An wasn't the type of person who was used to having other people's thoughts in her head. It didn't surprise her particularly that the first night was the hardest. Unfamiliar bed, unfamiliar thoughts, dreams of blades and serene skies and oceans of grass rippling in a foreign breeze.
They weren't unpleasant dreams, but An's mind was rigid and disciplined, and the first time it happened, she forced herself awake, her hand fumbling beneath her pillow for one of her daggers and her camisole soaked through with sweat. Nonsense, of course. It wasn't like they were nightmares. She knew intimately what those felt like, the weight of them in the hands, the beating heart and racing mind that took forever to school to stillness.
She rolled over to stare up at the inn room's ceiling, awake enough to sort through thoughts and emotions, categorizing each into neat mental boxes. An's. Annunu's. Now, Maboroshi's. She could FEEL the stone that lay on the bedside table as if her pulse ran through it, the sharp, precise edges, the way it was cool to the touch but warm at its very center like an egg about to hatch. She had never touched a soulstone before, much less had it react to her, accept her, sing to her like this one had. It unnerved her, and had it been anyone else's soulstone - had they not obtained it under the circumstances they had - she'd have flung it into the abyss without a moment's hesitation.
And there was the matter of Chuta to be considered. He, too, had recently acquired and begun to master a soulstone such as this one. How would he feel that An had been chosen by a stone far gentler, far less cursed, than the one that had guided the blade which had taken his wife's life? An knew well the torture that control of the stone was inflicting upon him. Their trip to the eastern lands in the summer had been proof of that, of that pain that continued to haunt him. And now a second trip, with Harvest and the strange Subtle Raptor to the wilds of the Azim Steppe, had brought An to Maboroshi's stone and her own uneasy journey.
And - she had killed again. Been forced to kill, yes, but she would have without hesitation. Chuta would be so disappointed in her. That weighed on her gut uneasily as well. An Imperial presence in the Steppe, violating Maboroshi's burial site, taking his sword, which she supposed was by rights Harvest's or perhaps even her own with the acceptance of the soulstone... and the mysterious Tribunus that had so easily deflected all of their attacks... It had been a very long time since she had felt so helpless.
The Tribunus had called to her specifically, to serve the Empire. As if Annunu Nunu, mistress of Neo-Khamja, would ever do such a thing. But another worry. Why her, and not Raptor or Harvest? Had he seen weakness in her heart?
Loneliness?
She closed her eyes, Maboroshi's memories whispering in her mind. The young Harvest, learning the blade. The memory of the katana in her hands - Maboroshi's hands - felt right, even though she herself had never held such a thing. Her small hands were made for a perfectly balanced, and probably poisoned, dagger. Her way of fighting was the lethal strike from the shadows, the tricks of a shinobi, not the elegance and precision of a samurai's dance with death. She was... lower than that. Unworthy of that, perhaps.
But perhaps also... such power would be required to defeat that Tribunus. It would mean a lot to return Maboroshi's sword to Harvest, after all, and An found herself increasingly taking risks to protect him, for all that he was her ostensible bodyguard.
She rested her head back on the pillow, resigned to dreams of the sun-drenched Steppes.
They weren't unpleasant dreams, but An's mind was rigid and disciplined, and the first time it happened, she forced herself awake, her hand fumbling beneath her pillow for one of her daggers and her camisole soaked through with sweat. Nonsense, of course. It wasn't like they were nightmares. She knew intimately what those felt like, the weight of them in the hands, the beating heart and racing mind that took forever to school to stillness.
She rolled over to stare up at the inn room's ceiling, awake enough to sort through thoughts and emotions, categorizing each into neat mental boxes. An's. Annunu's. Now, Maboroshi's. She could FEEL the stone that lay on the bedside table as if her pulse ran through it, the sharp, precise edges, the way it was cool to the touch but warm at its very center like an egg about to hatch. She had never touched a soulstone before, much less had it react to her, accept her, sing to her like this one had. It unnerved her, and had it been anyone else's soulstone - had they not obtained it under the circumstances they had - she'd have flung it into the abyss without a moment's hesitation.
And there was the matter of Chuta to be considered. He, too, had recently acquired and begun to master a soulstone such as this one. How would he feel that An had been chosen by a stone far gentler, far less cursed, than the one that had guided the blade which had taken his wife's life? An knew well the torture that control of the stone was inflicting upon him. Their trip to the eastern lands in the summer had been proof of that, of that pain that continued to haunt him. And now a second trip, with Harvest and the strange Subtle Raptor to the wilds of the Azim Steppe, had brought An to Maboroshi's stone and her own uneasy journey.
And - she had killed again. Been forced to kill, yes, but she would have without hesitation. Chuta would be so disappointed in her. That weighed on her gut uneasily as well. An Imperial presence in the Steppe, violating Maboroshi's burial site, taking his sword, which she supposed was by rights Harvest's or perhaps even her own with the acceptance of the soulstone... and the mysterious Tribunus that had so easily deflected all of their attacks... It had been a very long time since she had felt so helpless.
The Tribunus had called to her specifically, to serve the Empire. As if Annunu Nunu, mistress of Neo-Khamja, would ever do such a thing. But another worry. Why her, and not Raptor or Harvest? Had he seen weakness in her heart?
Loneliness?
She closed her eyes, Maboroshi's memories whispering in her mind. The young Harvest, learning the blade. The memory of the katana in her hands - Maboroshi's hands - felt right, even though she herself had never held such a thing. Her small hands were made for a perfectly balanced, and probably poisoned, dagger. Her way of fighting was the lethal strike from the shadows, the tricks of a shinobi, not the elegance and precision of a samurai's dance with death. She was... lower than that. Unworthy of that, perhaps.
But perhaps also... such power would be required to defeat that Tribunus. It would mean a lot to return Maboroshi's sword to Harvest, after all, and An found herself increasingly taking risks to protect him, for all that he was her ostensible bodyguard.
She rested her head back on the pillow, resigned to dreams of the sun-drenched Steppes.
People have forgotten this truth. But you mustn't forget it. You become responsible forever for what you have tamed.
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