The young warrior flinched abruptly, and his hand snapped around Kazuchiyo’s wrist. His palm was clammy, his grip shuddering, but when he opened his eyes, they blazed. He glared up at his caretaker with as much malice as he would an enemy. It gave Kauzuchiyo a chill. But then he relented, licking his lips. “Water,” he said hoarsely.

With his wrist still captured in a tight grip, Kazuchiyo twisted to the side, using his free hand to drag the bottle closer. He spilled some in the effort of tipping it to the man’s lips, but he drank, ravenous and eyelids fluttering. When it was gone, the man collapsed into the mattress and seemed to pass straight out again.

Kazuchiyo watched him for several beats with breath held. “What’s your name?” he asked.

The young warrior grunted and shuddered. “Fisherman,” he said without opening his eyes again. “Wharf hand. Boy.”

“Those aren’t names,” Kazuchiyo protested. “Please, I want to know who you are.”

“Villager,” he continued regardless. “Peasant. Tall one. Slave.” Another shudder passed through him, and when his head fell to the side, his temple rested against Kazuchiyo’s knee. “Practice.”

Kazuchiyo could only speculate as to the young man’s meaning then, but a glimpse of old scars surrounding the new gave him enough clue as to be mortified. Gingerly he touched the man’s hair, again as Satsumi had done, hoping to convey some solace or sympathy. But by then he was unconscious again, giving no indication that the sentiments were felt.

Kazuchiyo slipped his arm free and then returned to his work, dressing the remaining wounds as best he could. As promised, afterward he allowed the soldier to escort him to his room.

He spent the rest of the day in that room. He was allowed out to use the latrine and was served a midday meal alone that he barely ate from. The time he passed in silent idleness, attempting first to meditate, then surrendering to weary numbness. Aritaka’s deep growl and Satsumi’s smiling threats tumbled about and about in what already felt like a battered skull. His father had praised him for his cleverness, but now he could not grasp the threads. He was tired and he wished he could sink into a dull and colorless sleep.

That night, as he curled tight beneath heavy sleeping robes, he could hear the young warrior again, howling throughout the castle. It lasted only a few minutes, but by then Kazuchiyo’s ears were already saturated, and even the men guarding his door exchanged fearful looks. He prayed no one had killed the poor creature in his sleep to cease his unearthly cries.

In the morning, new soldiers came to relieve the others, and Kazuchiyo asked in the humblest language if he could be allowed to meet and tend to the young warrior again.

“Oh, you mean Yagi-douji?” the man said with a squeamish look. “He’s dangerous.” But Kazuchiyo persisted, and at length, he gained permission.

The room was in a terrible state compared to how Kazuchiyo had left it. The futon was torn, its contents spilling out and stained with dried blood, and one entire sliding door had been broken through leaving wooden splinters everywhere. The young man himself was stretched out awkwardly amidst his bedding, flushed, his breath shallow. Servants and samurai huddled nearby and stammered to each other over what was to be done.

“He woke last night in some kind of fit,” Kazuchiyo’s guard told him. “Threw a man straight through that wall—broke his arm. It took General Ebara striking him to put him down. We were lucky he was near.”

Kazuchiyo glanced between the men, but he did not see anyone dressed well enough to be a general. “There’s more blood than yesterday,” he said. “He must have torn open his wounds. Has anyone tended them?”

“You’re welcome to try,” the guard replied, only to recant when Kazuchiyo immediately started forward. “Wait, I didn’t mean—”

Kazuchiyo ignored him. To some it may have looked like a fearlessness of death that allowed him to kneel at the boy’s side, but to Kazuchiyo it was only that his death meant less to him than the fate of his champion. When he touched the young warrior’s shoulder, he startled, and he fixed Kazuchiyo with the same hateful glare as the morning before. It was no less frightening but Kazuchiyo did not flinch away.

“Water?” suggested Kazuchiyo, and the young warrior nodded warily. So Kazuchiyo asked one of the servants to fetch water.

“You all have chores to get to,” one of the samurai added, and he began shooing the onlookers away. “Back to your duties. And find the beast a new room.”

The crowd reluctantly dispersed. A few guards remained but kept their distance, sidling closer only to deliver the requested water and fresh dressings. As the young warrior gulped down his drink, Kazuchiyo took the opportunity to investigate, and discovered a gash just over his hip with a fresh, oozing scab.

“You’ll never heal if you move so much,” Kazuchiyo said quietly, and though he had no more ointment, he wet a cloth with the remaining water to dab the wound clean.

“I wasn’t trying to,” he retorted, but he did calm, relaxing onto his side as Kazuchiyo worked.

“You broke a man’s arm. Were you...having a nightmare?”

He didn’t answer. Kazuchiyo let him be for a while, until there was nothing left to do but try and bind the wound. “Can you sit up?” he asked. “So I can wrap it?”

The young warrior grumbled wordlessly, though it soon became clear as he tried to maneuver his arms beneath him that his stubbornness was only to hide his weakness. He propped himself up enough on one elbow that Kazuchio was able to reach beneath him to thread the gauze wrap.

“Won’t you tell me your name?” Kazuchiyo tried again once he was finished. “I won’t tell anyone, if you don’t want me to.”

He offered another sip of water, which the young warrior accepted eagerly, even as his eyes darted away. “I already did,” he muttered.

“‘Practice’?” said Kazuchiyo, and they were nestled so close together than he felt the other shudder at the word. A heavy weight fell over him. “No one’s ever named you? Not even as a boy?”

“Leave me alone.” He shoved Kazuchiyo’s hand away, spilling the rest of the water, and thumped onto his back once more. His temper cost him—the drop made him hiss and reach for his wounded shoulder. When Kazuchiyo reached for him, he shoved him away again. “Go away! I don’t want your help!”

Kazuchiyo leaned back, but he moved no further than that. He wished he had the luxury of showing his anger so easily. “One of the soldiers called you Yagi-douji,” he said. When the young man glared at him, confused, he explained. “He must think you have the strength of a horde of oni.”

“Yagi,” he repeated, his brow furrowing. “Yagi-douji.” He snorted and closed his eyes. “I don’t hate it.”

Kazuchiyo smiled, and the expression felt strange, as if he couldn’t hold onto it. “I think you’re as strong as one hundred oni,” he said.

“Yagi” frowned, unmoved. “It’s not so hard to break a man’s arm,” he replied.

“I mean, on the field,” said Kazuchiyo, goose bumps on his skin as he remembered his awe at the howl rippling out through the rain. “You must have killed dozens of men. I’ll never forget it.”

Yagi blinked up at him. “You were there?” he asked, bewildered and squinting. “At the battle?”

“Well...yes. Of course.” Kazuchiyo frowned at him in return. “I’m Kazuchiyo. You don’t...remember me?”

We can easily blame blood loss and fevered-sleep for the uncommon length of time it took for Yagi to assemble his wits. Once he had, he sat up so quickly they nearly collided. “That was you?” he demanded, and then he immediately wilted, wrapping his arm around his chest. That time, he did not protest Kazuchiyo moving to support him, and the close quarters must have stirred his memory into place. He looked upon Kazuchiyo with fresh eyes, sobered by shock and disgust. “That was you,” he said again, suddenly breathless as he gripped Kazuchiyo’s sleeve. “But...you’re just a boy.”

Kazuchiyo swallowed, feeling the lump crawl down into his stomach. He thought of Tomonaga’s teasing face splitting open beneath an arrow. “I wasn’t there to fight,” he said quietly.

Yagi stared, baffled. As if for the first time he gazed about the room, eyeing the guards on the other side of the broken door and the Aritaka crest of their armor. “Where are we?” He tried to use Kazuchiyo’s shoulder to stand, but his legs would barely heed him let alone hold him, and he had to abandon the effort before he’d halfway begun. “Who are you? Whose son are you—why did they bring me here? Why am I here!”

“Calm down,” Kazuchiyo urged, doing his meager best to prevent Yagi from attempting to stand again. “Move too much and you’ll reopen your wounds.”

“Why do you care?” Yagi continued to holler, growing ever more agitated. Unable to move as he wished, he settled with grabbing up Kazuchiyo’s collar while the guards shifted in indecisive anxiety. “Why is a samurai boy looking after me? Why haven’t you killed me!?”

“I can answer that,” said a woman in the doorway.