Mitsuhide had vague memories of meeting the beautiful dancer once or twice; at parties, perhaps, where his once-Lord had organised grand performances? That made sense. But back then he hadn't picked up on this strangeness.
Rain poured around him, beating on the ground and washing away the blood. Soldiers fought around him and arrows pierced through the sky. Somewhere someone screamed his name in distress; it was all somehow distant and faint except for her, though, a splash of colour on a muddy field of death and the only thing he could focus on. She walked through it without a care, clutching a cherry-pink parasol in one hand, and stopped on occasion to smile at others before reaching Mitsuhide himself.
“Ah, dear... that's not a good place for someone as handsome as you to stay.” Kneeling down, the dancer reached out to grasp one of his hands with her free one, turning her radiant smile on him now. “Look, your beautiful hair is all sodden. Let's get you home to Izumo, where we can wash and scent it.”
Not the time. Not the place. Shouldn't have been anyway but the pained and weary Mitsuhide felt lighter the moment her fingers touched his skin.
“Is this... a dream?”
She smiled a little wider, pulling him to stand as if he weighed nothing, and it was strange, how willingly he moved at her tug. How hazy the air turned around her, how difficult it was to think. How clean her clothes remained despite everything. The clothes of a priestess? Was that right?
Where were they, anyway?
“Everything before this was the dream, dear Mitsuhide.” Their hands were still entwined, and he gripped tight onto the anchor, unable to do anything else. “An illusion. Let's go back home to Izumo.”
She walked, and, of course, he followed. History would have to do without him.