Tsukikage Ran fic – Oharu and Okuma-bandit from Episode 4, "I Was A Target Before I Knew It."

I just watched this series, Tsukikage Ran, tonight, and was struck by two of the minor characters - Oharu, the slain ex-bandit's wife, and Okuma, the luckless bandit-to-be. They seemed complementary to each other... and I couldn't stop thinking about their characters. In a way... they made me write this piece. Take the relationship as what you will... this piece is meant only to imply.
Thank you for reading.

-Miz

Thoughts By Night - Oharu

A full moon glows tonight. I can tell, as it mists softly though the paper screen, a blossom of gold on the threaded surface. I write, as I cannot sleep – it has been two months only since Sanji-san was taken from me. Two months… what a time to be living, time taken from my love. He had tried to leave – but no one leaves there, so it seemed. They would be killed for the offense of escaping crime, as was my Sanji-san.

But now…

The one who defended me, he left them. He was small, playing not as great a part in their clan as did my Sanji, but merely a lackey – thankfully a lackey – in their malicious plans. But he was still a part – and still he was able to leave, in the end, along with his brother - they who stood against the crowd. And he defended me… alone facing that man and his gang, he spoke true words, so innocent and strong, flowing out like rushing falls to stem the tears that waited in his eyes. I will always respect Ran for what she did to protect us. She stood by 'til the moment she was needed to fight, and for that, I am fully grateful. But in the end, it was not she who rescued us. Okuma-san, noble hero of only a tooth and a smile, facing the lion with the eyes of the defiant mouse. He was honest – and he was the saviour of that day.

We were not even family. I learned later of his… noble warriors, classed men of rank and strength, who cast their sons out to let them find their pride. Good men… if I were to speak to them, if it were my place to speak, I would say… he has regained his spirit. Let him rest once again in your graces.

It is all he desires.

I went once, last week, carrying rice… another could have done it, but I brought it to the door, I wanted to open it and see… the hero, again, simple hero more of hearth-flame and dust than of fire and earth. I heard his laugh beside the others, that halting chuckle. A pan shone reflections beneath the door, something sung against a spoon. I took my hand from the screen. Walking backwards to my room, the path was warm.

Waiting. Waiting for hope, for rebirth, for the new buds I planted to rise from the earth. Waiting for chances, for days to watch the sun's course and hear a cook's laugh from the rooms. For the time when I can summon the spirit that led him that day – to meet my hardest task.

I look at the room, smoothed soft in the light. My futon is folded, unweighed by day's cares. Rose drifts up to the horizon, the moon silently fades. I must take the strength of the sun, letting slip the cool white sphere.

Today… and its words.

Today…

…will I speak them?