It is dark, this night that brings her back to him, as she has come before; tonight, she is a cool wind blowing across a mountainside, and he wonders if she flies in the beyond, too, the way she did in life - if what she had could be called that.

He wonders why he even cares.

The leaves sway on their branches, dancing to a song that only they can hear.

Sometimes, on nights like these, he tries to imagine what it would have been like to keep her with him. Would he have grown to love her, with her bold, sharp tongue, so in contrast to the sycophants who normally plagued him with their groveling and their unknowing fear? He remembers the sight of her on the riverbank, vulnerable and exposed, yet utterly trusting of him. Utterly without apology. Something in him clenches at the thought.

Pink sakura blossoms swirl around him, tugging with gentle fingers at his empty sleeve, a reminder of another loss - older, but poignant still.

He tells himself that it would have been in vain, regardless. One could no more have hoped to hold that woman, who so loved her flight and her freedom, than to hold this wind itself. He turns his face from the full moon above, the only nighttime companion he is like to ever have, and frowns, disgusted by his own foolishness - this sudden sentimentality, unworthy of one such as he. It is for the best that the woman is gone. She could never have liberated herself from the spider's clutches otherwise, and besides, what use could he have for such a fickle, arrogant woman?

Another night comes and goes, and the proud lord sleeps alone.

When the wind blows, he can hear her whisper his name.