Katsujinken: The Sword That Gives Life Chapter 1: Samurai, a rurouni kenshin fanfic

Request from kaoruca (on FFN)- Don't want to impose or anything like that, but have you thought about writing one drabble about how Koshijiro could feel leaving Kaoru alone (when he went to the Seinan war and died -what could he have thought before dying?) or having to bring her up all by himself?

A/N: I apologize profusely for how long it took to finish this prompt! RL has been crazy and the fic kept expanding until, somehow, I had 3000+ words down. I even ended up cutting a scene towards the end (which I'll probably clean up and add on as another chapter later). Again, I'm very sorry... I hope this lives up to the long wait I put you through!

Title: Katsujinken: The Sword That Gives Life

Author: Kenkaya

Series: Rurouni Kenshin

Genre: Drama/Family

Type: Oneshot, pre-series

Rating: General, PG

Pairings: Kamiya Koshijiro/Kaoru's mother

Summary: Kamiya Koshijiro had always been comfortable with his place in the world… then the Bakumatsu happened. Now, he has to navigate a new era and confront his inner turmoil, all while raising a daughter who barely remembers him.

Disclaimer: The characters and story of Rurouni Kenshin are copyright to Nobuhirou Watsuki, Sony, and other corporate someones who aren't me.

xxxxxx

Kamiya Koshijiro had always been comfortable with his place in the world. He was the eldest son and heir to a minor samurai family of Edo: well off enough to inhabit a modest estate, but lacking the prestige (and pressure) of a more esteemed clan. Still, despite their middling status, his father made certain to drill the importance of long-running tradition into the boy's head. Life had a systematic order and everyone had their own role to play in it. Learning sword technique wasn't just about passing down a family legacy, the elder Kamiya stated, it was his sacred duty- to uphold the structure of society by ensuring the samurai role continued onto future generations. Young Koshijiro soaked up the old man's words. He was determined to fulfill that role to the best of his ability.

Swordsmanship, bushido (poise and honor), these were areas Koshijiro excelled at. His boyhood was spent shying from play to practice weapon forms or study philosophy instead. His father was a strict teacher, seldom to praise; but, when the boy turned fourteen, he gifted him a newly crafted sword and declared, "you were born to be a samurai." Koshijiro bowed low in thanks, forehead pressed against smooth floorboards to hide the threat of tears in his grey eyes.

Soon enough, the time came for him to take a wife: to continue the cycle propagated by his father, and his father before him. Koshijiro married a samurai daughter of equivalent standing. She was a graceful woman, well-educated and suited to her own designated role. However, he loved her for her sharp tongue, brutally honest yet with a genuine sincerity that subverted harshness. She was beautiful, practical, clever- everything he could have asked for in a partner and more. Koshijiro adored her. A year into their marriage, she bore a daughter he named Kaoru and life seemed blissfully fixed on the preordained path his father promised him.

Then the Bakumatsu happened.

Koshijiro thought he understood duty back then. He packed up, bid his family farewell, and set off to war. In many ways he was still grossly naive: a green samurai who had never experienced battle outside tournaments or duel challenges. He learned quickly, though. Each time his blade drew blood he gained another insight (how bone felt beneath his blade versus flesh, what the wheeze of fluid entering lungs sounded like) and lost pieces of himself in exchange. Sometimes, he went months without writing his family; unwilling to seed their worries with truth, yet disquieted by the idea of conjuring falsehoods to ease their minds.

Then, sixteen months into the war, his father passed. His grief-sick mother soon followed. Koshijiro read the letter silently, expression schooled even as grey eyes scanned his wife's flowing script repeatedly. He released his emotions the next day in battle, the damning paper folded carefully in the folds of his blue gi. The captain commended his exceptional prowess afterwards, but Koshijiro just felt numb.

That night, he dreamt of his wife in their home, alone. She sat demurely on their moonlit porch and watched the closed gate, a lost, forlorn look in her dark blue eyes. Fine red mist crept into the yard. A crow cawed in the distance (four times) as his wife slowly disappeared: fading into nothing more than indistinct shadows amidst a scarlet-scape. Koshijiro jerked awake before dawn with salt crusted on his cheeks.

Two more years passed- years of fighting, nightmares, and endless death. The idealistic boy he once was would have never imagined that one day he'd come to resent being a samurai. Now, during morning meditations, the embittered man found himself glaring at the sword his father gave him. There was no pride to be had in this way of life, absolutely none. Koshijiro swore that (if he survived this madness) he would bury the filthy blade and never touch it again.

The long days of violence finally came to an end at Toba Fushimi, a little over three years since Koshijiro left his family. The journey back was nerve wracking. His parents were gone, Kaoru had turned seven by now (would she even recognize her own father?), and all along the road he was bombarded with signs of a shifting era. Men no longer wore swords openly at their waists, topknots were cut away to make way for shorter hair styles. Farmers and roadside merchants introduced themselves enthusiastically with recently donned surnames. Japan was in the midst of great change. The age of the samurai was officially over and, Koshijiro couldn't help thinking, good riddance.

In keeping with his trepidations, Koshijiro's return was a bittersweet one. He stepped over the threshold late in the morning, pausing to inhale familiar scents as his wife stumbled outside to greet him. She looked frail: frighteningly thin with sunken eyes and new white streaks scattered throughout her sable locks. He simply stared at the woman for a moment, wondering if he appeared just as worn to her, before a weak sob broke the space between them. She rushed into his arms, and, though the man could feel the sharp contours of bones as they embraced, a comforting warmth flowed through him at her touch. Koshijiro truly felt in that instant, from the depths of his soul, he was home.

The feeling didn't last.

Upon first sight, Koshijiro initially feared that, somehow, his family had starved while he was away. What other explanation could there be? The woman he married (the one he left three years ago) was a strong, confident samurai's daughter; the image of her so wizened shook something primal inside him. But (after holding her close for several minutes and revelling in the circular thought of home, home, home), he glanced up to see a perfectly healthy girl with round cheeks and her mother's eyes standing awkwardly on the porch. Gensai-sensei walked up behind her- a few more wrinkles on his smiling face, yet otherwise unchanged, and placed a reassuring hand on the child's hunched shoulder.

"Welcome back, Kamiya-san," the old man greeted with a low-pitched joy. Dread crawled over Koshijiro's skin then, like hundreds of evening spiders racing across a sleeping body.

His wife was dying.

Koshijiro had gladly shed the trappings of his old life, the life promised him by his father. He wanted nothing more to do with any of it, except for the piece withering away in front of him. Gensai-sensei did what he could for her and urged everyone to stay hopeful. Kaoru, bless her innocent heart, hung on the doctor's words like the optimistic child she was. Koshijiro didn't know if he was capable of hope anymore.

Still, he prayed. The man bargained with their family's kami for the first time since his father died. He swore to give up the sword forever, or to take up the samurai way once more (regardless of how that path destroyed an irreparable part of him)- Koshijiro was prepared to give anything the gods might want in exchange for his wife's life. He even bartered his own.

She deteriorated further. Four days later, she was sleeping away most of the afternoon in fitful, drug-induced hazes. Even Kaoru cried: messy snot-laced tears dribbled down her chin as she was led from her mother's room. Koshijiro watched numbly as Gensai-sensei dragged the distraught child away, floundering in a dark sea of restless inaction. At least during the war, horrible as it was, he had an outlet through action. Now, he could only look upon his beloved's final moments: completely helpless.

On that spiraling thought, the samurai in him rose, entered the dojo he'd avoided since his return, and grabbed an old bouken from the practice racks. He had to move, to swing his sword- anything to fill the screaming silence that had invaded his once lively home.

Standing vigil outside the closed door, Koshijiro worked through kata after kata with his wooden sword, spinning and slicing through stagnant air. Occasionally, wild momentum pushed him into an alternate stance, or guided him through a new form. The man let these fresh motions flow through him, unhindered, to their natural conclusion. More than once, he spotted Kaoru spying on him down the hall; expression set in silent concentration as her (painfully) blue eyes tracked each movement. She never approached him, though. The majority of their interactions still followed the awkward dance around of estranged parent and distant child- even so, Koshijiro couldn't dismiss the sense of mutual understanding that seemed to pervade whatever bond was left between them then.

The funeral was held on a mild sunny day in early March. Koshijiro marched alone (Kaoru clung to Gensai-sensei several paces behind) supporting his wife's coffin on weighted shoulders. Kaoru wailed loudly throughout the procession, and he couldn't help wondering if this was a price to be paid for each death dealt by his hand. Certainly, his victims' wives had suffered as he did now, choking on final farewells they weren't ready to utter. Children must have cried as well; how many fathers had he cut down without a second's consideration? Perhaps, the man reasoned, it was his karmic fate to experience their grief, to witness as his own seven-year old shed those same tears.

The wake afterwards was excrutiating. Koshijiro bore it with a thin, piecemeal shield of quiet strength: his angular jaw clenched tight as acquaintances and half-forgotten friends from a previous life offered repetitive condolences. Across the room, Kaoru wept pitifully, though (thankfully) her volume had lowered significantly. Not once did she seek comfort from her remaining parent amidst the crowd, choosing instead to shadow Gensai-sensei or their neighbor's wife, Manami-san. Koshijiro, barely hanging on to his stoic facade as it was, struggled between feeling dejected or gratefully relieved. The gathering dragged on- far too long, for both of them.

That night, after an emotionally drained Kaoru had been put to bed, he laid his steel sword to rest in the dirt behind their dojo. Rough sword-calloused hands pat loosened earth firm over the vile blade and all it once stood for. The memories it carried would remain; his atonement served through loss and nightmares that would forever plague him. Koshijiro accepted the punishment with grace. Turning to go back inside, the grieving man unexpectedly saw his child sitting on the dark porch: bundled in a brown too-large haori that had clearly been one of his wife's, and watching him with swollen puffy eyes.

"Go to sleep, Kaoru," he commanded. Though he was often clueless about what to do with the small girl in front of him, he was fairly certain she had no place in a heavy moment like this.

"That was your genpuku sword," she said instead of obeying. "You buried your genpuku sword," curiously, she met his gaze with her mother's- and his restraint snapped.

"Go! Now!" he barked.

The child scampered away at his harsh tone. Koshijiro immediately felt guilty for his irrational behavior, however, he was in no fit emotional state to act properly on it. Hands itching, he stormed into the pitch black dojo, took his bouken in arms, and swung without direction.

The samurai in him, the one he just tried to bury with his tainted blade, came out in midnight motions. A downward slice, a forward step, a sideways swipe- followed by a powerfully exhaled "ha!" The way of the sword was all he knew. He entered into a complex set, the very same one he impressed his father with years ago to earn the sword entombed behind him. Koshijiro knew he no longer wanted to be a samurai, so, what was he without that integral part of himself? His family was gone: the only member left treated him like the stranger he was to her. He possessed no other skills. What else did he have left but the sword?

A harsh clatter rang through empty space as the bouken slipped from clammy fingers. Koshijiro stood in darkness for a moment, taking in the staccato of labored breaths that echoed in the wake of frenzy. He collapsed then, exhaling shakily before collecting the fallen bouken in his lap. The weary veteran had latched onto this new era (with its spirit of peace and equality) happily, and yet, he still found himself a product of the past: stuck in its muddy wagon tracks.

Cool, dim light snuck up on him amidst his crisis of self. Deep blues soon gave way to a warm, more neutral illumination, highlighting dust motes as they twirled through the air around him. Silence surrounded him, absolute; his tranquil space left undisturbed, even by birdsong.

"Father?"

Koshijiro stared at the small silhouette of his daughter suddenly in the doorway: backlit by yellow morning sun. Kaoru stepped over the threshold cautiously, a caution that tugged unpleasantly at his gut, and inclined her head slightly.

"Manami-obasan was kind enough to cook us breakfast," she intoned formally, clearly uncomfortable after last night's encounter. "Will… will you join us?"

"Just a moment," he gestured stiffly towards the mats in front of him. This time, she listened: tentatively sitting down on the tatami he indicated. An awkward silence stretched between them for several seconds, seconds which Koshijiro used to organize his harried thoughts, before he ended it with a question.

"Kaoru, what do you think the purpose of a sword is?"

The girl blinked blankly in response.

"To... fight?" she finally answered with a great amount of hesitation.

"Yes, to fight… and kill," he amended. "That's what I did in the war... while I was gone. But," Koshijiro brushed his fingertips lightly down the bouken's length, feeling rough spots of worn polish and old dents beneath the calloused pads. "I don't wish to do that again. That is what you saw last night. I buried my sword because I will never wield one that kills again."

"So… will you do something else now?"

"I plan to," he declared softly. "I just don't know what quite yet. The sword is all I know… I... regret having to ask this of you, child," he closed his eyes shamefully, "but you may need to have patience with me. More moments like last night will probably happen until I find my answer, and I might show undeserved anger towards you again. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Kaoru nodded before asking, "but… why don't you just do something else with a sword, then?"

"What?" he stared at his daughter, slack jawed at her brazen suggestion. "What do you mean by that?"

"You said you're not going to kill with a sword anymore," she spoke matter-of-factly, as though her conclusion was clearly the most obvious one to reach. "But people use swords in dojos all the time without killing anybody. Can't… can't you just do whatever they do?"

"Kaoru," he sighed at her youthful naivete. Swordwork in the dojo was practice for killing, an integral component of the system he no longer wished to be a part of. How could he possibly protect this new era of peace and opportunity if he propagated the very institution that it rose to counter?

Protect…

Wheels turned in his sleep-deprived head suddenly, focusing on that one innocuous word.

Protect.

Can a sword be used to protect… without killing?

"Maybe," he finally answered an anxiously waiting Kaoru. He rose from the floor then and, with a beckoning gesture, accompanied her to breakfast.

The girl had (unwittingly) given him a different perspective to consider and, over the next few days, Koshijiro increasingly found himself consumed by that possibility. Swords were designed to kill; swordsmanship perfected that purpose to an artform. But, he pondered, what if it was possible to develop a style meant to reject that design? Every aspect of his country (his society) had been swept up in changes wrought by the revolution, so, why shouldn't the principles of swordsmanship change as well? He recalled those dark hours spent in front of his dying wife's door, his mind running through every set of kata performed, and the variations he unwittingly stumbled into. He had created new forms- was capable of creating them. Koshijiro became convinced this radical idea was plausible the longer he stewed over it.

He had decided, then. The sword that protects would be his contribution to the new era.

Koshijiro threw himself into the project with gusto. Many hours were spent hunched over books and journals by lantern light, ink brush bobbing back and forth continuously as he honed a code of conduct and core philosophy that embodied everything he wished to impart. Even more time was dominated by the dojo: figuring out efficient ways to disarm and incapacitate non-lethally. Formulating his own sword style came with many unique complex challenges, ones he never could have anticipated, but Koshijiro's dedication held strong. The rush he felt at applying skills he excelled in towards a better future trumped any frustration brought on by trickling progress.

His one regret was how the gargantuan task kept him away from Kaoru. Occupied as he was, Koshijiro had few chances to build on their strained relationship after that morning's conversation. In secluded moments (when he dared be honest with himself), Koshijiro would almost admit the real reason for his avoidance: he was uncertain, and afraid. He hadn't the slightest idea how to care for a child, had no way to even relate to the girl. Or, so he thought-

Barely a week into his endeavor, the man caught her peeking at him through a cracked screen as he inched and backpedaled through a stubborn set. She fled before he could say anything, negative or otherwise, the rapid patter of her steps contrasting loudly against his stunned silence. He noticed her several times after that. Koshijiro considered confronting her, but (his cowardly side persisted) Kaoru was always quiet and unintrusive. Surely, there was no harm in just letting her observe his process. At the very least, it was time they were able to spend together, albeit time without interaction.

Three stagnant months passed between them in that state-

Until one morning, when Koshijiro walked into the dojo early and found Kaoru already there. She stood in front of the sword rack, a small practice shinai in hand, her stance a clumsy copy of his own. For someone who had never been formally instructed, only watched, her form was surprisingly decent. Offhandedly, he wondered if his wife had time to teach her fighting basics before falling ill.

"Kaoru?"

The girl jumped with a strangled squeak, whirling around to face him blade point up. She lowered it as soon as recognition hit, immediately falling into a low bow and sputtering rushed litanies of, "sorry, sorry." The quake in her unnecessary words was enough to (finally) jolt a reaction from him.

"Kaoru, stop."

The girl quieted, tilting her chin up to peer through her long black fringe when he gave no follow-up to his initial command. He noticed then the familiar way her brow furrowed, and the sharp-angled edge of her jaw. Her nose crinkled in an expression of confusion he knew all too well. For the first time, Koshijiro looked into his daughter's face and didn't see his dead wife.

He saw himself.

A younger, more idealistic mirror of himself- one who loved everything about being a samurai. Someone who could bluntly state, "not everyone kills with swords… just do that," and studied the craft intently without prodding. Who snuck into the dojo at dawn, eager to apply those studies.

Koshijiro stared at his child anew and wondered how he ever could have thought it impossible to relate to her.

"Your balance is unstable, you need to place your feet further apart."

Kaoru gapped, flabbergast, at his response. She didn't move.

"Well?" he prompted. "Did you enter this dojo to learn or stand there open-mouthed like a komainu? Blade up and feet apart!"

"Y… yes!" Kaoru leapt enthusiastically into the lesson. She shifted diligently as her father shouted corrections. Eventually, he walked over to physically guide her, large calloused hands engulfing her much smaller ones on the bamboo handle. His voice was firm, but the man was careful with his touch- gentle.

A feeling settled in his gut then. It was warm and certain, a glowing conviction like he'd never experienced before. This, Koshijiro realized as he analyzed his daughter's swing, was the sword that protects: his true legacy. He would think that same thought again years later; as he rode off to another war and waved farewell to a sixteen year-old, still dressed in her white, sweat-soaked practice gi. But this day, he would lead his seven year-old through her first sword set. This day, Koshijiro would rekindle the pride he once had in being a samurai.

xxxxxx

A/N: Just a quick note on some of the metaphors and Japanese references I used...

Koshijiro's dream: I referenced a couple Japanese death omens and superstitions here (crows, the number four) when he dreamed of his wife. Whether he was actually receiving an omen, or just coincidentally conjuring images related to death after learning about his parents, I leave up to the reader.

Evening spiders: In Japan, a spider seen in the morning is considered good luck and killing one then is considered unlucky. However, this doesn't apply to spiders seen at night... so, I added "evening" to differentiate that.

Komainu: These are the two lion-dog statues often seen guarding Shinto shrines. Usually (but not always), one has it's mouth open while the other has its mouth closed to symbolize the concept of a beginning and end.