Disclaimer: Rurouni Kenshin belongs to Nobuhiro Watsuki.
Summary: We can elaborate on the fundamentals, but ultimately, it's the most basic elements that make us who we are.
A/N: This is what happens when I watch documentaries on eighteenth-century cooking practices! And a thank you to Warg and Aya; sometimes it's very nice to have a little push.
Matches
By: gure
Kenshin loved matches. So easy, so convenient. One strike, the smell of sulfur, and a flame flares to life. Just like that. He could keep them in the pocket of his sleeve, and they were so light, he didn't even notice they were there. Waiting to make his life a little easier.
As a boy, Hiko had taught him to use flint and steel. Wrap a little dry cloth or a bit of twine around the flint, and strike it with the steel until a spark caught. He remembered mornings, crouched in front of the hearth, striking over and over. Sometimes he'd try for as long as three quarters of an hour with nothing to show for his endeavors but a foul mood and soot-blackened fingers. Those were the mornings Hiko would eventually snatch the flint and steel out of his hands, smirk knowingly, and one or two strikes later, have a fire merrily crackling away in the hearth. Those were also the mornings that signaled a very difficult day of training for Kenshin. More likely than not, the day just went downhill from there.
When Kenshin began his travels, he took along his flint and steel, but kept it at the bottom of his pack. He preferred the convenience of matches. He always kept a little box, carefully wrapped in oilcloth, close to hand. The matches were perfect...unless it was raining, or particularly damp. No matter how well wrapped they were, if they got wet, there was nothing for it. So convenient, so fragile. He learned to always keep flint and steel as a back up. Never knew when he'd need it.
Even though they had plenty of matches at the dojo, he taught Yahiko how to use flint and steel. Yahiko whined and moaned when Kenshin sent him around the dojo, lighting the fire at the bath house or in the kitchen. Kenshin felt it was important to teach him the basics. Never know when Yahiko might need it.
There came a day when Kenshin ran out of matches. The few he found at the bottom of a drawer were too damp and too damaged, and just wouldn't light. So fragile, so ephemeral. He scrounged around, looking, searching, and finally came up with his old flint and steel. He tore a bit of dry cloth from a rag and set to work. One or two strikes later, a fire was merrily crackling in the hearth.
Kenshin smiled ruefully as he straightened up from his precarious crouch in front of the hearth. It had become harder to get down so low, and even more difficult to get back up. The smile turned thoughtful as he looked down at the flint and steel in his hands. He wasn't the sword master he had been, and he'd let the shopping slide and forgot to pick up matches, but he still had the basics. He could still swing a sword, and he could still light a fire. It didn't matter whether the fire was in someone's heart or right here in his kitchen. The result was the same, and it got the job done. He never knew when he'd need it.
