#marikothorne

[bloomsbury]

so anyone else totally normal about shogun?? and john and mariko? cool yeah me too

[lafiametta]

John staring at Mariko while she “translates” for Kiku was such seriously top-of-the-line Grade A pining, I’m not sure my heart can take it.

[jomiddlemarch]

A damned saint, an honourable villain!

John Blackthorne discovered, to more than a little dismay, that he was a knave.

There might have been excuses made for his infidelity to Mary, whom he’d left in London with ill-concealed haste, her belly swollen with his babe, Tudor clutching his mother’s skirts with his free hand, his thumb plugged in his mouth. Mary’s mother did not bother to hide her relief at his departure, as she’d never taken to him, and feared he would bring some foreign illness back from his travels along with his full purse, but Mary had had tears in her green eyes and he’d made any number of promises about his return that neither of them believed for a moment. 

Neither of them believed he’d keep solely unto her over the next year or however long it took for him to come back, but both of them had only considered he’d dally with doxies, satisfying his appetites without truly breaking the vows he’d uttered.

It was unclear to him what the Japans considered he owed to Fuji-sama. She was his consort, given to him by his Lord, and she was clearly a lady of high status and regard, for all that her previous husband and son had been struck down for her husband’s impetuous outcry. She had the running of his household, including an extensive staff, and Mariko had explained she could not sleep until he did, but he had not been bound to her in Christian marriage. He might be a knave but he was not a bigamist.

Still, he felt he must be loyal to her, though she was not obligated to share his bed and showed no desire for his attentions. It troubled him that she was his and there was no way for him to bring her joy. He had not mistaken her expression when he had Mariko give Fuji his weapons, her confusion unleavened by delight or wonder. She’d been mildly pleased that he had offered her something of value to him, but she did not want him, nor his house. A child of his would be a burden to her, a grave insult to the memory of her firstborn. Within himself, he was compelled to find some way to care for her that she would accept and yet he failed in this endeavor daily.

Hourly.

Because he was a knave.

Because he loved Mariko.

She was widowed when he permitted himself to admit his affection, his attraction immediate, the bloom of a flower, but his fondness of a deeper, more tenacious nature, the oak tree rooted, its strength equal to gales. He had never loved a woman as he did her, for her mind and soul as well as her heart and body, for her rejoinder and her demurral, her serenity, her pride. He longed for her when he ate his morning meal and when he went out among the people, all strangers. He dreamt of her in the night, such teasing, tormenting visions of her joy found in his embrace, her ecstasy brought by his touch, his praise and devotion. 

She would not consider him because he was English before he was hatamoto.

She would not consider him because though Papist, she was Christian, and she knew of his living wife, honorably bound to him.

She would not consider him because he was temptation and betrayal, a burden she would bear rather than a boon. He had made it clear he wanted his ship and his men, he wanted to leave and never return, and he had said it again and again because he could not say he wanted to stay with her, when there was no place for them, no time in a time of war and chaos. He wanted her alone with him on a ship he would sail into the dawn, sails full, a cabin snug against any storm.

He wanted to be with her in some endless afternoon of conversation and love-making, the sea carrying them away from any obligation. He wanted to see her in the moonlight and to have her explain the Japans science of the stars.

He wanted the impossible, when he had been practical, driven, in service of his Queen and country. He’d abandoned Mary with the excuse he was a servant of the court and he made no effort to tend Fuji-sama beyond the most basic gestures, the ones he performed for Toranaga and for Mariko’s eyes. 

He was a knave and worse, a pilot who had no idea how to find his way. He wished for Mariko’s faith, which told her her Lord would guide her, or for her upbringing, which told her she must find her purpose in her master’s. John’s was an independent soul, given to argument, and he found that left him adrift.

Even if his Portuguese were better or she spoke his tongue, he would not have known how to convey it to Mariko, though he wished, most ardently, for her understanding.

He walked around the house he’d been given and thought of Mary in London, Fuji in the next room. He lay down and wished to discover some new truth, to put his hand to the rudder of a great ship and crest through the narrows to the open ocean.

He was a knave. He lay his head on his arm and closed his eyes.

At then, Fuji-sama might sleep. Mary might be right when she told Tudor that papa was abed and so must he be. Mariko might be his, in this smallest way, her name on his lips, ready to be spoken.

[lafiametta]

to the edge of the world

Shōgun 2024 | Blackthorne x Mariko | Rated T | 2.1k

He cannot sleep.  Perhaps it is because, even after so many months in this country, he has still not accustomed himself to sleeping on the floor, with only a woven mat as a mattress and a pillow filled with hard grains to cushion his head.  But he suspects it is something else. Someone else.  To hear Mariko-sama speak of her past—to hear her speak of herself at all—was a rare thing, made even more unnerving by the quiet finality with which she spoke. It was natural to want to right an injustice, especially one visited upon one’s family. But she did not seem to desire vengeance or even public redress. Merely resolution. It is an unsettled word, implying a cessation, a loose thread snipped, and he is unsettled by it.

[Read on AO3]

[lafiametta]

Who knew that a mutual recitation of the Lord's Prayer could be so filled with longing?

Amen, indeed.

[lafiametta]

keep you

Shōgun 2024 | Blackthorne x Mariko | Rated T | 1.6k

In all his travels, in all the distant reaches of the world he has ever set foot upon, he has never seen anything like it.  The earth, pitching and roiling like the sea.  Mountains collapsing, the once solid ground beneath their feet cresting in violent waves.  It contradicts every law of nature and divine command, everything that says that up is up and down is down. A part of him thinks to look to the sky, imagining the heavenly host might emerge from the clouds to trumpet the coming of the judgment day. He would not be surprised if it truly was the end of the world.  An earthquake, she had called it.  But unlike the small shudder that he had felt before, this is no baby. It is a giant, something liquid and monstrous, capable of only blind destruction. 

[Read on AO3]

[lafiametta]

if you strike, strike deep

Shōgun 2024 | Blackthorne x Mariko | Rated T | 3.3k

John teaches Fuji how to use her new pistol, while Mariko demonstrates for John the art of the naginata.

[Read on AO3]

[lafiametta]

thy will be done

Shōgun 2024 | Blackthorne x Mariko | Rated T | 1.1k

for @stormbornspawn

The rain has picked up again by the time he returns from the training ground, the morning and most of the afternoon spent in inspections and endless drills, all part of his duties as the new commander of the cannon regiment. He is soaked and exhausted. The men kept him on his feet all day, and he had been late returning home last night after Toranaga-sama spoke before the surviving men and officers. Nor has he been sleeping well. Not since the earthquake—or Uejirou.

[Read on AO3]