Miyoshi Seikai "The Iceman"

"The Iceman"

Introduction

Flickering flames of red reflected upon the cold blue eyes which stared into them, looking, but not really seeing as the small campfire sparked and sputtered with fragrant wood.

Three more days should do it.

Miyoshi Seikai prodded at the coals with a crooked stick, sending sparks up in protest, only to be snatched by the freezing night breeze, as he gathered his thoughts towards the future.
Three more days of blissful silence and solitude….

How he'd ended up in this serene mountain forest wasn't too difficult a story, it was by choice, and after the clutter and noise of Kyoto, the clean air was more than welcome. This hidden little utopia was somewhere he'd discovered some years ago, while he was tracking a …. well, that's a story for another day, and as he lifted the boiling water pot to prepare his own blend of tea, (a little apothecary in the Kofu machi was one of the few inhabited places he actually enjoyed visiting), a small smile dared to tease the edges of his lips as he reminisced.

Three more days.…

To heal.

It wasn't often "The Iceman" was injured, oh, sure, there were the odd nicks and scratches, part and parcel of his nomadic life as a shinobi for hire, but he was more than just good at what he was, what he did, he was a whispered legend in his own lifetime, a shadow who could destroy shadows.

The smile lingered as he finally brought the aromatic brew to his lips, hearing in his mind the echo of past voices, trying to convince him to join this group or other, allegiances here, clan comforts there. But he was a singular soul, and life had taught him some harsh lessons in the moments he had attempted to listen to those voices.

No. Solitude. Time to be himself, pursue his own agenda, without being tethered to the political nonsense which ravaged the lands below his little hideaway.

From somewhere, in the cold sky above, a bird called, lifting his eyes away from the flames, the happily dancing reflection replaced by the canopy of stars. It may have made his ice blue eyes sparkle, although had anyone been there to see, it wasn't a gaze one wanted to linger upon, unless your blood freezing in your veins was your objective.

"The Iceman" , a title earned, and more than accurate in its application, as his "talents" were accompanied with an arctic nature, as sharp as any glacial wind, carrying on it razors of ice. He was, by proven accounts of his deeds, the assassin of assassins.

The tentative smile politely departed, knowing its rare appearance was at an end, as he set down his tea and lifted open the front of his tunic, a grimace replacing the previous occupant of his features, as slender fingers, (some would say those of an artist), carefully peeled back the edge of the poultice over his heart, revealing a neatly sewn wound, the thin line of stitches masking the depth the blade had bitten.

Close. Yes.

But it wasn't as if that particular assailant would have the opportunity to try again, the next strike had taken out the man's throat, and he had quickly disappeared into the shadows, leaving the gurgling last breaths in his wake.

The bird called again, a soulful sound which bounced its way between the alpine peaks, and he extended his senses like a fluid, chilled presence to the surrounding areas, and finding nothing but the small, warm heartbeats of the local furry inhabitants, he returned his focus to the wound, carefully resetting the home made remedy, before organising his athletic frame to doze.

He rarely slept, as regular people thought of it, and his awareness certainly didn't. The only things that brought on such a state were injury or sickness, so sleep was bundled into the collection labelled "weakness" and there it stayed.

Did he dream? This shadowy figure?

If he did, this writer has no idea, remembrances maybe, as clear and vivid as their happening, but they would never be pleasantries, just the reminders of pain, especially when it came to his heart.

Miyoshi Seikai saw his heart as his own little yin and yang - strength and weakness, power and vulnerability. When it did its organic job, it was as trained as any other part of him, and its life force allowed him to be what he truly was, but in those few times it had betrayed him, finding an emotional beat, he had become…

His eyes flickered open, unwilling to view what he knew his mind would bring next, and picking up the stick once more, he stabbed at the slowly dying fire, as if trying to push his thoughts into the embers.

Three more days.

And then he would venture back to Kyoto, see what mission he could find to keep him occupied...And challenged.

The city, with its bustling population, the press of crowds and scents, was an anathema to the man of ice, its grubby closeness always cloyed his senses, the noise never stopping rattling in his head, the constant background buzz of the babbling residents, but it was home to one man he actively would seek, and despite his distaste for the city, a rare chance to relax.

It was a strange relationship he had found with the slightly spherical blacksmith, known only as "Taro", which loosely translated as "Big, thick son", a name he had certainly grown into over the years. A chance meeting, and an unlikely series of events which for a while, at least, had landed him in the man's company, had grown into something far more, a friend, and quite probably, the only man he trusted. Taro had become his "agent", a robust middle man, who by his occupation brought him into contact with those who may require Seikai's "services", and more to the point, could afford them.

Three…

       More…
                
                            Days….