oo0O0oo
"Rest," the large man commands with the air of someone who expects to be obeyed.
The boy holds the bokken before him in daijodan stubbornly for the space of three heaving breaths before he finally lowers the weapon. His legs give out almost the same moment so that the boy crashes to the earth, landing hard on his rear with the practice blade still grasped firmly in his hands. The boy is quiet, staring at the large man with a white cloak that makes him seem almost a tengu. The light gaze, tinged violet, is too old for one so young, and the man doesn't like it.
"When you can stand again, do that exercise one hundred times," orders the giant.
Pensive eyes narrow suddenly and glare at the master. The man just smiles. That is better. He likes the flash of gold that dances across the boy's eyes, likes the sheer willfulness the boy has started to show. He may have been sold to slavers, but the boy never would have given up his spirit. A swordsman's spirit.
The man uncaps a large clay jar and unbinds the chuko. The boy wrinkles his nose at the stringent scent from the jar as the man pours the sharp liquid into the shallow cup. He sips the rice wine and watches the boy regain control of his breathing. The boy tries to stand again, using the bokken as a cane rather than a weapon.
The man shakes his head, despondent. He has been reviewing his decision to take in this boy as a student ever since he had woken to the sounds of whimpers from the small futon he had given the newcomer to his sanctuary. The boy does not complain of nightmares; indeed, he rarely speaks of the past at all. He questions his teacher's orders frequently, wondering what breathing has to do with kenjutsu or why shishou must greet the morning with sake every day. The boy is a baka deshi, the wrong shape and size for the sword style he will be learning and completely the wrong coloring for a Japanese hero.
And yet, the man watches the boy plant his feet determinedly and begin counting out his strokes again, harsh blows to what is meant to be the head of his opponent. He looks at the small hands and sees an empty field filled with dozens of new graves, all dug by small, blistered hands now washed clean of the blood that had stained them. As the boy continues his overhead strikes, the teacher lowers his cup and considers his student.
"What is your name?" he asks.
The boy halts midswing and frowns at the man who is now his teacher, his caretaker, his guardian.
"Is this a test, shishou?" asks the boy suspiciously.
The man lifts one aristocratic brow in a silent reprimand.
"Answer the question, baka deshi," he commands.
"Kenshin," the boy responds obediently with the name the man has bestowed on him. Obedience met, the boy raises the short wooden sword to the proper angle again.
"Your family name."
The boy freezes again, and his eyes hold no spark. The man is almost sorry for asking but he does not regret his words. The student will not take on the name of the master until he discovers the final technique. Until then, the student will need a proper name.
"Himura," murmurs the boy with hair like a dying fire.
The man nods and returns to his sake silently. He does not question the name. Samurai have become destitute before in ages past, able to hold on to nothing but a name and the daishō granted them. Parents could be convinced to sell their child if they suspected the child would be fed better in the workplace than at home. The boy cannot read or write, but he is young and has a swordsman's spirit. He will learn. So the teacher sips his sake and does not ask.
And the boy counts off his strikes and does not tell. He does not tell the man that he cannot remember his mother or that his father was never as large as this man who now teaches him. He does not say that when he wakes in the night, only half of the time it is to whispered urgings to run, to flee. Other times, his dreams are filled with words he barely understands, heated whispers of akage, gaijin, and ainoko. He understands his father's silence least of all, especially when their home burns to the ground. He sees his father standing in the ashes of the town that had been their home, letting his son go with strangers who are not his family, even if Akane-san and Sakura-san are kind to him. The boy understands that he needs a name; only those with names are permitted to carry swords, so he gives himself one.
But the teacher never asks, so the boy never tells.
oo0O0oo
A/N: I know I should be working on other things (such as my Naruto works), but this particular oneshot came about in a notebook during an exceedingly long layover right after Thanksgiving Break and I really wanted to type it up.
This particular jaunt into RK fandom came about mostly due to Murasahki-chan's fics, Conversations from the Crazed and Sorrow's Rewards, which visits the idea of Kenshin's parentage. And also due to a wish to experiment with a completely different style than my usual one. It's hard to write in present tense.
Feel free to review as I work furiously to update my other stuff. It makes me happy.
Sincerely,
Fia
Glossary:
ainoko – a love child. I couldn't find any appropriate word for an illegitimate child, as "bastard" is usually the translation for various insults rather than the literal meaning (like for teme).
akage – redhead, quite literally.
baka deshi – idiot apprentice, what Hiko Seijūrō always calls Kenshin
chuko – a shallow dish used for drinking sake, Hiko's favorite drink.
daijodan no kamae – Big Upper Posture in kendo. One stands with feet wide, weight on the rear foot, looking under one's wrists with the blade at a 45 degree angle behind the head.
daishō – the two swords that all samurai carried. The duo was made up of a katana and a wakizashi.
gaijin – foreigner, usually meant in a negative fashion.
Himura – As you might have guessed from the title, Himura is from hi meaning "scarlet" and mura meaning "village."
shishou – master, what Kenshin calls Hiko Seijūrō.
tengu – A Japanese spirit, usually associated with protection, with both avian and human features and a very long nose or beak on its face.