Darkening Sky, Chapter 15

• Posted by The Sunflower Manual June 16, 2019 - Filed in TSC: Long Story - #Harrow  #R.T.H.L.  - 1,265 views

  Chapter 15

   

   

   

   

                  ‘Focus on the objective – but careful, don’t damage it!’

   

                  A flurry of blows, sixteen consecutive impacts in a second.

   

                  ‘Rinka! She’s down-’

   

                  ‘Broken leg; I’m fine! Keep going!’

   

                  Harrow took three steps back and assessed the situation. A score of energy bolts whizzed across the field towards his head and torso. Urokko, Io and Kaori moved to guard him immediately and the magic splattered off a triple layer of wards. All three kits staggered back from the strain, but Harrow was unharmed.

   

                  ‘Ambarro – press from the left, rapid fire from point-blank range. Diia, Tenna-ko, Cika-ko, Shiyo-jo, follow his lead and close the distance. The rest of us – continue engaging the target but be careful not to overextend – Yuuzen-daro, disengage!’

   

                  Yuuzen was being pushed backwards, his opponent unrelenting, leaving him no openings to nock any arrows. He leant to the left to avoid a jab and blocked an incoming palm strike with his elbow, but the attack exposed his ribcage and a rigid knee crashed below his lungs. The young shinobi grunted and faltered, only barely blocking a hissing chop towards his neck with his yumi. He slid his hand down the bow and swung it like a staff, torqueing his hips for additional force.

   

                  Mokko blocked the blunt strike with the heel of one hand and turned his hips himself, kicking Yuuzen right in his already weakened ribcage. Bone cracked. Tom curled his kusarigama over his head and looped the weighted end of the chain towards the idol clutched under Mokko’s left arm.

   

                  Torako was squaring off against five opponents at once. He clapped his hands together and sent Ambarro’s flames flying back with a furious gust of wind, accompanied by lightning and sleet. The black-furred kit deflected the lightning with his staff and Diia stopped most of the sleet with a telekinetic push, while Tenna, Cika and Shiyo counterattacked simultaneously with a massive barrage of destruction spells. Torako stopped it with one hand, a large yellow sphere ballooning out of his palm and absorbing the scattered magicka, making it his own. With his other hand he hurled a single spike of ice towards Mokko’s direction. It hit Tom’s chain with a sharp ping and sent the weight flying backwards, away from the idol.

   

                  Then six throwing stars spiraled through his magic and Torako dodged – but he wasn’t quite fast enough and a single dart struck the back of his hand. He grinned ruefully, proudly, as he began to bleed. Aha, they mixed in shuriken! The kits had seen through his spell in half a second and devised a counterstrategy in another half, all without saying a word to each other.

   

                  Mokko was having similar difficulty. Torako’s spike had saved the idol, but the martial arts instructor was now being attacked by another five different opponents from all directions – Kaori and Nacadi pressured him from the front, throwing out elbow strikes right in his face. Mokko dealt with them using his right arm, turning on his waist as he blocked one elbow with his palm and another with his forearm. Tom was still on his left flank, slashing at his hind leg with his sickle, and Io was at his back, jabbing at his kidney with a kunai. Mokko stopped both attacks with his left foot, kicking first upwards to repel Tom’s sickle by the hilt and then launching another kick to Io’s wrist. Urokko took that opportunity to attack his other flank, katana cutting low at his right hamstring. Mokko evaded the attack with a twist of his knee. The blade cut through the fabric of his trousers. All five kits immediately attacked again.

   

                  Eyes narrowing, Mokko examined his surroundings and threw the idol skywards, freeing his left hand.

   

                  ‘Ah…!’

   

                  The kits’ eyes drifted up just a few degrees too much and Mokko landed a string of devastating strikes on all five. A roundhouse kick sent Kaori’s skull crashing into Nacadi’s and Mokko spun in the opposite direction, sending a flying knee into Tom’s eye. In the same motion, he caught Io’s wrist from behind with his left hand as the kit went for another thrust and, bracing him against his pelvis, slammed him to the ground. Urokko managed to bring the katana down in a vertical slash towards Mokko’s forehead. The instructor caught the blade between two fingers of his right hand.

   

                  The exchange had bought enough time for Yuuzen to nock and draw his bow. An arrow sped towards Mokko’s head and, with all of his limbs occupied, the steel-grey Po’ Tun opened his mouth and caught the blunted arrowhead with his teeth. The arrow stopped cold, vibrating violently. Unfazed even with his fractured ribs, Yuuzen loosed another arrow immediately. Mokko kneed Tom again in the jaw and disarmed Urokko, using his momentum to take his sword and bringing the katana sweeping upwards to split the arrow down the shaft. Yuuzen shot a third time – this time towards the idol, which had just begun to fall.

   

                  Yuuzen’s bow had been configured to a lower draw weight than usual, but the shot was still forceful. He had calculated the angle flawlessly as well. The idol rotated to the left, flying up and away from the fight. Tom swung his kusarigama at it again but Mokko leapt off using Io’s shoulders as leverage, deflecting the chain-scythe to the side with the katana. Nacadi rose and leapt into the air herself, reaching for the idol – then Mokko caught her by one heel and dragged her back down, throwing her into Kaori.

   

                  For a brief instant, Mokko’s full body was occupied once again. Thunder crackled. Harrow turned into a lightning bolt and flashed into the sky towards the idol.

   

                  In almost the exact same instant, Torako stretched out one hand and raised a ward directly in the path of the lightning. Harrow rematerialised, forced out of the spell as it dispersed. He fell to the ground dazed – he had been travelling at immense speed and the ward might as well have been a brick wall. Diia reached for the idol with telekinesis, but Torako broke her concentration with an illusion, cutting her off from her senses. Diia dispelled the magic immediately, but it was enough. The idol came tumbling down, clattering across the training field.

   

                  The move had kept the objective out of the kits’ hands, but it had also taken some pressure off Torako’s own opponents. Ambarro exploited the opening immediately, whirling his staff in complex patterns and blasting fireballs out of both tips. The power behind his magic surprised Torako. He’s been keeping a pool of magicka in reserve, he realised. All in preparation for the right opportunity to go on the offensive…

   

                  ‘That’s it, that’s the way it’s done,’ he laughed out loud even as a series of chain explosions forced him to retreat step by step. Mokko shot him a look of reproach. The exercise wasn’t over yet.

   

                  With Torako on the back foot from a newly intensified assault, Diia moved to support the group engaging Mokko. She fenced with him from a distance using her telekinetic kunai, thrusting at him from multiple angles and going from using five blades at once to her maximum of eight. Mokko frowned, parrying continuously with Urokko’s katana. Along with all six of the kits now facing him, he had absolutely no room for his own attacks. The seconds passed by. Rinka rejoined the fight, replacing Diia, her broken leg still limping but already mending. This level of Regeneration at such a young age, Torako marveled, pleased.

   

                  Completely surrounded and still forced on the defensive, Mokko finally resorted to what Torako hadn’t seen him use in years – magic. He pushed both hands to his side and unleashed a roaring surge of yellow flame, the force of his spell flinging Yuuzen, Diia and Tom to the left and Kaori, Nacadi, Urokko and Io to the right. A lightning bolt streaked through the chaos and Harrow was unsheathing Whisper even before he fully reformed, slashing diagonally upwards in a draw-cut. Mokko parried and riposted with one of the standard counters from Breton sabre fencing. His form was perfect, and Harrow only managed to avoid injury by riding lightning again, speeding back towards the idol-

   

                  Riding lightning himself, Torako intercepted him in midair. As the two streams of electricity collided, he ripped Harrow’s form out of the magicka and landed two blows on his solar plexus, winding him-

   

                  And then he noticed too late that the kits were speeding towards the exit location marked on the training field. Tom was retracting his kusarigama with the idol wrapped in his chain. ‘Third time’s the charm!’

   

                  Harrow rolled upright as he landed on the ground and there was another crack of thunder as he reappeared next to the rest of Year 182. ‘Primary target successfully retrieved,’ he wheezed, his diaphragm still recovering. ‘Exfiltration complete.’

   

                  Ambarro whooped.

   

                  ‘Hmm. Torako-jo.’ Mokko smoothed the front of his tunic as he stood straight. ‘It appears we’ve been soundly defeated.’

   

                  ‘Well done,’ Torako said, unable to stop himself from smiling ear to ear. ‘Well done, well done, well done! Way to end your training for 199 on a high note. Excellent tactics, superior coordination, superb execution. You are all, beyond any doubt, ready for independent operations. Your last year of instruction as kits is essentially just a formality at this point. Very, very well done!’

   

                  ‘I’d say something,’ Mokko said dryly, applying a small dose of Regeneration to his bruised arms and legs. ‘But Torako-jo has already given you all the praise I feel was appropriate.’

   

                  Year 182 bowed ninety degrees in unison. ‘Thank you, Masters!’

   

                  It took Torako a few moments to repair the training field. As the last cobblestone snapped back into place, he gestured at the kits.

   

                  ‘Well, this is the last session we’re going to have before the festivities,’ he said. ‘You are all dismissed! Enjoy New Year’s, I’ll see you all later if we come across each other in the marketplace.’

   

                  Year 182 bowed one last time and scattered.

   

                  Torako sighed.

   

                  ‘Mokko-do,’ he said wistfully. ‘Do you think we could’ve done any better when we were their age?’

   

                  ‘Of course we could have,’ Mokko snapped before relenting. ‘But only very slightly.’

   

  
  

   

                  ‘Since nobody else wants this thing,’ Ambarro crowed, waving the idol. ‘I’m keeping it.’

   

                  ‘Ambarro-do,’ Yuuzen said. ‘It’s a lump of waste iron that we just tossed around for half an hour.’

   

                  ‘It’s got sentimental value!’

   

                  The thirteen kits of the class were walking down the road leading away from the training halls to head back to their rooms. The living quarters were all clustered in Tsukikage’s central area, so they were all taking the same road. Two or three conversations were going on at once.

   

                  ‘Cika, what are you wearing for the Festival?’

   

                  ‘Black and red! I want to try on this dress I had imported from Vvardenfell, apparently it’s a design that’s in fashion all across Morrowind right now. It should go great with my fur.’

   

                  ‘Ehh? How much was it? What kind of money are you making on the side anyway? Uaahh! I should get into the barber business…’

   

                  ‘You’d be surprised how often Shadeclaws come back from assignments with their mane and fur all messed up. Regeneration only gets the stuff growing back, you still need a stylist to look right again, you know. And then there’s undercover work…’

   

                  ‘Oh, that reminds me – I need to get some more of those new conditioning potions they’ve started selling down the main street apothecaries. They work wonders with soap! My fur’s never felt smoother.’

   

                  ‘My hair is a little different from manes, but those potions really are masterfully brewed; they work for me too.’

   

                  ‘I can’t wait to get a mouthful of hot fish balls!’

   

                  ‘Ohh, I’m going to eat yakitori until I burst apart at the seams-’

   

                  ‘Ambarro-to, you almost did that last year-’

   

                  ‘Then I’m actually doing it this year! You can’t stop me! Waaahahaa-’

   

                  ‘T-there’s plenty of other things to try!’

   

                  ‘Goodness the two of you are just too cute-’

   

                  ‘What was that, Nacadi? You want to go, you bastard?’

   

                  ‘Say, Shiyo, what’s your stall going to be?’

   

                  ‘It’s a night stall so after the evening I’ll only have time for the fireworks after the evening.’

   

                  ‘Aah, that’s unfortunate.’

   

                  ‘Luck of the draw and everything, you know. Anyway, I’m running a game stall this year. Knife throwing, Imperial style.’

   

                  ‘Sounds interesting! Any prizes?’

   

                  ‘You remember my uncle, right? Well, he made a few pillows too many this year and his store didn’t manage to sell a lot of them what with all the missions the village has been getting lately, so he gave me the rest for my stall. They’re all embroidered with special patterns…’

   

                  ‘That’s my room there. I’ll see you all later!’

   

                  ‘Mine is on the other side of the block. I’ll walk with you; I want to hear more about those dress designs.’

   

                  Nacadi and Cika peeled off from the group and strolled towards one wing of the living quarters. A few minutes later, Ambarro and Diia left for their rooms as well, along with most of the boys and a couple of the girls. The rest continued walking in the exact same direction.

   

                  After a while, Urokko frowned and turned around. ‘What’re the lot of you doing? Did everyone move to this block at the same time or something?’

   

                  Tenna snickered. ‘We’re waiting, of course.’

   

                  ‘Wha- oh, no, no, no-’

   

                  ‘Waiting for you to spring the question, Urokko-jo,’ Kaori chimed in, her mane ruffling in amusement.

   

                  Urokko turned to Yuuzen, who was standing at a distance with a wicked grin plastered over his face. ‘You traitor, you,’ he spluttered. ‘How many people did you tell?’

   

                  ‘I lost count after a while.’

   

                  ‘Auaaagh.’ Urokko’s ears and nose turned a brilliant shade of red. Harrow observed the phenomenon with some interest and the crème-furred Po’ Tun reddened even further.

   

                  ‘Come on, ask ‘em already!’

   

                  Rinka’s encouragement turned into a chant echoing across the girls. ‘Ask ‘em! Ask ‘em!’

   

                  ‘All right!’ Urokko yelled. He looked on the verge of tears. ‘Harrow-jo!’

   

                  ‘Ah, such passion!’ Tenna made a show of swooning.

   

                  ‘Enough already!’

   

                  Harrow bit his lower lip to keep from laughing. ‘Do go on,’ he said, in tones that were deliberately a few degrees softer than normal. ‘Urokko-to…’

   

                  ‘“-t-to?” U-um, your stall runs in the afternoon, right? Will you-’ Urokko stiffened his arms at his sides. ‘I would like it very much if you spent the night with me-’

   

                  ‘WOAH!’

   

                  ‘That’s boldness right there!’

   

                  ‘I didn’t mean it like that!’ Urokko yelped, backpedaling desperately. ‘I meant- it’s the- for the evening and the fireworks and walking the night stalls a bit-’

   

                  ‘Since you’ve already got the night all planned out,’ Harrow smiled sweetly. ‘Of course. I’ll wait for you in my room after sunset, then.’

   

                  The ritual over, Urokko’s shoulders slumped and he smiled back. ‘Right. Be seeing you.’

   

                  He sped off away from the group as quickly as he could, which was blindingly fast even for a shinobi. Kaori looked at his receding shadow, turned around, sighed and advanced on Harrow grinding her teeth.

   

                  ‘Har-row-tooooo, you hussy,’ she moaned. ‘How dare you steal all our men… the grudge of all the world’s lone females descends upon you…’

   

  
  

   

                  Ambarro stretched as he took off his tunic and went into his washroom to rinse his face. He looked up from the basin with his fur sopping wet and paused, staring at his reflection.

   

                  His white stripe had grown a little. It was almost a full inch wide at his forehead now. He twisted and looked at his back through the mirror. The stripe tapered down to half an inch wide as it traced his spine, then sharpened into a line and disappeared into the fur on his tail.

   

                  I’m almost an adult now. It wasn’t just that it was the New Year. His birthday was in two weeks.

   

                  He swallowed and stared at himself some more. His tail twitched and he batted at it absentmindedly. There wasn’t much left to imagine now. This was the face and the body he would wear throughout his adult years until the white stripe became his main coat and his remaining black fur became stripes or patches. When he was a hundred or so he would be the same solid white as Grandpa.

   

                  It was strange to think about growing up. At the end of the day nothing much would change. He might be getting some harder missions from time to time, but it wasn’t as if he would have all new responsibilities. Training, sparring, spying, killing. He was raised to do a very specific set of things and he had already been doing them all throughout his life.

   

                  Can I really say that I’m a grown-up, then?

   

                  Training, sparring, spying, killing.

   

                  Have I… really grown up?

   

                  Training, sparring, spying, killing.

   

                  What’s it mean… to grow up?

   

                  Training, sparring-

   

                  Is that all there is… to growing up?

   

                  -spying, killing.

   

                  Is this all there is… to my existence…?

   

                  Ambarro jerked back from his reflection and walked slowly into his study. His window was open and the room faced east. The morning sun projected his shadow onto the wall. He popped the claws on his right hand and his shadow did the same.

   

                  ‘Shadeclaw…’ Ambarro murmured, pointing. The shadow pointed back, dark and indistinct. Their claws were sharp. He knew from experience that they could open every blood vessel in a humanoid body with ease. ‘In another year, you’ll be a Shadeclaw...’

   

                  Training sparring spying killing.

   

                  Ambarro shook his face dry, making a mess of the mirror. Then he went to his wardrobe.

   

                  The layout for his quarters was simple; three rooms. His washroom was small – he mostly used the bathhouses when he wanted to soak. He’d set up a miniature armory and a selection of dummies in his meditation chamber, so it doubled as a training area. His cot was in his study. No kitchen, no larder, no pantry. He usually went down the village’s main street for meals and left the cooking to Diia and Harrow, the pair of perfect housekeepers that they were.

   

                  He opened up the wardrobe and looked over his meagre collection of outfits, half of which he’d already grown out of-

   

                  ‘Ambarro-to, I couldn’t finish Harrow-to’s new sesame rice crackers on my own,’ Diia said as she walked in with a small box and a bottle. ‘I thought I’d bring them over with some rice wine and we could – eep!’

   

                  ‘Oh, um, hi, Diia-’

   

                  ‘Wuh-wha-why are you topless already?’

   

                  ‘Uh,’ Ambarro blinked. Already? ‘I was about to change for the festival…’

   

                  ‘I’m sorry!’

   

                  ‘You’re peeking through your fingers.’

   

                  ‘Am not!’

   

                  ‘Are too. Pervert. Can you close the door, please?’

   

                  Diia hurried back to the door and snapped it shut. She had already changed. This year she was wearing a light pink kimono with a white floral pattern running down the bottom of her robe’s skirt and her sleeves. The thin fabric fell over her body, wrapping tight over her narrow waist, framing her slim figure like a picture.

   

                  ‘I do have to thank you for showing up, though,’ Ambarro scratched his head. ‘Now I know which kimono to pick to compliment yours… dark blue is a good match for pink, right? Grounds the colour while being uplifted itself.’

   

                  ‘Who told you that?’ Diia tilted her head. ‘You don’t normally pay that much attention to fashion…’

   

                  ‘Eh, never mind that,’ Ambarro said gruffly.

   

                  ‘Hehe. It was Harrow-to, then.’

   

                  ‘Gyaah,’ Ambarro complained, flexing his neck. ‘It does makes sense, so I’ll take his advice this time around – you know, I really don’t mind you looking.’

   

                  Diia had averted her eyes when her gaze began drifting downwards to the sculpted line of his lower abdomen and the muscles forming a v-shaped arrow leading under his waistline. ‘It’s still rude, after all.’

   

                  ‘Mhmm. Is it really? The marriage is still a long ways off, but it’s not as if we can’t be more comfortable with each other as things stand now,’ Ambarro said seriously.

   

                  ‘Of course not,’ Diia agreed so quickly that Ambarro got a little suspicious.

   

                  ‘Mhmm,’ he repeated. He pulled out and unfolded the kimono he’d picked, then raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, with that said, do you really want to keep looking while I put this on? You do know that all I’m supposed to wear under a kimono is a single strip of cotton, right?’

   

                  Diia didn’t move. She pawed at the front of her robes, chewing her lower lip. It was Ambarro’s turn to flush. ‘Is – is something wrong?’

   

                  ‘Ambarro-to,’ she said in a small voice. ‘You know that for us girls… we don’t wear anything underneath… at all.’

   

                  ‘Uhm, uh, yeah, of course, uh,’ Ambarro stammered. ‘I knew that. Ahem.’

   

                  The silence that followed was very nearly the most awkward moment in his life.

   

                  ‘I, ah,’ Diia continued, taking a deep breath and stealing closer. She had moved one hand to her silk belt, tucking in her index finger as if she was about to loosen it. ‘I had a bit of trouble putting the kimono on myself. I haven’t done it on my own very often – usually the girls help each other…’

   

                  ‘Uh, right, yeah,’ Ambarro swallowed.

   

                  ‘Would – would you like t-to see-’

   

                  ‘Diia,’ Ambarro said, steeling his nerves. ‘We’re not children anymore, and I’m not as dense as I used to be. I can take a hint. Is this really what you want? Now, of all times?’

   

                  Abandoning all pretense, Diia stepped even closer to him, until their faces were inches apart and their breath became one. ‘I do,’ she whispered, reaching out. ‘Especially now.’

   

                  Ambarro held her by the arms even as she slid her hands to his waist. ‘The festival,’ he licked his lips, which suddenly felt very dry. She followed the motion of his tongue with her eyes. ‘What about – what about after the festival, at night? Doesn’t that seem more proper?’

   

                  ‘In a couple of hours, Takarro-ri will give the annual speech before the celebrations begin,’ Diia mumbled, nestling her head in his shoulder. Ambarro moved one hand to the curve of her back. ‘I can already guess some of the things he’ll be talking about. Tamriel is more chaotic than ever, and I want- I want-’

   

                  Diia squeezed her eyes shut for a brief moment, steadying herself after her outpouring of emotion. Ambarro tightened his hug. ‘Go on,’ he murmured. His snout was almost touching her ear and it twitched as he spoke.

   

                  ‘I want to be with you,’ Diia murmured back. ‘I want to step into this new century with you. I want us to be together when the fireworks go off and Takarro-ri strikes the fifty-six bell gongs.’

   

                  ‘Diia…’

   

                  ‘Maybe it’s too soon after all,’ she lowered her eyes, her pupils swimming, abnormally bright. ‘Maybe I should have waited… talked with you more before ambushing you with this. I’m sorry… we do have an entire year left together. Yes, maybe we should-’

   

                  He bunted his forehead into hers, rubbing their cheeks together. Diia released a soft yowl and nuzzled him, gently at first but growing insistent, urgent. They pressed their bodies together, impatient. Without breaking contact, Diia’s hand moved downward to his belt and Ambarro reached upwards to slip the kimono off her shoulders. Then he froze, momentarily struck dumb.

   

                  ‘Why are you stopping?’ Diia gasped, still trying to land nibbles on his neck.

   

                  ‘I really don’t have any idea how this is supposed to go,’ he panted. ‘I – I mean, Harrow told me a few things but I’ve never – do you…?’

   

                  Diia shook her head, mirroring his own state of mingled confusion and craving. ‘I’ve read about it in… um... no, not really…’

   

                  His discomfort faded just as abruptly as it had begun. Ambarro leant back in, relieved. ‘Then there’s no one to tell us how to do it, no instructions, no training... thank goodness.’

   

                  Diia looked up at him, her eyes shining. ‘Ambarro-to?’

   

                  He held her close as they backed up, their tails intertwining, towards his cot. ‘Thank goodness… that there’s finally something we can figure out for ourselves.’

   

  
  

   

                  An hour later, Diia was holding his arms up as she tied a cloth belt around his waist to hold up his kimono. ‘It really is easier for men.’

   

                  ‘Hey,’ Ambarro took her hand as she finished, turning around to look into her eyes. ‘Thank you.’

   

                  Diia smiled faintly. ‘It’s just your clothes. I’m sure that when we’re proper husband and wife, I’ll be doing this all the time.’

   

                  ‘Well, there’s that,’ Ambarro smiled back. ‘But really… thank you.’

   

                  They basked in each other’s company for a while longer, then stepped out of his room and into the village. Po’ Tun were milling out of their homes and stores and training halls, onto the streets and rooftops, all headed for the centre of the village, to the square where the Grandmaster was already waiting. Takarro was perched on a tall stand, his hands clasped behind his perfectly straight back, the very picture of dignity. His robes fluttered behind him, billowing in the wind.

   

                  ‘How long do you think Grandpa’s been standing there?’ Ambarro took his place beside Shiyo at the back of the square. They were lined up according to age, and since they were still below twenty, they were on the thirty-fourth row.

   

                  ‘Takarro-ri wouldn’t have any trouble staying completely still for three days straight,’ Shiyo said. ‘But I think he was only here for an hour or so.’

   

                  As noon approached, the last of the shinobi arrived and the hubbub of idle chatter stopped completely. Save the operatives in deep cover and the fifty-three children below the age of four, all one thousand eight hundred and six of Tsukikage’s residents were gathered in front of Takarro.

   

                  The Grandmaster opened his mouth and began.

   

                  ‘The first thing that I would like to say is this,’ Takarro said. ‘Good work, all.’

   

                  He bowed at the operatives in front of him.

   

                  ‘The number of missions and assignments undertaken by the village this year has been substantial. We have been deployed to every province of Tamriel. We have assisted nine Legions and the Penitus Oculatus in sixteen different major operations. We have caused the collapse of nine local governments and the breakdown of two standing armies.

   

                  ‘Do not use our accomplishments as an excuse to grow arrogant and complacent.’ Takarro’s tone changed, becoming grave. ‘The socio-political conflicts between Tamriellian civilisations draw close to a boiling point. Civil unrest and international hostility brew in every province and every state. The machinations of the Aldmeri Dominion remain inscrutable, despite our best efforts to infiltrate their administration. At the same time, our allies of the Mede Dynasty continue to toil in their efforts to reconsolidate power.’

   

                  Takarro paused for a moment, then his voice lightened.

   

                  ‘Well, that’s quite enough fearmongering on my part. We should indeed avoid bloated pride, but there’s no need to deflate our confidence, either. Above all, everything we have done and everything we need to do should remind you of one simple fact – a shinobi endures.

   

                  ‘We have endured for two thousand years. We shall endure for two thousand more. Remember that when you celebrate our endurance into another new year. Remember that as you endure the hardships of training and deployment.’

   

                  The noon-bell tolled.

   

                  ‘Tsukikage!’ Takarro raised his voice as he extended two fingers skywards. ‘The Year Two Hundred of the Fourth Era approaches. Greet it in silence and contemplation.’

   

                  Everyone in the square followed the Grandmaster’s salute. Some of the younger children shifted as they maintained their stance. Not a single noise was released.

   

                  As was custom, the silence lasted for precisely three minutes. Then Takarro chuckled and relaxed, shaking his hands out of his sleeves. ‘Now – let the festival begin!’

   

                  The village exploded into noise. No matter how many times Ambarro had been through the New Year’s, the first bout of firecrackers always jarred him. Friends scattered off, some in groups of twos and threes, others in larger cliques. Conversation erupted everywhere, accompanied by an outburst of traditional Eastern Akaviri instruments. The villagers in charge of the afternoon stalls hurried off to man their posts in the marketplace.

   

                  Ambarro met up with Diia through the crowd and the two of them linked hands.

   

                  ‘Well,’ Diia smiled.

   

                  ‘Well?’ Ambarro smiled back. ‘Where are we headed first? Are you hungry?’

   

                  ‘Starving – let’s visit the food stands!’

   

                  ‘Okay, Harrow’s stall is up first.’ He caught the loaded smirk Diia levelled at him and felt his ears burn. ‘Not like I particularly want to eat his stuff or anything,’ he yelled in a panic. ‘It’s just that he always gets the longest lines, so we should get him out of the way at the very beginning-’

   

                  ‘Whatever you say, Ambarro-to.’ Diia was still smirking.

   

                  Harrow had just opened up shop and was beginning to serve the first batch of customers when they arrived at his stand in the marketplace. A large dining area had been drawn up in the middle with benches and tables from the eatery halls, surrounded by nearly sixty different stalls forming a grid of nonstop cooking. Ambarro caught a single whiff of steam and dough and oil and meat and spice and felt his stomach open up into a gaping maw.

   

                  Two smaller kits were helping out at the stand, but Harrow himself was still taking on the most workload. ‘Your North Cyrodiil style passatelli, Yamazaki-jo, and your soy broth ramen, Regis-do. Please take your time and enjoy. Jian-to, is the broth ready?’

   

                  ‘Almost, sir!’

   

                  ‘Good, good. Things are a little slow for now, but ready yourselves! In another half-hour there will almost certainly be an enormous rush of customers.’

   

                  ‘Yes, sir!’

   

                  Harrow was dressed in the simple black tunic of a chef with a headband tied over his forehead to keep his hair back. He was slicing up a soft-boiled egg when Ambarro and Diia sat down in front of his stall.

   

                  ‘Ah, dunce.’ He looked up briefly from his work to rinse off his kitchen knife. ‘And good afternoon, Diia. The two of you are eyeing the soup like a pair of falcons; you must be famished. Here’s a menu.’

   

                  ‘So uh,’ Ambarro said distractedly as he looked over the dishes. ‘Your stand is noodles, then?’

   

                  ‘No, dunce, as you can obviously see I’m doing spit-roasted Bosmeri barbeque.’

   

                  ‘Always so smart,’ Ambarro grumbled. ‘I’ll have the udon.’

   

                  ‘Any particular broth? Toppings? Unless you want me to just slap a pile of raw noodles on your bowl, of course.’

   

                  ‘Ha-ha. Bone broth with braised pork; the works. Add an extra egg.’

   

                  ‘Diia?’

   

                  ‘I’ll have the soba in fish broth. No toppings for me, thanks!’

   

                  ‘Coming right up.’ Harrow tightened his headband and got to work. It didn’t take long. The two kits were effective helpers and they’d kept the broth at the perfect heat and concentration. He dropped two strainers of already cooked noodles into two pots of broth, waited for a few moments, then dipped a ladle into the pots. In fifty seconds Ambarro and Diia each had a bowl of steaming noodles sitting in front of them.

   

                  ‘Okuy rith ith rilly gud.’

   

                  ‘Can you at least swallow before talking?’ Harrow said, disgusted.

   

                  ‘Nu.’ Ambarro slurped up another mouthful of udon through his chopsticks.

   

                  ‘But this really is lovely, Harrow-to, especially for something you made in under a minute.’ Diia sipped at her broth. ‘The mouthfeel from the soba is just a little bouncy and the flavour profile is so light I could eat this for hours. What’s this spice I’m tasting in the background? It goes surprisingly well with the fish broth, but the taste isn’t familiar to me.’

   

                  ‘Oh that,’ Harrow said. ‘It’s a dried herb referred to in Hammerfell as Morwha’s Long Pepper. I thought it’d be appropriate, so I added it specially for the two of you.’

   

                  Ambarro looked up from his bowl distrustfully. ‘Eh?’

   

                  ‘Yes, certain Redguard marauding tribes use it to bolster libido, especially after it’s been recently depleted,’ Harrow said in the deadpan monotone he reserved for punchlines. ‘Very recently depleted, in this case.’

   

                  Diia stopped with her chopsticks halfway to her mouth and Ambarro choked on a piece of pork. He cleared his throat with a gulp of broth and glared. ‘Wha – what do you – I don’t – we – urk-’

   

                  ‘Hu – what – how, who – I mean, erm-’ Diia floundered, then busied herself with the soba.

   

                  ‘I’ve trained with priestesses of Dibella and worked with the most high-class prostitutes and courtesans in Cyrodiil,’ Harrow’s lips curled upward as they finished the noodles with desperate speed. ‘Did you really think I couldn’t tell? Anyways. Go on, eat up. You need to restore your energies…’

   

                  ‘Die,’ Ambarro shrieked, hurling a ten-septim coin at him like a shuriken. Diia gave profuse thanks for the meal, then they both fled.

   

                  ‘Couples,’ Harrow shrugged at the rest of his customers.

   

                  The day went on. Ambarro and Diia visited dozens of food stands, gorging themselves on dishes that they wouldn’t have been able to get in the village any other week; recipes based on cuisine from every corner of Tamriel. Ambarro ended up emptying his pockets completely and Diia had to remind him that they still had six more days of festival to eat through before he could go back to his room for more money.

   

                  They tried a few of the festival games. Ambarro won the second runner-up’s prize for a traversal course set up in the rooftops.

   

                  ‘It’s… a bottle of beer?’ he said hesitantly.

   

                  The matronly Shadeclaw running the course was around a hundred and fifty, and she gave him a toothy grin as she handed him the bottle. ‘Check the base,’ she cackled.

   

                  ‘What – oooh.’

   

                  ‘That’s right, clip mechanism down the bottom holds six bolts. Springs here, here and here – just twist the neck and you can shoot off the bolts as fast as your wrist can turn. Assassinated every target in a small shareholder’s meeting with this little beauty about fifty years ago. It still works!’

   

                  Ambarro gave the gadget to Diia. ‘I usually just stick to blowing stuff up,’ he said. ‘But you like this kind of novelty item, right?’

   

                  In return, Diia entered a long-range spellslinging competition, sent ice spears through fifteen targets in a row, and won him the first runner-up’s prize.

   

                  ‘A signed slip for one month’s unlimited supply of hens!’ she said happily.

   

                  ‘I don’t cook much myself,’ Ambarro grinned devilishly. ‘But this gives you an excuse to come over every night, doesn’t it?’

   

                  ‘Who’s the pervert now, Ambarro-to? And don’t worry, I’m going to make so much chicken you’re going to be sick of it by the end of the month.’

   

                  The sun was beginning to set. They mostly left the game stands alone and leapt up to the rooftops, taking the long way around the village and looking at the festivities from above.

   

                  As the sky slowly turned from yellow to red to the beginnings of blue, they sat down over a ledge and simply held hands, interlacing their fingers and watching, over Tsukikage’s high walls, the last few inches of sun dip below the mountains. Dark golden rays lanced over rock and ice, and the mountain breeze picked up wisps of new snow. White powdery gusts refracted the dying sunlight into smaller beams, making a glittering lightshow of Mount Furiya at dusk.

   

                  ‘Thank you,’ Ambarro said, his voice soft as he rubbed her hand.

   

                  ‘You’ve been thanking me all day,’ Diia answered, leaning close, their whiskers just touching. ‘What did I do right? Besides… well.’

   

                  ‘Thank you for reminding me why I’m alive,’ Ambarro whispered, turning his head to nuzzle her again. ‘And who I’m alive for.’

   

  
  

   

                  Jian and Tamai had gone back to their quarters to change. Harrow was packing up his tools and just about to hand the stall over to the Po’ Tun running it for the night when there came a loud call from behind.

   

                  ‘Ho there, m’boy!’

   

                  ‘Good evening, Master,’ Harrow bowed lightly as Unaka sprinted at full tilt towards the stall. She hung her head at the sight of him lidding up his pots.

   

                  ‘Aw, blast it. Did I just miss your hours? Drat,’ she pouted. ‘I was running my own stand, but I came as soon as I could.’

   

                  ‘I’m sorry, Master,’ Harrow said. ‘But my broth is still hot if you’d like to try a bowl. We have pork bone, tuna stock, seaweed, shoyu, sesame…’

   

                  ‘That’s a lot of pots,’ Unaka laughed, digging into her coin pouch. ‘I’ll take a bowl of tuna stock if it’s not too much trouble. Do you need help carrying anything back?’

   

                  ‘Oh, the pots are staying here, I’ll just have to heat them up again in the morning,’ Harrow waved his hand dismissively as he spooned out a small bowlful of fish broth and handed it to his swordsmanship instructor. ‘Please excuse me, but I do need to go change, Master-’

   

                  ‘In a hurry for your date?’ Unaka teased.

   

                  ‘Even you’ve heard about it, then,’ Harrow said, bemused.

   

                  ‘You lucky thing, you, the girls in your class are all up in arms over having Urokko the idol boy snatched from them,’ Unaka sighed. ‘Ahh, it’s so good to be young…’

   

                  ‘I really must go now. Do enjoy the broth, Master.’

   

                  ‘Cheers!’ Unaka waved him off.

   

                  The streets were more crowded than usual, so Harrow took the rooftops back to his room. He gave his knives and ladles a thorough scrubbing, then slotted them back in place in his kitchen. Then he headed to his washroom and undid his headband. His hair stayed in place. It had collected grease and residue from hours of continuous cooking, making it sticky and stiff. Harrow slid out of his clothes, drew up a bucket from the spring and rinsed himself down. The water was icy cold, soothing his muscles and his joints. He drew up a few more cups using his kitchen bucket and drank, cooling his throat.

   

                  Urokko wasn’t coming to pick him up in another hour, but he needed to take care of his appearance. Harrow washed his hair with a crushed handful of mild soap, then reached for his washroom shelf and pulled out the bottle of conditioning potion left over from his mission to Camlorn two years ago. It wasn’t something he could afford to use every day, but this was an occasion. Lathering up a handful, he rubbed it firmly into his hair, then washed it off with one last bucket. He held up a mirror and turned his head. The strands were far softer now, their translucent quality brought back out, reflecting sheen much more keenly.

   

                  Harrow wrung the water out of his hair and toweled off, drying his head immediately with a quick spell. He left his hair very slightly damp to make combing it easier, then went over to his wardrobe, poking his feet into white tabi socks and putting on a nagajuban underrobe of the same colour. The cotton was fine, hugging his skin.

   

                  He’d initially picked out a more casual kimono for the festival, but since he was going out with Urokko tonight, he went for something with more flair. The robe was bright red with a repeating pattern of clouds and leaves. He pulled it on carefully. The silk was delicate. He tied a sash around his lower torso after matching both layers of his sleeves. Like most of his other clothes, his kimono had originally been designed for a woman – unless they were custom tailored, men’s clothing simply didn’t match his bodily proportions anymore – so he fastened the sash with a belt, tying it into a large bow behind his back.

   

                  Barely thirty minutes had passed. There was time for a basic manicure. File, nip, oil, polish. Done in ten minutes. Harrow turned his attention back to his hair, holding up his mirror again.

   

                  I wonder what kind of hairstyle Urokko-to likes?

   

                  He continued to stare at his reflection.

   

                  Valesse leapt unbidden into his mind and he frowned. Nowadays, his thoughts didn’t wander in that direction very often.

   

                  Do I really look that much like her?

   

                  He hadn’t looked at her portrait in a while. It was still in the same drawer – he’d taken his furniture with him to his new room. Harrow pulled out the painting and held it out next to the mirror.

   

                  And there she was, immortalised by canvass and paint and Altmer artistry.

   

                  He looked between the two faces. The differences were scant. Valesse had green eyes. Her ears were sharper and longer. Harrow’s skin was light and more subdued in tone. His features were softer. Overall, though-

   

                  Almost an identical copy.

   

                  On an impulse, Harrow took a comb and brushed his hair into the same style as hers. Falling over the temple on the right, tucked behind the ear on the left, leaving the rest to hang below the shoulders. Even the length was almost exactly the same.

   

                  What would they think of Urokko-to?

   

                  Come to think of it, this was the first time he’d ever been involved in anything even remotely romantic that wasn’t a village assignment.

   

                  He imagined the scene. Arngrimur filling up the space, telling Urokko to mind himself, Valesse chiding him. Come on, let our little boy have some fun!

   

                  Harrow tore the image apart in his head, snorting. Romantic daydreams and inane fantasies. He didn’t even know their voices, much less their faces or their mannerisms.

   

                  But even so-

   

                  -for some reason-

   

                  He kept his hair the same way as he waited for Urokko by his doorstep.