension in her body.  It works, or at least she makes herself allow it to work, he too far on the path already for doubts to be of any good at this point.  He feels her forcibly calm her mind and the presence fades to silence within his head.
He steps near a tree where he can observe two warriors spar with one another.  One of a darker brown hair in a suit of white armor vs another of similar build with short blonde hair in a bob.  Knights from Marianna’s regiment.  The ice clan itself.  So they too come to participate in the tournament for his brother’s hand?  He watches from the shadows as the two women battle.  
The rain seems to obscure their eyes, sticking wetly to their bodies so he can see every curve and nuance of their forms.  It does not seem to hinder them in the slightest.  Both are skilled warriors of the sword.  Well, he thinks, observing how the redhead dodges the blonde, one move after another, backing her into a corner, maybe not that skilled.  Neither is the one to have sent him the letter of challenge though.  Both are very strong but they are not she.  They are not Carmilla.  That woman makes both pale in comparison in ability and bears an armor of pitch night. She is not here.  
He nears the encampment where the blades clash and crunches his fist together.  It is now or never.  He must know what it is that these women would have of his brother and what the whereabouts of Carmilla may be.
He steps out of the woods walking out before the women into the stone clearing.  Both stop their combat to look at him with the two leaning against the wall pushing away from it to get a better look at him, also tensing.  He can sense the power in the other two as well, see as the blood circulates within him.  
All of them seem tense and weary, blades held low but ready to spring at any moment.  One of his kind is never met without at least some hostility outside the common lands of ice.  Dressed in a thick blue tabard that comes down past the hips, cinched by a black obi, the ensemble is completed by black boots and gloves and finished off with a bandaged mask at his face to conceal his identity.  It should be common to these of the regiment of ice by now but he doubts attire is what makes them pause so much as his eyes that glow an intense blue like sapphires in the night made even stronger by his body’s natural desire to absorb from the element that pelts his shoulders and back.  This, a natural stimulant to his abilities, also makes him seem more frightening and does little to ease the situation before him. He shuts his eyes and sighs, preparing himself for any possibility.
“I am Shiro of the Ice Clan,” he bellows.  “I have come as the one named Carmilla has requested.  Where then is the one that summoned me?”
The women stare at one another, confusion twisting their faces.  The expression is not a fake, he thinks. So he wonders, where is Carmilla?  If she is not with them then...
“They are not under my command,” says a voice from behind him.  He turns, sliding backwards on the film of water on the ground, leaving a trail of hard ice before him.  Before him walks a woman of smaller size than he’d have expected of his own kind, measuring no more than 5'4'’ if that.  Her armor clinks with her movements, a mask of hard metal covering her eyes.  Her hair is so pale it looks of snow and the skin she shows from her chin is no less pale, making him look colorful in comparison.  Through her black armor it shimmers with veins of red, almost pulsing.  His eyes narrow as he looks at the six blades strapped at her side.  He is weary.  What interest would she have in his brother?  Or would it be the same as the others?  And why issue a challenge to him if she seeks his brother?
“Why are you here, specter?” he says.
The figure is silent for a moment before answering.  
“You should know by now, Shiro of the ice, servant of Shaiya Fujisowa.  I am Carmilla Anastasia Pendragon. Of the house, Drucilla Pendragon.  I have come seeking a dragon, to test myself so I may prepare against the other.”  
Her stance changes, fist raising as her legs spread apart.  
“Your brother,” she says.
He’d expected this.  The note had mentioned not merely speaking with him but the desire to fight, which is part of why Shaiya was so hesitant to allow him to come on his own.  Battle always means possible injury and death.  He is aware of this, yet, for his brother’s sake, he needs know this woman’s intent. He wished it had been by way of words rather than fist.  The choice, unfortunately, is not his to make and Carmilla seems to have already made her mind.  Unwavering that it is.  That is the way of the specter, the crimson knight.
So you will have no words with me save through your fist,” he says.  “Very well.”  He crunches his fist, water formed in his palm shattering in small crystals.  “You will find no simple victory here, specter.”
“You mistake my intentions, Shiro Fujisowa.  I don’t come here to kill, only to test myself.  Let it be said, I have no intention of taking your life.  Only to test my skill in preparation for meeting your brother in combat.”
“My brother is aways from here.  So what have you to gain?  How can fighting me, prepare you?”
“Only to test my skill against one of similar abilities to my quarry, for though your clans are different, your style is the same.  I hope to learn from this to gain an edge in the combat ahead.”  
She raises her fist again, nearing it to her face.  
“Shall we then?”
He stares at her with narrowed eyes, the ice running through his hands and crunching at his fist.  He feels Shaiya tense at the back of his mind, Drasira doing the same.  Both are fearful.  The aura that comes off the woman is powerful despite her size and Shiro feels his own fear mount.  He forces his body to relax and watches his opponent who sizes him up, her expression lacking any sense of emotion.  This bothers him and he realizes why it is Shaiya is on edge around this woman.  A warrior who expresses no emotion reveals no motive and can not be predicted in battle.  
He hunches his body, looking towards his opponent and charges.  Emotionless or not, this fight has begun.


Carmilla looks over the young man with eyes that glow in the darkness amongst the rains, so bright against the skin of a warm tone in his clothes of blue and black.  He is quick, she thinks, but as she meets his aerial attack, her knee slamming into his stomach, she thinks, he is still slower than she and less learned. For years she has trained for fighting ninja, ever since the shadows took her family. She will not be taken unawares.
The ninja’s recovery is to be admired even if his speed is slower than her own.  Hardly does it even seem as if the blow landed before his feet touch the floor and he is already swinging his fist at her.  She meets it with a right guard, followed by a left, guarding her stomach as he switches arms. Another blow comes to her left and then...
The knee slams into her stomach, not so much winding her as knocking her back.  It gives him the advantage though, for that split second, and he takes it, slamming his right fist against her jaw, swinging it with enough force that she can almost feel her jaw unhinge. She does not allow him to follow with a second blow, blocking the attack and then the third, following it this time with a thrust kick, slamming into his chest to knock him backwards sliding across the floor.
She tenses, looking towards her opponent as he flips over, leaping back to his feet with barely a moment’s notice.  She wonders if this is how the man’s brother is as well and narrows her eyes.  This is both good and bad.  The house of Pendragon needs strong seed, but she needs also to be superior to that seed to be able to bring it down and become a part of it.  If her strength can not match that of these warriors then her own blood will be rejected as a match for the one they call “dragon.”  The speed with which she prided herself on earlier is only a fraction better than this one’s and it slows with the weight of her armor.  She grits her teeth, anger welling in the pit of her stomach.  She really hadn’t considered how this could truly alter the outcome of a battle.  It’s an error in judgement that could cost her.
She tenses, squeezing her hand into a fist as the warrior prepares his next attack.  She must be ready.  The warrior leaps back to his feet in a second, his hand glowing with energy, the rains flowing around his open hand, swirling around it until he slams it down with a shattering force on the floor.  The ice rises with a crunching noise as it rushes towards her.  It is almost upon her before she has it in her mind to roll to the side, dodging the blow. It is almost predictable, she thinks.  A lesser opponent would be distracted by it.  But now that she has dodged it, the easiest and best path to her is straight to the left. She glances to the position she expects him and finds he isn’t there. So where-?  
The shadow comes from above her, the ninja having taken the path of the ice itself, leaping along the sharp edges to come at her from the one path she would not expect.  A dangerous path but one that has the advantage of being surprising.
She just barely manages to catch the blow from his left arm in her hand but is too slow to catch his right, that fist rocking against her face, cracking against her cheek with a crushing force. His leg flips over, heel driving into her neck from his right foot, followed by his left, forcing her to her knees. The man leaps into the air, spinning with his feet, to slam his heel into her hand as she blocks. He turns, switching legs and attacks with another spin kick which she manages to block, but is unprepared for the third blow following immediately behind the second, his foot cracking across her face. The face guard flies from her face, rolling across the hard floor and the nin stops in mid attack, staring at her.
She knows that look, the fear that plagues his being.  The doubt.  For her eyes are red, but like he, the rains feed her energies, increasing her ability.  For hers is not the red of flame typical to those who bear red eyes, but one of water.  Her eyes reflect her body’s innate hunger and consumption of that liquid energy, her eyes bleeding with that very energy as if she were crying. A look that is startling to any who have not beheld her visage before.
Taking advantage of his surprise, she launches her weapon at him, the chain hook sailing forward, rushing at the young man like a viper in the winds.  It is her only chance to up her advantage against her opponent.  To take of his blood and make it her own...


As the mask falls away from the woman’s face, Shiro stops, the woman’s red eyes staring at him with a bright glow, looking alien in the night sky, blood running down her cheeks like tears of red.  He watches as the rain is pulled in to her body, his eyes picking up the absorption of energy into her flesh.  
“How?” he whispers, not comprehending as the fear runs through his body.  “A flame elemental can’t absorb water.  So how...”
“Don’t you understand,” says a stern voice in his mind, rasping across his senses. “She doesn’t control water, idiot, child.  She controls blood!”
“Blood?” he whispers, his mind still trying to understand what he sees before him.  Those with red eyes control fire. But blood is also...
The chained spear whips forward at him in a speed he does not see, the hook ripping into his shoulder beneath the clothe. The spear rips over his arm, grazing it, but grips at the cloth firmly, pulling him into the woman’s grasp.  As he comes near her, he turns his body, leg extending.  The woman looks up at him, her eyes shining and there is only the barest hint of a smirk crossing her lips before she lashes out with her hand, tearing through his mask to push her fingers between his lips, gripping the side of his cheek as her other hand blocks the blow from his leg.
“Shiro, you foolish child,” he hears Shaiya growl in his mind.  “You underestimated your opponent. And...”
Her chiding is cut short as the blow slams him against the earth with brutal force, the blackness washing over him, taking consciousness away from him.  The last thing he sees is her eyes, where even the whites of the pupils have gone red.  “Vampire...” he whispers.  Then consciousness fades fully.

Carmilla looks down at her opponent, the rains still pelting their skins, running down his face almost like tears down his eyes.  
“Had things been a little different, you would have won,” she whispers.  She turns away and sighs.  That moment of hesitation on his part, that fear stopping him cold was what gave her the opportunity to grasp victory.  Still, she did not like the look.  She recognized that look, people thinking she’s some kind of monster.  Even with the mask on, people give her looks of disdain.  She remembers seeing those looks from this one’s own master.  As if she were a monster.  Maybe she is.  But, at least... not in the sense the rumors give.
Something clicks on the floor next to her as she is walking past and she looks down, not having realized she’d been walking at all, looking down at the mask she uses to cover her visage.  She picks the mask up, intending to put it back on and then pulls it away, thinking again on it.  She’d had it to keep that fear away from her opponent and never let them see her cry, never see those tears which never stop, but her judgement of her opponent’s moves had been slowed.  The sweat and water masked her eyes, getting in the way.  
She lets out a slow breath, looking up at the darkening sky, the thunder flashing above, water running down her face.  She shuts her eyes and looks back down.  No.  Let him think what he may, but she will not cover her face before him.  He has the right to see her and her tears.
She drops the mask on the ninja’s chest, letting it roll to his side.  
“A gift,” she whispers.  “For your near victory.”
She smiles grimly and turns quickly, seeing a flash on the mountain side.  Something bright yellow, sparking strongly before dimming.  She narrows her eyes. The lightning flashes once more from the mountain side.  He will be there, it is the most likely path.  She wonders just how powerful her prey might be?  
She looks down at her vanquished opponent and shakes her head, walking away, heading towards the flash of light on the mountainside marking the trail through its depths.  It does not matter if she was almost beaten, she thinks.  She was strong enough to beat the brother in his own element.  She will face this one, no matter how strong he has become.
She hears blades slide from their scabbards and turns her head, regarding the four women before her, sweat on their brows with shaky grips. Their hands grip the hilts of their blades, trained on her as they stare her down.  Women from Marianna’s regiment who often followed her own command in battle.  Now the lure of power has brought even them to dare challenge her?  They draw their blades against her? She nods and lets both chained spears drop to the floor before her.  Let them fight.  The end will be the same no matter what.
She whips the chains into the air, bladed tips rushing towards her adversaries.  She will not fall here. Not yet.

The rains have pelted her body for over an hour, soaking her armor down to the bone.  Each movement of her body leaves her sounding with a sickly squelch, her boots half filled with water. She stops for a moment looking at the black clouds above her, thick and heavy, pelting down their thick rains upon her shoulders.  They will not let up any time soon.
Carmilla shuts her eyes, taking in a deep breath.  It has been a long time since she has allowed herself to go without a blindfold or visor clouding her vision.  So long has she kept the mask on so none may see her tears.  Perhaps it is the rain, masking the tears her body would force from her eyes.  The water always washes away the blood from her cheeks leaving her clean and.. With a sense of normalcy.  She knows it is a foolishness that she should not pay attention to but for part of her it is difficult to ignore that which she always desired. And through foolish whim she left her visor with the shinobi. She sighs. It has been a time since she has acted so... impulsively like that.
She takes another step forward and stops, tasting the blood in the waters.  She looks down, feeling as much as seeing the blood running down the path she takes. A piece of violet cloth shimmers on the trail before her.  She walks towards it, already sensing the death before her.  She is not mistaken.
She looks down at the corpse of the woman looking at the torn face, entrails spilled outwards like a trail of writhing worms which twist about with the storm above. She frowns down at the path ahead of her, wondering what kind of woman her target has attached to himself?
She turns back towards the body considering it for a moment before leaning down and jamming her fist through the open gash in its chest. The corpse before her has no use of its flesh any longer where she on the other hand, can make use of the resources offered by her competition.  The blood flows rapidly through her body, collecting, making her tears run down her cheeks and for once she cries in bitterness at losing the moment of happiness she had at being.. Normal.

Shiro rest uncomfortably, head leaning forward. In his mind he rest on a mountain top, hugging his knees close to his chest, feeling the presence of his master drawing near, still off in the distance.  Beside him is a woman of silver hair, looking down the mountain path at the empty stone buildings of shinobi, seeming so lifeless in this dream scape. She snorts through the gap of her nostrils, seeming to chuckle lightly.
“She beat you soundly, didn’t she?” says Drasira, her wings spreading, membranes shimmering a vibrant blue against the windy skies.
“Yes,” he says, turning his head away.
It embarrasses him that he was beaten so quickly and directly by the woman, this “Carmilla,” hand of the grand master, Mariana.  Even though he suspected she’d be stronger, how quickly she beat him... it...
He tosses a stone down the cliff in frustration. He watches the small rock clatter down the cliff side, disappearing into the abyss below, his anger rising with its fall. He should not have been defeated so easily.
“One can not always tell the power of an enemy at a mere glance nor in the first battle.”
“Yes, but I should have known better,” he says. “I should have summoned you and...”
“With what time?” she says, cutting him off.
He stares wide eyed, realizing she has a point. With the rapidity of how quickly the woman attacked he had little time to prepare for her. Certainly not enough time to prepare the summoning which would be required to summon Drasira in his place.
“It is true that bringing me into the fray will up your odds of victory but not all enemies will give you that opportunity.  Let this be a lesson to you in that regard.”
“Yes,” he says quietly.  
He looks over the empty landscape below, feeling his heart heavy, wondering if this indeed had been an enemy if he would have failed against her like he did with the murderer of Dairo’s master?  He wasn’t quite as learned back then as he is now, but.. Still... it feels no different now.  He feels equally... helpless.
He realizes those feelings of despair within him are echoed by Drasira and turns towards her.  She regards him with cool eyes, gazing towards him.
“What is it?” he ask.  “You aren’t normally as self defeating as I am.”
“Shiro... I..” She turns away, head lowered.
“Drasira?” he asks, worried.
“I would have been beaten too,” she says quietly, keeping her eyes averted from him.
“What?” he says in shock.
“Your master calls.”
Shiro wakens suddenly with a gasp, lunging forward, blade in hand when his wrist is gripped hard.  Shaiya regards him with a hard stare, anger in her eyes.
“I told you not to underestimate her,” she says.
He lowers his arm, looking away from her.
“I thought I didn’t.”
“It appears you were mistaken in that regard,” she says, standing up. “And you weren’t the only one.”
“What?” he says, only then looking at his surroundings and realizes that three women lie next to him in varying degrees of dress, their armor light compared to what his opponent had.  As he looks towards the nearest one, he can see the bruising on her cheek, one eye swollen shut.  He touches her lightly on the shoulder and she moans in pain.
“Well, they’re alive,” he says.
“Carmilla doesn’t kill when it isn’t necessary.”
“Unlike the other being,” he says standing up and brushing himself off. As he does so, a metal object clatters to the floor.  He looks down upon it, seeing the woman’s visor staring back up at him, the long slit from where the eyes can watch almost seeming to regard him with a certain derision.  He bends down, picking up the object.
“Shall we return to our duties then?” says Shaiya, giving the visor little import.
“Yes,” he says, observing the visor in his hand, remembering Drasira’s words.  “She would have beaten me.”
He looks up at the sky, the rains pelting his face as lighting flashes above.  What kind of woman is this, who can defeat a shinobi so easily and lay waste to a small band of warriors on her own? He grips the visor in his hand more tightly and nods.  He needs to find out what kind of woman this is who follows his brother, for his own security as much as his brother’s.  And, if she is not the killer, leaving bodies, who is?

She watches him from under the pelting rains, the water matting her hair, sticking it to her face, following at a distanced pace where he can see her but enough so that he has his space.  Ayane doesn’t want the young shinobi to run from her again.  It took hours to find him, his method of travel far greater than she’d have thought with him porting about from place to place, the sun itself masking his progress.  
Her fingers twitch as she thinks on how she almost lost his trail among all the mountains, fighting back a quiver of her lips, the water that wants to run down her eyes. The fact is, she did lose him. Only chance had allowed her to find him, if it was that. She suspects otherwise because of how she’d found him.  
He’d been sitting at the entrance of a small cave, head bowed, looking at her with shivering eyes before turning away.  She’d wanted to rush at him, to crush him in her embrace and let the tears flow from her eyes, covering his tunic in them, but a part of her realizes that his running has more to do with her own weakness over his own.  She is not acting like a master, but a weak milksop that is head over heels for him and that can not be allowed.  Not if she truly wishes to claim him, as law dictates.  He’d come back, but any master who constantly has her servant running away is looked on as weak and undeserving of a servant. No. She needed to be firm and hard then.
Biting back her emotions, she’d focused on the anger and frustration she’d felt instead and asked him coldly, “Are you satisfied with your venture?”
He’d looked at her with down cast eyes and looked back down at the floor, remaining silent.  It had taken him time to answer.
“I’m... sorry.”
It had almost come out as a whisper, barely audible to her.
She’d wanted to hug him then, tell him it was alright, or scream at him to not do it ever again, that she was so worried. Instead she’d nodded and taken a seat across from him, keeping a cold glare on him.  He’d kept his head low but hadn’t run again. When he’d decided to move again she’d chosen to follow at a close distance.
Now she keeps that distance, keeping quiet, simply watching him.  He seems to be arguing with himself and Ayane realizes it is probably the dragon spirit he is speaking with.  They are having some disagreement.  Probably about his venture, or, perhaps, about his returning to her? That worries her, but she’ll stay out of it, for the time being.  She doesn’t wish to give him reason to run again as she may truly lose him this time and she couldn’t bare that.

Dairo feels her eyes boring into his spine and turns back to regard Ayane who stares at him with a hard gaze. He can see that her body quivers, that she is fighting some action she wishes to commit to but restrains it with her own will. Or maybe it’s just the cold, perhaps?
“And maybe we’ll turn the bend and you’ll suddenly see your master with a cup of tea waiting for you?” says Denira’s condescending voice in his head, a harsh edge to her tone.
“Shut up,” says Dairo quietly.
“Stop being a child.  You overreacted because of a nightmare and this is the result.”
“Shut up,” he says again.  He looks back at Ayane once more who visibly stiffens at his look.  He turns away, shoulders slumping.  She is too soft.  If he hadn’t felt a sudden guilt wash over him for his reckless behavior he’d have managed to elude her.  For some reason though, he went back, looking for her himself, finally taking refuge in a cave opening via a path she was likely to come across.  Even back then when she’d found him, he’d seen she wanted to rush him and wrap her arms around him like a puppy.
It seems so silly now, he thinks about it. But, truly, he’s been alone for too long with Denira in his head being his only interaction with any outsider and he’s grown tired of that. It’s time to settle down once more and merge back into society, as painful as it may be.
“There is some good that may have come from your brashness, though,” says Denira.
“What are you talking about,” he almost snarls.
Denira chuckles, as if talking down to a child.  “Because she is finally holding her emotions in check and acting like a master should instead of a love struck fool.”
Dairo turns to the woman behind him who regards him cooly, her eyes looking over his face, head tilting to the side, lips opening as if to say something before closing them firmly into a thin line, eyes narrowing.  She is acting less friendly for now, just like when he initially ran.  Though he can see it is a thin skin that can tear at any moment.  Denira sighs in his head in agreement.  She has grown tired of his running as well and seems willing to take up even something as soft as Ayane if it means he will open up to those around him again.  
He turns back to the path, wondering if Ayane will break and act like the fool Denira has such disdain for or if she will take this more serious approach of commander she currently uses. He shakes his head.  She is so confusing a woman it gives him a headache. Jarella was never so confusing.  Jarella was simple and straight forward.
He stops, a weight heavy in his chest that he has been trying to ignore since the contest started.  An emptiness he has been trying to push aside but that has become more apparent as Ayane tries to open herself to him.  Memories flash through his mind of his master’s smiling face and bright eyes, her fingers caressing his hair as he lay on her knees, he looking up at her face.
He coughs and looks up at the dark clouds.  The heavy rain soak into his clothes, slowing him down, making his body feel weighted. At least he tries to say it’s the rain.  His body has been heavy for a long time now, his heart weighing him above anything else, his inability to let go keeping him from properly moving on.  The lightning flashes above, the rain getting in his eyes. His lips quiver and he lets a tear run down his eye.
“Jarella... I miss you.”
He remembers each touch, each look and feel of emotions mingled in his head.  Something that had filled him so back in his early years even through the harshness of his life.  Through it all, she’d always been there.  Jarella. His master.  Until she wasn’t.  Until she was ripped away by an unfeeling monster only interested in power and then everything had changed.  He’d been left hollow, an echo of who he’d once been. And Ayane... she keeps trying to touch him, to make him feel, to pull him out of that darkness.  
He looks at her once more, stopping in their path, regarding her hard face that quivers in trying to remain stern, those fingers which shiver as she resist acting on her emotions. Just like her to do so, like Jarella.  The pain grows too heavy now, his lips quivering, knees shaking and he buckles, the tears coming out, a scream ripping from his lips.  He keeps screaming, letting out the sounds he held back since Jarella first fell.  Emotions that have grown and twisted inside him for over a year now.  The scream comes out, mixing with the thundering storms above.
It is then that he feels arms wrap around his shoulders, arms bringing him close to a surprisingly warm body.
“I’m sorry,” the soft voice whispers against his ear, her voice mixed with the rains.  “I’m sorry I’m not her.  I’m sorry I can’t bring her back to you.  I’m sorry.”
As he looks into those eyes, squeezed so tightly as the rain runs down her face, Ayane looks like she cries, the tears sparkling against her pale cheeks. His own screams die away and he watches this woman who holds him, her voice sounding with those words over and over again against his ear, the rains beating her words against him, searing them into his flesh and he can only sit and listen, his pain diminishing as she holds him, his head under her chin, his tears flowing. And for once in a very long time, real hands with real warmth hold him close, whispering softly in his ear and he begins to relax, his fingers digging into her arms. For once, this isn’t a dream.