She had lived within the walls since she was seven and still the halls felt so alien to her, they were cold, lifeless walls that did not welcome her, they were not warm to her
touch, they did not whisper secrets to her nor did they speak of history or tradition.

They simply were and made her uneasy.

With her back turned to the door she was nervous, it was a feeling she was unaccustomed with and few times in her life had she felt it, once when she was very young and she first crossed the threshold of Goza manor and was greeted by these cold, impersonal walls, again when she was but a girl in the presence of a man, lost between his warm chest, the soft silken sheets and her own carnal urges. The last time was in the heat of her first true mission, meeting blades with another intent on taking her life, feeling the sting of hatred in the form of steel and then watching as her enemies blood stained her hands red. Now, here in Goza there was something about not only Nobu, but Masato too.

She remembered seeing him for the first time when she was five, her old, dark blue kimono hiked about her thighs as she ran screeching across the sands, her feet flying through the water as it swelled upon the shore and then retreated only to rush back and reach as high as her ankles. She trailed a kite her mother had made behind her and watched with glee as it soared high into the air, a floating koi of golden orange and pearl whites, sailing high above her head. Masato rode on the back of a fine steed with a trail of men behind him, his armor was grand and fierce, fit for a demon. He came for her Uncle whom her mother clung to as if she would never see him again – she never did.

The second time she saw Masato he came by himself with her Uncles swords wrapped in white linen, he offered them to her mother but she rejected them in her fit of grief and sent Masato away, ashamed and guilty. The third time she saw him was at her mothers funeral, Azalea had not cried until he’d laid his hand upon her shoulder and held her with the caring grasp of a loving father. Since then he had always been a father figure to her, a mentor, an idol, a hero. He took the poor, half breed orphan girl into his home and trained her with the skills she needed to be of use to him, for that she was eternally grateful. However, come the recent years, once the shroud of childish idolism was lifted from her eyes she had come to see her sensei in a new light, though he had always treated her with such care and devotion, as if they were of the same blood he seemed to socialize with the sort of men she would not have allowed to grovel at her feet. A life of training and fighting had made Azalea suspicious and all together too observant, had she been a normal woman she would have payed Nobu and Masato’s choice in friend’s no mind, but she was not and she watched all too closely, like a hawk waiting for the slightest movement of a mouse in a thicket, she crouched in waiting for her chance to pounce.

It was with that thought in mind that she turned into the next empty room, a guest room in fact with fresh sheets laid out on the floor, no doubt for Nobu. Perfect. She moved to a corner of the room and pulled out a polished wooden chair which she stood upon, giving her the extra height she needed to pry one of the rafters out of place. Had she been truly fit it would have been all too easy for her to lift herself into the ceiling above, but her side jarred with the strain and she was forced to use the strength in her arms more than she cared to in order to haul herself up. She made it though, a little worse for wear and pushed the rafter back into place. There, with wooden support beams and slats beneath her with an arched roof above, she crawled silently across and laid flat on her stomach, dispersing her weight evenly as she peered through one of the cracks through which the light in the room below spilled upwards, she could see the top of Nobu’s balding head as he drank deep on his sake and continued to converse with Masato.

“The Shogun is ill,” he said with no ounce of remorse, “He shall not rule over the country much longer, the man is decrepit if not senile and in his absent state of mind it has become increasingly easier to organize the clans.”

“Organize?” Masato chimed in. “Wouldn’t manipulate be a more appropriate word?”

“Perhaps, but I’m not looking to incriminate myself,” Nobu laughed jauntily, holding his great belly like a buddha as he tossed back another cup of sake rather crudely. “The Kichigoru and Shisuka clans are at war as we speak, spilling their blood so that I can sweep in and steal their land from them. Before long the Shogunate will own more land than the clans themselves, then with the figure head still in place those of us with true power will be assured imperium, provided foreign powers are kept at bay.”

“I wouldn’t fear of that, the new generation are just as adamant at preserving Japan’s traditions as our own, they recite our words by the letter and copy our ideals for themselves because they had no other examples to follow.” Masato replied somewhat dully and his words shook Azalea to her core, she could hardly stand to listen anymore but knew that she had to stay and wait for the conversation to finish.

“Yes, I doubt that should the English or the Dutch attempt to overrun Japan the younger generation would simply stand idly by.”

“Definitely not.”

“Well, then it would seem our plans are coming into fruition,” Nobu toasted his cup and swallowed what had to be at least his own entire bottle of sake. Masato returned the toast and moved the conversation swiftly along, calling for music, Azalea heard the geisha rise to her feet, finding it strange that they would say so much in front of her, she scrambled for a reason and could think on that she had to be under one of their wings. The sound of a string instrument erupted soothingly into the room and the men moved their conversation onto past battle victories and Azalea saw her chance to leave.

She slipped carefully back and moved through the ceiling all the way back to her own room where she dropped silently to the floor, stumbling she clutched her side not simply for pain, she was visibly sick to her stomach. She saw Masato now for who he was, no longer covered by a veil of childhood fantasies, no longer looking upon him with a blind eye to his ethics or his politics, her fatherhood figure was shattered like a mirror crashing upon the floor, each broken shard reflecting Masato in the many ways she had not seen him, the ruthless warrior, the cunning diplomat, the backhanded land owner, the devious strategist. More than fifty ninja were but extended blades under his reign and many peasants were indebted to him, a small army – so she had always thought and now she saw the reasons why.

“I can’t stay here,” she whispered the words so sharply they came as a shock to her and she visibly jolted and grasped the nearby wall to keep her balance. Head down, Azalea breathed hard and clutched tightly at her side as she turned and fell to her knees before a small chest, she laid her head upon its top and covered her face with her arms.

She did not cry, merely shook as the fierce realization swept over her.

She had to leave.

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