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“I’m entrusting Fuu to you,” Jin says.
Mugen stares at the samurai, a growl rising in his throat. He ignores the way Jin’s words sound halfway like a father giving away protection of his daughter to a future son-in-law.
“Fine,” he scoffs.
He turns on metal-plated geta and hurries to the dock, to the waiting boats. He stares at the island slowly approaching and wills himself not to shout for the ferryman to row faster.
They’re halfway to the island (to Fuu) when the man with the sun-bleached hair and crazy eyes claws his way onto the boat. The ferryman is thrown off, and Mugen draws his sword.
The fight is a blur of nerves and panic. The close quarters are nearly impossible for him to move in, and three claws rake down his cheek. He spits out blood and a curse, and then they fall into the water.
The ocean is freezing for the warm season. Mugen arcs through the water like a fish and drives his sword into his enemy. Scarlet spills into the sea, and the pirate ditches the boat.
He carves through the waves. The bruises on his chest throw with pain, the cuts on his face burn with salt. He ignores it and pushes his arms through the water.
Mugen crawls his way out of the hungry ocean. His feet drag as he slogs to the cliff face. His chest heaves as he sucks in a ragged breath. Everything
aches
, down to his teeth.
With one hand on the rock, the pirate staggers his way to the church. He can see it in the distance, practically a dot against the horizon. It’s dislocated and barely standing, a bit like the waterlogged pirate slogging his way toward it.
His geta catches on a rock jutting up from the gravelly sand and his knees give out. Pitching forward, he barely manages to keep himself from face-planting with one hand on the rocks. His palm scrapes painfully.
Digging his fingers into rocky crags, he pulls himself to his feet and continues on. His chest rattles, breath shuddering in his throat, unwilling to go out or in properly.
“Damn it,” he curses. And then, subsequently, he curses himself, Jin, the assassin, and everyone he’s ever met that’s even mildly pissed him off. Which is an unsurprisingly long list.
It keeps his mind off things, at least for a moment, as he trudges down the shoreline. He’s too busy thinking of people to wish early deaths upon to focus on the pain radiating from his whole body. Or to think about how slow his progress is. In fact, it keeps him too busy to think about really anything at all—
He’s within fifty paces of the old church when he hears it. A faint, slightly strangled cry of pain. High and feminine.
Fuu.
Fuu
.
His stomach twists as his heart launches into his throat. He has to move faster—
faster
—but his body is aching and slow and he has to exert far too much energy to get even one foot to move.
He inches forward and curses his body for the fourth time. His ankle shifts and tries to roll, and he sags against the cliff face. He shudders in another reluctant breath.
And then his heart stops again because there’s another cry of pain. Louder this time, and followed by a manic laugh. There’s a second and third in quick succession, the last cut off by a rough cough that sounds too wet for his liking.
He jerks forward and finds himself scuffing across the outside wall of the church. He scrapes along the old wood, ignoring the splinters jamming into his shoulder, and turns the corner.
He’s going to kill him. He’s going to kill the man who has Fuu. Who’s
beating
Fuu. He’s never felt remorse for the people he kills, and he sure as hell ain’t going to start now.
Normally killing is enjoyable for him, a game he can lose himself in. Lately, that had changed. He had killed to defend the girlie. But now, he thinks he’s
really
going to enjoy killing this man.
He scuffs his shoe against the rocky sand and presses one hand to the doorframe of the church. There’s a pause from inside, a silence and stillness, and he pauses in the threshold.
He looks inside, his eyes adjusting to the darkness, and he decides killing him doesn’t entirely matter anymore. The girlie is who matters—and he has to save her, no matter what.
Because the sight of her—beaten and bound to a cross—makes his blood run cold. Her eyes are wide, her lips cracked and split and bleeding, her cheeks bruised.
“Mugen…” she whispers, and her voice carries in the silence.
“Alright.” He steps forward. “Time to give her back now.” His hands clench into fists.