A Tryst of Blades

"Wings' sake, is Gregor out drinkin' again?!" Hestia strode out of the meeting room, fury in her features. It was supposed to have been a briefing between the captains, but as per usual, her fellow captain was apparently drowning himself in sake again.

"Are you surprised?" Ryōshū commented as Hestia walked past. As per usual, she was polishing her sword, as it was evening.

Hestia stopped her stride, sighing as she pinched the bridge of her nose. "...no. Just pissed. He's gonna show up late, drunk as sin, and be as useless as a rookie. May as well cancel the whole damn meeting."

"Perhaps it is due time to replace him." Ryōshū smirked. "He could be more useful as art than as a warrior."

"Tempting...but no." Hestia knew that Ryōshū would've only been in the task for the sake of the blood and gore, not because she actually wanted to replace Gregor (or offer up anyone suitable for the task).

Before she could continue, she spotted the moon out of the corner of her eye. It was an opportune time, Hestia realized, and since Gregor was going to be a no-show...

"When Gregor gets here, tell him meeting's canceled." Hestia's hand lowered to her sword, gently caressing the handle as she turned to look at the moon. "...the moon calls."

---

It wasn't exactly a lie. The moon could not call; however, Hestia had long since accommodated what the current position of the moon meant for her into her schedule.

Weaving through the alleyways with the grace only a Kurokumo captain could yield, it did not take long to reach her destination: a crossroad that rarely saw use at night, but was often the shortcut of choice for those who delivered in the day.

At the other side of the clearing, she could see the familiar bamboo hat before she saw the pale features of the man who wore it. Her heart skipped a beat, but it practically sang when she spotted his hand moving to his sword.

After a mere moment, their swords met with a clang, their gazes fixed upon the other's eyes as if wanting to see into the other's soul. Hestia smiled as she took in his mismatched eyes, before they each parted briefly.

Their swords would strike each other in clash after clash, a dance birthed from violence. The Blade Lineage had a lot she begrudged them for, but Hestia certainly had to admit that their mentor was nothing short of a master in his craft. She could barely even tell that he was holding himself back for her sake.

Finally, the man managed to pin her against the wall, his sword inches from her throat. Despite their position, his gaze was neutral; there was no anger, no desire to kill.

Hestia met his gaze with a smile, before she chuckled. "I've been bested again, I see."

"You do not wish to best me." The man lowered his sword, but did not sheathe it yet. His statement was calm; it would have sounded unbothered to an outsider, but she could tell that he was calculating his every word. "You enjoy this."

"I mean, if you didn't, you wouldn't be showin' up, would ya, Meursault?"

The man–Meursault–did not answer verbally. Instead, he sheathed his sword, before looking up toward the moon.

To fill the silence, Hestia looked up as well, commenting, "We still have plenty of time before the Sweepers arrive, if you want another round. I still got a lotta energy in me."

"You are right...but sheathe your sword for a moment." Meursault looked back down at her, his eyes on her sword as she obeyed his request. "Your handling has improved greatly since that night. I trust your injuries no longer trouble you?"

Hestia nodded, one of her hands resting on her sword as the other moved to shift her kimono to show the faded scar upon her shoulder. It had once been a large gash, a Sweeper's blade having struck her, but now it had faded into what would be mistaken as a mark of battle. "All thanks to you."

Meursault's composure only briefly broke, a slight widening of his eyes that would have been imperceptible to most. "You had helped one of my clan with little regard for your own life. Far be it from me to ignore such kindness, even from the enemy."

Returning the kimono's fabric to its place, her smile softened. "He was pretty young. Enemy or not, goin' out to a Sweeper rampage ain't the way fer a kiddo like him to die."

Silence filled the crossroad, before Meursault's hand reached out and gently took Hestia's chin. His thumb trailed across her bottom lip, causing her heart to flutter. In response, her hand rose to caress his scarred face, although their eyes were locked on each other's, not even daring to glance away.

When their lips met, it was slow, languid. Hestia's arms wrapped around his neck, while Meursault's hands pressed against the wall behind her. It was only then that their eyes both closed, their senses focused on the sounds around them and their locked lips.

It was when they parted that Hestia opened her eyes, only to find that Meursault had already departed. Despite that fact, she smiled, and even had a spring to her step as she made her way back to the Kurokumo Clan's base.

They were enemies, so it could never be love, but these clandestine meetings truly made her heart swell with joy.