There are three of you.

One a samurai, the ghost of a ritual battle scar aching on his cheek, as if some warrior-artist had painted it there, using his face as a brutal canvas. He moves as blue-black as the dappled shadows in a cedar forest in midwinter, and there is cold behind him wherever he goes, following him like the wolves he calls companions. Bleak frost in his eyes, and the bark of his laughter, wolf-master warrior, dancing a stylized dance with death, living still-- even in the chrysanthemum agelessness of the Dynasty-- as a samurai would.

The other, a magic-wielder, illusion-master. Even before his heartbeat slowed to the youjakai's unearthly rhythm, he summoned much energy and power in those slender long fingers, behind that calculating eye. How many human story-weavers envied that keen mind, to twist and spin images out of lies and spiderwebs, to imbue them with such reality that that spinner himself believed? Spinning and sending them off to sleep, beautiful liar, wrapping them as flies in his silk until they dream of him. There is a muted glare about him, off the summerwhite of his hair, and everyone shudders to think what Words misspoken had turned his hair prematurely white, or lost him that eye.

Pureblooded men who chose their paths, listened to the whispering darkness in the wind, followed the promises there.

How long have you known you were different?

Boy, barefoot and not shivering, at the riverbank in autumn, toes slick with rivermud, gleeful to be alone. You watched the battle-colored leaves dancing a farewell to the sky, falling to earth. Morbid child, how you loved the fall, how real and resonant to stand beneath the dying forest.

Squelch messily to the side of the river, savoring the cool scent of lichens and things decaying. No one would think to find you here. Small lives living out their ordinary time beneath the mountain, they did not think too much. Rots the mind like crumbling moss on a fallen tree. Sigh deliciously, delighting in the green decaying coolness all around, the undersides of things. Rich with promise and the thick detritus of wasted life.

They wouldn't understand. Perhaps that is why you followed the call, to spite all the thin petty minds who would seek to bar your way.

"But measure out your simple time beneath the mountain-- Yamanouchi Naotoki--"

There had always been more for you than this, more than the shadow of a mortal mountain and the jealous whispers of kin. Keep your silence; your obedience was not for them.

Never quite human-- neither hot nor cold, eyelids that barely close even to dream. Were they not afraid, they may have hated you.

But you heard a terrifying call and thrilled to it, unsurprised to find sharp fangs in your smile. Join the man-ranks serving the Master-Demon, pledge your oddbeating heart to his undying service. It is what you have always wanted, sworn allegiance to something tremendous.

He makes you believe that you can change the world.

He gives you armor, and a whip of swords, a sweet fierce weapon to coil and strike. He can not give you venom-- for venom you have always had. What heady satisfaction to see the samurai and the mage take little half-steps back from you, watching you come to the full fruition of your power.

They fear that you are not quite sane. Laugh at them. Sane? Who knows anything of sanity, here in a netherrealm where no one ages and nothing ever dies and a demon who cannot even bleed is the master of all?

Lash out with your cobra-headed sword whip, moving so fast that your demon blood sings with it. Fighting your fellow Masho is like nothing else. Weapons in your hands, almost alive with your power, greedy to spill enemy blood. Feel the snake thrash beneath the surface, heartbeat cold as any autumn midnight.

You bring your own decay. Promise of disintegration, beautiful glory of dying. Your presence in the youjakai is living contradiction, beautiful anomaly. Call your armor and watch the leaves begin to fall, scattering around your upturned face, bloodcolored, or the goldyellow of dying suns.

Fellow warlords all, forged in fire and blood and the magic scent of immortal sakura. How fiercely you hate one another.

And in the end, how fiercely you love. Furious glory are your battles, simple poetry of sharp-edged motion, parody of death. And nights learning to exploit each other's weaknesses, in the shudder and silence unique to warrior-lovers.

It is a terrible tremendous joy, what you have found in the Dynasty. A sword-carved niche where you belonged-- hated and feared and needed, one of a balanced three.

Until he comes.

Unbidden as spring, an unlucky fourth into your midst. No one else can see that this spells the end of all you fought for, no one else can sense the impending change. But then, you have always been able to scent change on the wind, yearning for autumn even in spring's first bloom.

And he becomes the cherished favorite.

Your Master will not listen to your plea-- when you were yet weak enough to wish to make pleas-- blinded by the red-topped child's allure.

And surely he is beautiful. Already in his mortal eyes there is more of power than you had trained towards, a natural affinity to cruelty that rivals the force of the Masho combined. Youngest of all, the new warrior among you is keenly aware of his favored status, and the bittersweet hatred of his new companions.

The samurai falls for him first. Brother-warriors, both speak the language of death, both honor the fine terrible code of the fighter. Before their third bout, they are laughing hotly and struggling to best one another. And not only on the sparring field. Maybe it is that curtain of crimson hair, fire to warm the winter-dark warlord's icy soul. Aa. Close your eyes. Of such things are woven the dreams of demons. You would know.

You cannot tell when the mage's eyes soften to the cruelty Masho, when he inclines his head to watch the Oni dancing in a fight with something other than hot anger in his eyes. Watching the ogre, when he does not realize he himself is being observed. It takes you longer than usual-- keen-minded snake-- to recognize the bitterness in your veins as jealousy. When did the master of illusions fall under the spell of another? They whisper Words to each other in the eternal twilight, and it is all that you can do not to remember them, not to repeat them to yourself when you are alone. Their feathered sighs beneath the twin-mooned sky are like the wings of ravens, beating quiet omens into the night.

You never felt so alone, not even in the thick mortal dark of your mountain town, not even in the liquid stillness of the stagnating stream. No where to go to be rid of him, no cool hard rock to slide beneath and sleep away the spring.

You miss the savor of the three Masho, the hours of wicked-edged combat and the harsh laughter of your approving master, and the nights of elemental strength and flesh-song passion.

His hot-headed defiance has set your life off-kilter, and you yearn for nothing more than to bring him down.

And perhaps he knows it, perhaps he is fool enough to seek a reconciliation. Mortal simplicity, to think that warrior-friends fight better than warrior-rivals.

Whatever his reasons, he comes to you alone. After a period of training, with his armor just off, and his breath still hitching in his chest. Putting himself at such a disadvantage, he might know more of politics than you expected. You press your edge, and back him against a ricepaper screen. His kimono makes rustling noises against the flimsy rough texture of the wall, until he can move no further from you without ripping through the paper barrier.

Lowering your head till you can slip hissing words into his ear, you say, "Brave thing to do, confronting the Doku Masho all alone."

You stand of a height with him and his gaze does not waver. "The same could be said of the Oni Masho, Naaza. We are... well-matched."

Blink slowly, savoring his words. There is something of hunger lacing his tone, the call of unvanquished territory, enemy lands uncharted. Such hunger is something you could understand. "What do you seek from me?"

"A challenge," he says simply, and you think perhaps he moves a breath closer. Your eyes narrow, as you realize you have never, in fact, fought him alone. Tight, sharp smile. Always before your confrontations have been carefully formulaic, the four Masho in ritual training-battles.

You accept in two heartbeats, one pulse to weigh your opponent and one to thrill to the prospect of beating him. "Very well."

The two of you call your armor together, and it is delicious hatred to feel the springtime pull of his power contrasting with the autumn-touched flavor of your own. Opposites, perhaps equal. But he is a headstrong child and you will have no trouble besting him.

Unleash your sword-whip, slicing quicker than a snakestrike, dance with the ogre. He is more graceful than you expected, maneuvering through your fang-pronged attacks with all the simple elegance of a flower blooming. For all his spinning and rushing chains, his moves are as plain as sunlight.

Smile without moving your lips. Very well. The thick familiar aroma of fallen leaves wraps around you, your movements and your breath slowing to your inner rhythm, the inscrutable pace of decay. He cannot defeat the sweet dissolving strength of your venom.

His breathing is shallow and ragged, and all suddenly he is on one knee, chains fallen from shaking fingers. It seems too soon. You move smoothly to his side, your blade a whisper's caress against his neck. The slightest echo of cherryblossoms haunts the air around his face, the taste of fleeing spring.

Lick your lips, scenting the air for blood or danger. Or death.

And there it is, the unmistakable shadow-smell of death, like nothing else. Your demonblood shivers to its call. It is lurking, underneath the ageless still air that you have all learned to breathe. Perhaps it is the tinge of destiny that is choking him, making him struggle for breath. It takes only an instant for you to know that it is not your own death that you sense--

But the uneasiness does not fade.

"Sh'ten," you hear yourself saying, moved obscurely to feel-- something.

He leans, so slightly, into your blade, mad glint to his green eyes. "You needn't pity me, Doku Masho. You have won. So have your way with me."

Laugh, and wonder who indeed has won. You cannot hate a man who is going to die, not when you know you cannot be the one to kill him.

But neither can you ignore such a man, when he is on his knees before you, eyes half closed and fine strong profile silvered by the light of two unearthly moons. Beautiful.

Without moving your sword from his throat, you swivel behind him, the long sweep of his red hair trailing across your armored thigh. Lean down to him, captive between your blade and your body, and claim his bitter hotblossom mouth for your own, a warrior's kiss. He does not struggle, though his eyes gaze widely on your face. Wonder what he's seeing, looking so intently at your serpent eyes, this mortal child who wears the armor of cruelty and wields steel like a scattering of spring flowers.

Sheathe your serpent blade. For this moment, the spring is yours to take, and not with weapons of metal.

His body unfurls against yours, layers of armor sloughed away, fresh and sweet as if it were washed smooth by the rushing river. His fingers know the curve and hollow of flesh as cleverly as they would know how to handle any sword, and you lose yourself in the pleasure of him. And his mouth-- oh his mouth-- how long since you had a lover who could disintegrate the chaos inside you, perfect dissolving spiral toward oblivion--

When he is gone from you-- and with a stronger depth of feeling in his eyes-- you realize that now, all over again, you are measuring out a time beneath a mountain of silence, waiting.

If you were a samurai, perhaps you would take your own life, only death left with any meaning. Or, if you were a mage, perhaps you could form Words to grieve the passage of time. But you are neither.

And in the end, not much has changed. Imbalance is the first step to decay, as you know, snake-eyed autumn, waiting calmly for the death of spring.