Disclaimer: Watsuki-sensei owns Rurouni Kenshin. In Japanese, 'aoi' canmean blue, green, pale, inexperienced or unripe, all of which defines the relationship between Aoshi and Misao, a word somewhat of essence to this pairing, which is one of my favourites.

Aoi
By Heartsea

The head of the Nakashima household had been surprisingly kind.

Perhaps it was the mark of a change of times, an act like a falling grain of sand in the slow corroding of land by the sea. What compelled her fiancé's parents to allow such an atrocity, a grave disregard of the centuries of culture Japanese civilization had forged, was beyond her reasoning. She had gasped in surprise when they had nodded their heads, agreed with hired match-maker overseeing the ceremony, pleased with her.

The okashira of the Oniwabanshuu.

Who, to her astonishment, was allowed, given full blessings even, to fulfill her okashira duties as long as her main priority remained her husband and her family. Being okashira of an organization such as the Oniwabanshuu was a not role a traditional wife was expected to have. But her parents-in-law had no qualms against her unique commitments, had not been disconcerted by her lack of ladylike grace. Okina, upon hearing repeated assurances from the wife of prominent businessman Nakashima Takuya that the family more than welcomed a strong woman like Misao into the family, breathed a deep sigh of relief.

Misao's future husband had just smiled, his confidence regained, inner relief enveloping his senses. His thumping heart was comforted, and it promptly bloomed when he stole a glance at her.

Misao was struggling to hide her shock, happiness easing the lines of worry on her youthful face, setting her pale cheeks alight. She beamed at him.

Earlier, Nakashima Takumi heard his own uncertain voice spilling forth comforting words in attempt to calm his nervous fiancée, her hands clutched tightly in his clasped ones. His family revered warriors of old, samurai families with sword-wielding men and women that settled down to normal ways with the coming of the Meiji era. His grandmother, with a fierce glint in her eyes, had told him tales of great women samurai when he was a child.

"Gozen Tomoe," Takumi mumbled unexpectedly as the stood facing each other in silence, deep in their thoughts. A name that surfaced in his mind as he thought of his grandmother, once a young widow who had struggled to keep the family inn in business whilst raising her three sons. She had drawn courage from the samurai women when times were hard. "Gozen Tomoe."

Misao looked up at him, startled. "What?"

"My family, Misao-chan. They hold independent women high in regard. There is nothing else they value more than the strength of a woman."

Takumi gently lifted Misao's chin, looked deep into her brilliant azure eyes. "You are one, you are a strong woman. I should know – my own mother is one. They will not object."

"A strong woman?" Misao said, doubtful, freeing her hands from Takumi's fists and wringing them in worry. "But..."

She fell silent, uncomfortable at her own lack of words. She looked up at this gentle man that she first met when she was eleven, who was then a friendly boy whom she made friends and played with when Okina brought her along to business visits at the Nakashima inn. She had lost touch with Takumi as years passed, until they met again by chance.

Misao had only started acting uncharacteristically shy around men her own age, viewed them in different light, after a painful truth was revealed by Aoshi.

I cannot love you that way, Misao.

Her Aoshi-sama had said, slowly and forcefully, seemingly cold words like a blunt dagger slicing through her heart. She remembered Okina, telling her, If you love him, let him be. You cannot force such things, Misao.

Then, in a regretful whisper, I am sorry, child, for even I cannot get words through his thick skull, let alone the recesses of his heart.

It had been the longest night in her life, sobbing monotonously in Jiya's arms, thoughts of death flickering in her head that lay on his bony shoulder, the promise of comfort it once held gone. The familiar surroundings of Kyoto fled the next day, leaving her in a strange world with depression dictating the days that came thereafter. By then Aoshi had left, shoulders sagged, headed for the temple, never to return.

And it had taken her countless days to heal before she bumped into Nakashima Takumi again in the main street of the city, running an errand for his father. Before she knew it, he had fallen head over heels in love with her, in childlike awe of the restless spirit she possessed. They spent awkward days getting to know each other, before he succeeded in wooing her, the slender ninja woman whose smile was fully restored, bright as sun. Misao's loud, cheerful voice returned with the usual spring in her steps. Even the Aoiya's favourite guest, Kaoru, was visibly pleased with such developments, teasing Misao as she juggled Kenji on her hips.

"Kenshin would be delighted to know," she'd assured Misao, whose heart tightened at the mention of Himura-san, who was at war.

Some of her worry lessened more at the fleeting image of Takani-sensei's triumphant smirk, of which the good doctor displayed after stumbling upon Takumi and Misao at the Aoiya when she dropped by, having ventured into Kyoto in search of medicine for her Aizu clinic. Misao rested her forehead on the cool timber pillar of the Nakashima house, wondering how the ceremony would turn out, what Takumi's parents would think of her, as they had never officially met.

The odd 'match-making' ceremony was arranged when both of them decided upon the prospect of marriage, Takumi and her. Okina had stressed upon a formal meeting between both families. It went well; Takumi's father respected the Oniwabanshuu and Misao's duties as the okashira, and agreed heartily to the marriage, understanding of the needs of an independant women, something which was unheard of in society.

Misao felt thankful. Nakashima Takuya allowed her freedom to run the Oniwabanshuu, 'train the grandchildren as ninjas, even'. She blushed at the thought of raising children, starting a family with Takumi. Only yesterday, she and the Kenshin-gumi were deep in the midst of numerous adventures. It was time to move on – Kaoru and Kenshin were already married with Kenji, and Yahiko's own wedding was not far off, or so she had heard.

"Don't forget the inn, though," her future father-in-law had told her, laughter warm in his eyes. "I expect you to help your husband run the inn, which I am certain shall not be a problem at all, given how efficient the Aoiya is being managed at the present."

Okon and Omasu could distinctly be heard jumping for joy in the next room.

"What did I tell you?" Okina later exclaimed over a bowl of sake. "Nakashima has always been a sporting old man!"

· · ·

There was no such reaction when she rushed to the temple to tell her Aoshi-sama the next day. Having made up her mind to forgive him a long time ago, she appeared at the temple out of the blue one fine summer day, filling the corridors with her merry chatter, as if the time had passed had made no difference.

Aoshi felt that did not deserve her forgiveness. He was never worthy of her in the first place.

He conveniently meditated whenever she visited, providing a reason for his pained silence, attempting to hide from her. Sometimes he refused to see her, but was persuaded out of his reluctance because she acted exactly like how he had raised her to act – to be relentless in accomplishing tasks. To never give up in whatever she did, in life, in their cause that was the Oniwabanshuu.

"For not being to give her what she yearns most," he remembered explaining to an enraged Okina before he left, "I am in pain. I have tried—but I cannot—"

Cannot what? He tried again, hearing his own words drop like stone. "I cannot—"

I am tired. The sentence had echoed heavily in his mind. He opened his mouth, but no words came. The older man's pressed lips thinned from across him as a defiant silence grew between the two kneeled men.

Without warning, a tear rolled down from Aoshi's left eye.

He could still feel the wet burn his tear left as it trailed down his cheek that very afternoon, forever tingling, like a scar. It felt foreign, for he had never cried for as long as he could remember. Emotions he usually could not comprehend, not even his own. Human anger, jealousy, and worry in others melted into a stark mess he recognized, yet could not understand.

Just as he was feeling faintly surprised by the tear's presence, the weight of the exhaustion he had not felt all along dropped fully on him, breaking an invisible dam in his soul. He stopped himself short of doubling over from the waves of intense pain that flooded him next, more excruciating than any sword injury he ever had. Startled, he gripped his knees to brace himself, realizing how much he loved Misao, regret, fear and guilt washing over him.

He felt that he would soon crumble from the pain.

Aoshi bowed quickly, feeling his fringe stick to his sweat-beaded forehead as it touched the tatami mat. Getting up, he left without a word to Okina, each step away from the Aoiya drawing blood from the re-opened wounds in him, battles roaring in his ears. He had reached the temple a ghost, conflict raging tsunamis inside the hollow shell that was his tall, thin frame; dead.

All was quiet when a tentative Misao found him now to tell him the news, her hesitant tone disguised with forced cheer. He listened to her as she tripped over words in her strained sing-song voice, feeling stabs of pain when she mentioned Nakashima Takumi. Torrents of fresh guilt washed over him, serving to worsen the ache in his heart, his punishment for not being able to love.

When she was finished, not making eye contact, nor bothering to hide his strangled voice, Aoshi said, "Good, Misao. Nakashima's son will treat you well."

"He will, I know he will." A hurried smile briefly flickered across Misao's face, which was taut with worry. Though his head was bent, Aoshi saw her biting her lip. He needed to leave before she blurted out what she desperately wanted to voice, something which would break his heart even further.

He stood up, but Misao swiftly grabbed his arm. He froze, looked away. Releasing his arm gently, Misao placed a shaking hand on his cheek.

She has grown so much. She is almost as tall as me. Her palm felt warm on his skin.

"Aoshi-sama," she said, her voice quivering, breaking. "Take care of yourself."

End

Author's notes: This is a long, rough sketch of what will be revealed as a glimpse in the unravelling of Hanami's plot. This was originally a short plot-bunny piece before I decided to let it determine what becomes of Misao in Hanami. This is only half the surprise, though.

I must apologize to Aoshi-Misao fans, for I feel that a happy ending for the both of them post-Seisouhen is quite unlikely. Yet, things might change as I write Hanami, so do not lose hope! Feedback greatly appreciated.