Standard disclaimers apply. Thanks for reading.
Warriors Blue
by Sigel Phoenix
Somehow, despite the night, despite the oppressive rain clouds blanketing the sky, the lone candle manages to light the room. It amazes him, how a single source of light can do so much to alleviate the darkness.
A soft breeze murmurs in through the open window; quiet so as not to disturb the spirits, of ghosts and of memories, that rest within. The room, the house, and all the city, are cloaked in a reverent hush ... Each little sound seems to be magnified in the silence; thoughts seem even louder.
It was a night like this, he remembers. A night just like this, exactly three years ago, that he felt as if he were falling endlessly with nothing to stop him -- not knowing that there was a lifeline waiting there to catch him all along ...
Aoshi caught himself as he almost stumbled on the stairs; he stopped, forcing his mind to focus on reality instead of being swallowed in visions of the past. His hand clutched at the rail, his knuckles turning white as he fought to steel himself against memory. With some effort, he pushed himself away from the wall, walking with heavy steps toward the small room at the back of the hall.
He paused at the door to collect himself. He was stronger than this. A simple date, a certain day of the year would not have such power over him. He simply needed to pay his respects; that was all.
With a hand he willed to be steady, Aoshi slid open the shoji. The room within was small, a fraction of its area slightly illuminated by the moonlight allowed in through a window in the corner. Thick clouds drank greedily at even that meager light, however, leaving most of the room cloaked in a shadowy cover.
Against the back wall lay the shrine, the Oniwabanshuu family's tribute to its four fallen members. Since they had been absent from home for the eight years before their deaths, there were fewer personal belongings from the four; more common were mementos from the others that in some way reminded them of their former comrades. An old lantern from rested limply on its side, holding within its crumpled body the treasured memories from an Obon festival of several years ago. Beside it lay a pair of hair ornaments that Shikijou had once given to Okon for Tanabata, when she'd been saddened by a lack of attention from male suitors on the romantic holiday. And carefully folded and tucked into a corner was a letter that Hannya had sent, early on in their journey, to assure Okina and the others that they were safe. It was one of the few instances of correspondence that had occurred between the five absent members and the rest of the Oniwabanshuu, before contact had stopped altogether.
This was how the four were remembered, since other, more obvious traces of their presence had faded after they'd left Kyoto -- in little things that carried personal significance for each of the surviving Oniwabanshuu; in an eternal eulogy of memory.
It had surprised Aoshi at first, how clearly Okina and the others treasured their lost brethren. Before they had left, even back during the Bakumatsu, he'd felt like they were somehow set apart from the rest of the Oniwabanshuu. That sense of isolation had only been heightened at the dawn of Meiji, when everyone but Aoshi and his men had embraced the new era. As the others abandoned their old way of life, it felt as if they were abandoning the five of them, as well. And so it had become those five, alone against the world.
And now it was just one.
He was alone even now; no one else knew the exact date of the death of Hannya and the others, and therefore would not come to honor the anniversary tonight. They knew the general time from Himura Kenshin, but none of them was willing to press their Okashira for further information. Not even Misao tried. Though she spoke of her departed friends often, Aoshi noted that she would never specifically mention their deaths. He, then, was the only one that would -- that could -- remember.
It was memories that had prompted him to come here tonight, memories in the form of haunting dreams that threatened to reawaken his old grief. When he closed his eyes and tried to pray, the images from his dreams began flashing before him once again.
He clenched his fists. He was stronger than this. A simple dream, certain memories would not have such power over him.
But here, alone with the ghosts of his men, he felt them overwhelming him. He could still hear them -- Shikijou's scream of mingled agony and triumph as he took the bullets meant for his Okashira. Beshimi's apology, his dying words after his and Hyottoko's suicide charge at Kanryuu. And his own desperate cry, ripped harshly from his throat, as he saw Hannya run forward; a vocal manifestation of his mind's tortured plea: Don't take them all ...
And perhaps most painful of all was the memory of their laughter ...
A year had passed, but the memories lingered. Below the surface, the grief remained, along with the stifling loneliness.
What would have happened, had he not led the four of them away from Kyoto, away from their home, those years ago? Could they have perhaps found new lives, in the peaceful Meiji era? Perhaps, given the chance, they could have. And, possibly, they would still be alive.
In his quest for the title of the Strongest, had he perhaps forsaken something much more valuable -- the chance to live out his life among cherished friends?
During the past year, he had traveled a long and draining journey to find forgiveness for his mistakes, a healing of the guilt he felt over his own weakness causing the fall of his men. He'd accepted his responsibility, and chosen to atone for his guilt. He'd come to terms with failing his men as their Okashira.
Yet he would still give anything to have but a moment more with his friends.
Beshimi. Hyottoko. Shikijou. Hannya. How many times had he said those names over the past year, in guilt, in despair, in madness? They had been his mantra, a reminder to himself of his mission, used to endure the physical agony of his path toward vengeance. Now he offered them as a prayer, to help him endure stifling sorrow.
He knew how meaningless the title of the Strongest was, now. He no longer wanted his men to fight to earn that name. He simply wanted them back, alive, with him.
With him. And with Misao ...
No, he would not think of her. It would only sharpen the isolation he felt. She was a woman of the Meiji era now, not the child they had adored during the Bakumatsu. She was lost to him ... There was no one now, nothing left of the love and contentment of those years that seemed to contrast so sharply with the rest of his life.
He was tired. In that one moment, he was tired of loneliness, tired of pain, tired of life. He was young still, and yet he felt utterly weary.
I miss you all, he thought, a simple, fervent prayer.
Kami-sama, I feel so lost ...
He was stronger than this.
But here, alone with the ghosts of his men, he allowed himself to be weak.
His knees buckled under the weight of his body, his body beneath the weight of his spirit. He closed his eyes, knowing there was nothing to stop him ...
And he heard something to break the silence, just as he felt something to break his fall ...
"Aoshi-sama!"
He was aware of gentle arms holding him, cradling him in warmth and the scent of peach blossoms. There was a single instant where the turmoil in his heart and mind was silenced and he felt blessedly at peace in her embrace. Then reality reasserted itself and assailed him with awareness; he pushed away from Misao convulsively, appalled as he realized what he had been doing -- or, more importantly, what she had been doing, to him. He was there to honor his friends' memories, not to ... not to ...
"Aoshi-sama?" Misao called in confusion as he stepped shakily backwards, away from her.
He shook his head as if to clear it. He was feeling something he did not want to be feeling, something that brought with it a confusing mixture of excitement and fear. It was something he tried not to acknowledge, something about Misao that awakened a feeling he did not completely understand. What was it about her that drew him to her? Who was this Misao, that she could do this to him?
He struggled to regain control of himself. "You should not be up at this hour," he said -- in his confusion, perhaps a bit more coldly than he had intended.
For a moment, there was silence, and he almost believed she would obey him. That was the unspoken agreement between them, that no matter how much she cared for him, there were certain times she would simply leave him be. She always seemed to know when he needed companionship, and when he needed solitude.
But then she broke the silence. "No," she said, and he knew she was answering his unspoken thoughts and not his words. Yes, she had known how to treat him -- had known him, better than anyone -- but not, it seemed, anymore.
"I'm not going to leave you alone, Aoshi-sama." She approached him, cautious but determined. "I can't," she said, as if there were some authority she was helpless to disobey.
He watched her as she came to him. A light yukata clothed her body, which had seemed thin as gossamer when he had felt her warmth radiating through the fabric. He remembered what it had felt like to touch her, the softness of her skin. Kami-sama, he wanted to touch her again ...
"Go, Misao." His tone was stern now, steeled by unyielding authority.
She shook her head, her bright eyes firm. "It was tonight, wasn't it?" she asked. "That Hannya-kun and the others ... that they died." Her eyes clouded over briefly, but she continued. "You never told us -- why? Do you want to be alone?"
She read his answer in his silent, steady gaze. "Why don't you want us with you, Aoshi-sama? We don't blame you for it. All of us, we've forgiven you for everything. But you still feel guilty, don't you?"
You're wrong, Misao, he thought. That isn't it. He was right; she didn't know him anymore. He supposed it was only natural, after being away for so long ...
"Because we all miss them, you know." Her voice was quiet and solemn. "We missed them when they were gone before; but to know that they aren't coming back ..." He saw the brief glimmer of tears in her eyes, before she brushed them away with the back of her hand.
In this world, the only one who can answer for those tears is you. For some reason, those words continued to trouble him more than anything else Himura Kenshin had said to him ...
"I know you don't believe this," she said. "But you aren't alone. We know what you're feeling --"
"You can't." He blurted the words out without thinking. He wasn't sure why he laid his feelings out so baldly to her; he just wanted her to leave. He didn't know what would happen if he was alone, but that, at least, was an old fear he'd learned to handle. But Misao, this completely different woman from this new era, he didn't know how to deal with.
"Come on, Aoshi-sama. You're not that different from the rest of us humans," she joked, but her smile faltered, and became sad. "Just because you were gone for so long doesn't mean we somehow don't know you anymore." The look in her eyes, however, told him she feared she was wrong.
Despite what he'd said before, he felt a certain amount of disappointment at that. She was, in a way, the only thing that had staved off his loneliness. And, no matter what else happened, he'd never wanted her to be unhappy. "Time can change people," he said softly.
A frown creased her brow, and she shook her head, suddenly looking for a moment like the stubborn little girl he'd once known. "No ... No, Aoshi-sama. I can't believe that. Even though I haven't seen Hannya-kun, Beshimi, Hyottoko, and Shikijou since I was young, they're still my friends and I still love them. That will never change."
A child's faith in a woman's body. He wouldn't have expected that, even from Misao. He looked away.
"Even if I didn't get to be with them in the end, I'll always care about them." Her voice, though soft, echoed powerfully in his mind. "I'll know them when I see them again. And you ... For a year, I've gotten to know you again. Do you know how much I've fallen in love with you, in that one year?"
He looked up at her sharply. She was smiling that sad smile again. In that moment, she looked exquisitely sorrowful, and exquisitely beautiful.
Her smile softened at his astonished expression. Aoshi was a man more comfortable with emotions left unspoken; she knew that. "Oyasumi nasai, Aoshi-sama."
I don't want to be alone.
The thought was surprising in its intensity, and its simplicity. The dilemma of entering the new era versus remaining in the world he knew had plagued him; the Oniwabanshuu of the Meiji were so very different from the Okashira rooted in the Bakumatsu. Yet, with Misao here before him, the answer seemed obvious.
I don't want her to be alone.
She was turning to go, then, as quickly and easily as she'd come. Despite having just told him she loved him, she was ready to leave without asking anything in return. It was amazing how freely she loved; as wholeheartedly and without reservation as she lived.
I want someone to make her happy.
His hand was reaching up of its own accord. His body moved without thought, as instinctively as it did in battle.
And more than anything, I want to be that someone.
He caught her just as she stepped in front of the window; her face, bathed in moonlight, formed a marble white tableau of surprise as he pulled her against him.
For a moment, Aoshi hesitated, uncertain. But when she didn't resist, he relaxed, his nervousness fading, and eased his arms around her. Laying his cheek against the top of her head, he closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of her hair, feeling strangely relaxed.
He felt her move awkwardly, her small hands reaching uncertainly to stroke his back. "I know you miss them, Aoshi-sama ... It's okay ..."
He almost laughed out loud. No, he thought, she doesn't know me, after all ... And I don't know her. But we can find out ...
She stirred as she felt him move, raising her head from his shoulder and then blinking quickly at the proximity of their faces.
Aoshi studied her for a moment, watching the dark shadows play over her alabaster features. His pulse fluttered with anticipation, and he felt curiously exhilarated.
Not quite trusting his words, he reached up and brushed his fingers against her cheek. Wide crystalline blue eyes watched him intently. Taking a breath, he leaned in, and the distance between them shrunk to a finger's breadth.
She didn't pull away. Gently, he brushed his mouth over hers.
Her lips were impossibly soft. Like a man after a heady draught of wine, he drank eagerly, pulling her closer to press her lips more firmly against his. Gradually he felt her mouth curve in a smile as she kissed him back; her arms snaked around his neck, pulling him closer and bringing him a rush of boyishly earnest excitement. She fit perfectly against his body, he decided.
A faint presence brushed his awareness, alerting even his giddy senses. Hurriedly his every-wary instincts regained his surroundings, even as his mind registered the identity of that presence.
"Hannya," he muttered in surprise, pulling back from Misao.
"Aoshi-sama," she pouted, her tone one of mock reproach. "You know, it's a real turn-off when you say someone else's name. And Hannya-kun's, no less."
"Iya," he murmured. "I just remembered why I came ... what brought me here tonight. Dreams ..." Dreams that had driven him to seek his peace. Dreams that had driven him to remember ...
Misao's eyes twinkled. "Dreams, huh? Looks like our friends were busy tonight, because that's what brought me here, too," she said, laying her head against his chest with a smile.
Aoshi took her hand, leading her back toward the shrine. "I believe we should thank them," he said, amusement in his voice. He knelt in a graceful motion and closed his eyes, bringing all his gratitude and affection forward in his mind.
Several moments later, he opened his eyes as he felt cloth brush against his skin; Misao was covering him with a blanket -- she'd probably brought it with her when she first came in, but forgotten it during the ensuing events. "It's cold," she explained. "And I'm sure everyone's glad to have you here, but not if you were to get sick," she said in her best scolding mother tone. She directed him over to the wall and sat him down against it; he settled himself and received her warmly in his arms.
"You don't want to leave?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Just tonight, I want to stay here, with everyone." Brushing his hair out of his face, she tilted his head down and placed a kiss on his forehead, then gently laid his head against her shoulder. "The both of us."
He complied, sighing lightly against her soft warmth. Beneath suddenly heavy eyelids, his eyes found the small square of moonlight again. The faint glow no longer seemed as pitiful, but triumphant, boldly pushing against the shadows. As he drifted off to a dreamless sleep, Aoshi was cradled in the gentle comfort of a touch that promised to forever protect him against the darkness.
They watched over us then, and they watch over us now. All of us.
His thoughts of his four friends are no longer weighed with sadness. There is still, as always, a touch of wistfulness, but the effect is bittersweet rather than melancholy.
The world has moved forward. The Aoiya is thriving, the Oniwabanshuu gradually fading to the background as the land frees itself from the last remnants of the Bakumatsu. Aoshi himself is easing into his life as a part of Meiji Japan as he carries the memories of his friends in his heart. And Misao ...
The shoji slides open, and the silhouette of his wife appears in the opening. He sees her now as she must have looked, that night -- waiting in the doorway like an angel watching over him, a blanket wrapped around her petite form. Only this time, her eyes are lighted by affection instead of worry. And this time ...
"Your brooding woke me up," she says with a wry smile, moving to join him as the candle makes her shadow dance upon the wall.
This time, as she eases into his arms, he cradles her close, and one hand slides protectively over her belly, swollen with child.
"I wasn't brooding," he murmurs in halfhearted protest.
"Don't lie," she admonishes, lacing her fingers through his atop her stomach. "I know you too well." Yawning contentedly, she snuggles against his chest.
"Are you tired? I didn't want you to be up this late; that's why I didn't wake you myself."
"I didn't want you to be alone tonight." Tilting her head back, she plants a kiss on his chin; meeting her halfway, he captures her lips in a soft kiss. "If you're really worried about me, I could send Jiiya, but I don't think you'd want to cuddle with him," she adds, earning a soft laugh.
He tucks her head beneath his chin and wraps the blanket more tightly around her shoulders. The candle weaves highlights in her hair, which brushes just past her shoulders, and he strokes it thoughtfully. He doubts he could ever have predicted his life would turn out like this. In the years he spent consumed with his role as Okashira, he'd never imagined these possibilities for himself -- a husband, and, soon, a father. And all of it because of her.
It amazes him, how a single source of light can do so much to alleviate the darkness.
"What are you thinking?"
He pauses, considering. There are several thoughts and emotions running through his head right now; he doubts he could express them all in words. "I never knew I was so blessed," he says finally.
Her breathing gradually slows into a contentedly sleepy steadiness. "They're always here, watching over us ..."
"Aa," he says softly, then kisses the top of her head. "You should sleep now."
"Mm ... Maybe I'll dream," she says, as he blows out the candle.