in·sid·i·ous [in-sid-ee-uhs]:
adjective
3. operating or proceeding in an inconspicuous or seemingly harmless way but actually with grave effect
It took seconds. The space of one breath; a swordsman's breath, steady and deep and even. Kenshin hadn't thought it would be so quick—hadn't thought that he was so quick. Kogeshura Ichiro had not even had time to fully draw his sword.
Kenshin looked at the body, the blood, the out-flung hand and the sword that had fallen completely free of its sheath when the body collapsed. At least Kogeshura would appear to have died with his sword in his hand, honor intact. Kenshin's eyes went to the edge of the wound that had claimed the man's life. He couldn't see the full slash, as Kogeshura had fallen face-down, onto the wound. Kenshin supposed that it didn't matter; he'd felt the truth in his stance and his blade's motion, in the impact that had spread up the sword and into his hands. The strike had been perfect. Death had been nearly instantaneous. The wound would be deep and clean; his sword was sharp, the flesh wouldn't have torn and the bones would be neatly cut through.
It was a cleaner death than many Kenshin had witnessed.
He lifted his eyes from the body and tilted his head back slightly, looking at the leaves rustling overhead. The cicadas were buzzing.
"Oi! Boy!"
Kenshin's hand tightened on the hilt of his still-bared blade, and he turned to face the newcomer. Lanky, with dark hair and a thin moustache. "Who are you?"
"I'm Iizuka. I'm your handler," the man said. "From now on, I'll be passing on your assignments. And I'll examine your assassinations, too. Confirm the identity, make sure he's dead, and leave our mark."
Iizuka held up the slip of paper in his hand demonstratively. Written on it in a bold hand were two characters: Ten. Chuu. The Ishin Shishi's 'Wrath of Heaven.' Still cheerful, the man moved past Kenshin and knelt next to the body. Grasping the dead man's hair, Iizuka lifted it so he could see the face.
"This was your first assignment, wasn't it?" Iizuka said to Kenshin conversationally. "Hold it together. There are some that become insane or make themselves sick after their first job."
"I'm fine," Kenshin said. "I'm stronger than I thought."
He didn't feel sick or insane. He just felt… nothing. He watched as Iizuka set Kogeshura's head back on the ground and put the tenchuu card on his back, held down with a small stone.
"Good," Iizuka said, standing. "You need to be accurate, quick, and certain to do this job."
He pulled a stack of rice paper from inside his kimono and handed it to Kenshin. "No point in staying around after the work is done. Clean your sword and let's get the hell out of here."
Kenshin accepted the paper and used it to wipe the blood from his katana. There were tiny flecks on his hands and his sleeves, but otherwise he was unmarked. The dark blue of his kimono made it nearly impossible to see the spots, and he could hide his hands in the folds until he returned to the inn.
He dropped the soiled paper next to the body, and followed Iizuka away.
When they reached the inn, Kenshin dipped out a bucket from the well. Stripping the tekko from his arms, he first scrubbed the blood from his skin and then took a wet cloth to the soft leather of the tekko. The blood hadn't soaked into the hide, so it wouldn't stain too badly, and the leather dye was dark enough that any light surface stains wouldn't be visible.
When he was done with the tekko, he took the wet cloth to his kimono sleeves, and blotted away the few small drops that had landed on them. Then he washed his hands again and dumped the used water and drew more for the kitchens. It was nearing the evening meal and they would need it.
His second assignment also took place in daylight. It was strange; when he had been told he would be an assassin, he had assumed he would be working in darkness. The obscuring shadows of night would hide his work and keep the anonymity the job required.
This assassination, as well as the first, had taken place in a secluded area, it was true, but he was still visible, vulnerable, as he came and went. In the light of day there were more people about, which increased the chances that he would be seen, or the body found prematurely.
Blood was so bright, in the sun.
Iizuka took care of what he needed to, and he and Kenshin made their way back to the inn. There was more blood on Kenshin's hands and clothes, this time, though it was still easily hidden by the color of his kimono and in the shadowed folds of his sleeves. His target had been faster, this time. Rokkunami Shigekure had drawn his sword and started to charge when Kenshin's blade cut him down. And now there was a rust-red blotch on the fleshy part of his thumb, where the man's body had briefly brushed against him on its way down.
The well water was cold against his sun-warmed skin as he washed up. When he was done, he went up to his room, politely declining the offer of tea from Okami. He opened his window and sat down in the frame, propping his sword against his shoulder. The summer sun beat down on Kyoto, the heat wavering in the air. Kenshin felt the light splash across his face and squinted slightly in the brightness.
The street outside his window wasn't particularly busy; only a few pedestrians wandered down it, and a couple children played near the river set low in the middle of the street, tossing rocks into the water between passing boats. The craft were small and agile, even loaded down with the crates and boxes they were shipping up and down the tiny, shallow river. The men piloting them seemed to know every nuance of the water's motion, cleverly plying the long poles they held to propel their boats up- and downstream. They never seemed to struggle to make the boats go where they willed, and there had never been a collision that Kenshin had seen.
His eyes flickered over the heavily-loaded boat currently darting upstream, and then traced over the few people who were strolling along the street up the bank. A housewife in an indigo kimono and severe hairstyle. Two workers carrying hand-carts piled with barrels, strapped down. A petite woman in a warm pink kimono with a flower-yellow obi. Kenshin watched her brightly-colored form walk demurely down the street before she ducked into the potter's shop across the river. Her clothes were too fine to be a servant, so a new wife, then, buying dishware to bring into her new home.
Kenshin's eyes passed over the street again before settling unseeing on the point of a roof one street over. The cicadas were buzzing, underlying the closer sounds of voices down in the kitchen of the inn, two of Kenshin's comrades laughing at each other's jokes in a room down the hall, and the passing drone of a boat polesman singing. In the distance, a crow cawed.
Kenshin let his head dip and shut his eyes, letting the heat of the sun prickle against his scalp. The peace of the moment suffused the room, and Kenshin languidly opened his eyes. Tilting his head back, he went to reach for the top he'd tucked into his kimono, but paused before he'd touched it.
He must not have done a good job washing up; there was a shadow of blood in the grooves of the skin of his hands, still. He'd have to wash them again.
Kenshin stood up to go back down to the well.
Three more assignments passed, two more daytime, and one nighttime. The night assignment marked a change in the way of things.
Humans are sunlight creatures; they associate the darkness of night with fearful things. Monsters, demons, death. Where a man might walk alone and confident in the day, he surrounds himself with others in the night.
Kenshin's night assignment was the first in which his target was not alone. That night, he killed four men without getting a scratch on him, to the surprise of Iizuka. Later, when he was cleaning up in the kitchen with a bucket of water leftover from the dinner preparations, he heard his handler boasting to some of the other men of the feat. Flicking the last of the water from his fingers, he ignored them and went silently to his room.
A couple days later, Katsura called for him, apparently to check up on how his assassin was doing. Kenshin suspected that he received reports on each completed mission, and was somewhat perplexed why he wanted a personal meeting. The feeling didn't go away throughout the whole meeting, as Katsura made the usual polite small talk before asking small, non-probing questions about Kenshin's wellbeing.
"I am fine," Kenshin replied. "I have not been injured, yet."
Katsura's mouth quirked a little at that. "Yes. Half the men do not believe it, and the other half have taken to calling you 'Battousai.'"
It was the first Kenshin had heard of it. He blinked, surprised. "But… I am not even a master of my style…"
"Perhaps not," Katsura said. "But you have successfully completed five missions, resulting in eight deaths, and you don't have a single scratch on you. And a few of the men were with you in the Kiheitai. They've seen you practicing, and are sharing stories with the others."
Kenshin's brow furrowed. Katsura smiled faintly. "It does have a certain appeal to it: Hitokiri Battousai."
"I do not…" Kenshin started.
"An alias does provide some protection," Katsura said calmly, sipping tea. "It may not be a bad thing to hold onto the name."
"…Yes, Katsura-san."
"As for your work," the leader of the Choushuu Ishin Shishi said, setting aside his cup, "there will be no more daytime assignments. Now that you've made your mark, they will be more vigilant. There will be more bodyguards. The relative safety of the night will be necessary from now on."
"I understand."
"Iizuka will not inspect for you tonight." Kenshin looked up at the speaker. The taller, older man looked back; Kenshin could tell he was one of those who believed 'Battousai' was an exaggeration. It didn't matter. "He is in his home province, burying his sister. I and Futaba will inspect instead. You can call me Shou."
"I understand, Shou-san."
"Good."
Kenshin moved silently through the streets, his two temporary handlers shadowing him. The information he had been given along with his target's name had been that the man enjoyed spending his evenings at a specific izakaya. If Kenshin watched the roads leading toward that drinking establishment, then eventually he would find his target. Provided the man was indeed out and drinking that night.
Kenshin paused and listened carefully; it was a still night, with only the faint drone of night insects to combat the hush.
There. A quiet laugh and the scuff of shoes on stone. Kenshin motioned to Shou and Futaba and then edged forward toward the corner of the street they were on. Slowly—for quick movement might draw attention—he looked around the corner.
The group of five men were carrying lanterns. In the dim spheres of their influence, Kenshin could just make out the faces of the men. There. It was the target. Kenshin stepped out, loosening his katana in its sheath.
"Yamada Kyosuke, for the sake of the new era, you must die." Kenshin's voice was quiet, but it cut across the small sounds of the night with an edge lent to it by the weight of the words. The group of five stopped. Kenshin charged.
There were four bodyguards with Yamada; he shouted at them as they shouldered in front, drawing their swords. Kenshin ducked under the first's swing, and his own sword flicked out in a battoujutsu technique. Spinning around the falling body, Kenshin swept the second bodyguard's downward slash to the side before swiftly continuing the motion into a retaliatory blow. The blood trailing from the tip of his katana spattered in a thin line across the nearby wall.
The third bodyguard dodged his first attack, but not the second, and Kenshin put more force behind his blow by bracing a hand against the unsharpened edge of the sword, enabling it to cut all the way through the thick column of the man's spine. Sensing the last bodyguard charging, trying to take advantage of the fact that Kenshin's sword was momentarily caught in the corpse, Kenshin seized the dead man's hand—the sword still grasped tight—and lifted it into a guard. The last bodyguard's blow rebounded, ringingly, off it. Twisting his body, Kenshin kicked the bodyguard's knee out. The man jerked away, cursing.
Kenshin wrenched his sword free, raising it, then swore mentally when shouting from the end of the street heralded another group's arrival. With Yamada shouting back, they were obviously one of Yamada's drinking companions and his own guards. Kenshin glanced at them appraisingly. Four more. He couldn't let any of them get away.
Yamada's last bodyguard died with Kenshin's katana through his throat, and Yamada died still half-turned toward his approaching reinforcements, Kenshin's gore-soaked blade cleaving his body in two.
The four newcomers were making outraged noises, but Kenshin paid little attention to their words. With a short dash, he ran up the wall that enclosed the street, leaping from the top to propel himself high over the group.
He came down, hard, swinging his sword down and using the power of his own falling body behind the blow.
Three left.
He moved, around their swords, under. A thrust turned into a horizontal slash, and a body fell, face a weeping ruin of blood and bone.
Two left.
The softness of the human belly gave no resistance to Kenshin's blade, and a twist and a jerk ensured the wound would be immediately fatal.
One left.
The last man gave a shrill scream of defiance and terror. It cut off with a quiet gurgle, and then the night was still once more.
Kenshin flicked his blade, viscera and some of the blood spattering off in an arc against the ground. He half-turned to survey the wreckage he had left in the street behind him.
Nine men, dead, lay scattered up the length of the street. And at the far end of the street, Shou and Futaba stood unmoving, staring. A whisper from one of them trembled in the air: "Battousai…"
Kenshin bent to the body at his feet and used a fold of the hakama to clean the remaining blood off of his sword. Sheathing it, Kenshin walked back to the two temporary handlers. They were tense as he drew near, the scent of fear lingering around them.
"Please take care of this," he said, as he passed. His right sleeve was nearly saturated with blood, and there were streaks on the paler grey of his hakama. He would have to soak and wash them at least twice to get the stains out. It wasn't particularly late; if he hurried back to the inn, he could take care of it all tonight.
The water ran pink for the first two washings, then clear for the last three, but the kimono was irrevocably stained by the amount of blood that had soaked into it. He would have to get a new one.
The men who had once looked at him with admiration began to watch him with fear and wariness. Those who had scoffed at the title 'Battousai' began to speak the name in a hushed tones.
Over a dozen dead by his hand, and he not with a single drop of his own blood spilled. Went up against nine armed men and cut them down in a scant handful of minutes. Battousai. Manslayer. Demon.
A week passed, and no new assignments came. Kenshin spent the days quietly, often seated in the window of his room. He also went into the city, as there were still a few sections that he was unfamiliar with, a liability he could ill afford. Whenever he did leave the inn, he borrowed a hat from Okami, a wide, flat, woven hat that at least partially hid his hair.
It was occasionally surreal, walking through the city and seeing this street or that bridge in the sunlight, when the last time he'd seen them they had been moon-lit and blood-washed. He could still see the faint shadows of blood left on stone and plaster, see his mark on the city in the fresh coat of white paint on a wall previously stained crimson.
Kenshin walked steadily and quietly, matching the pace of the crowd on busy streets to blend in, slipping down side streets whenever possible to avoid the bustle of Kyoto's people. He kept his head canted slightly down, the brim of the hat obscuring most of his features. There should be no reason that his enemies would recognize him; he had left no survivors at any of his assignments. But he knew that the unusual color of his hair and eyes often turned heads, and wanted no attention on him at all. It was better that way.
The street he was on led to the edge of the city where it butted up against a thick bamboo forest. Craftsmen used the material of the forest in producing many different items, from buckets to shinai to houses. Kenshin used the forest as a place to train. It was a quiet place, and only very rarely did others venture as deep into the stands as Kenshin. He was alone, there.
Kenshin reached the small clearing he'd created in the bamboo and untied the hat from his head. Dropping it to the bare ground, he took a long moment to breathe in the silence.
He had previously done some training in the dojo the other Shishi also used, but he had grown weary of the audience he always seemed to collect when he did. Here in the bamboo forest, he could almost imagine he was back on the mountaintop with his shishou.
Drawing his sword, Kenshin took up the first stance, the simplest. The memory of the old tree trunk he had used on the mountain rose just beyond the steady point of his blade. The dead wood was heavily scarred by hundreds upon hundreds of strikes, the grass around its roots worn away by years of feet shifting through kata.
Kenshin breathed, then struck, and again, and he turned, the tail of his hair flickering around him with his movements. A strike, melding smoothly into a thrust…
The image of the tree wavered, oozing blood from the new illusory cuts struck on it. Kenshin blinked, holding the follow-through a moment longer, then returned to his ready stance and sheathed his sword.
He felt his muscles coil in preparation for the battoujutsu and exhaled to steady himself. He fixed his gaze on the imaginary tree at the center of the clearing and traced the path his sword would take with his eyes. It would start low, from the hip, and curve up, across the chest and through the heart…
The tree was suddenly not a tree anymore, but a man, bleeding and falling as if from the imagined wound, and Kenshin took a sharp breath and struck out. The illusion shattered, and the clearing was empty and quiet but for the slow inhale as Kenshin stared blankly at his sword, almost surprised that the metal was polished bright and clean.
Kenshin sheathed it and stood still a moment, before retrieving his hat and walking from the bamboo stand.
He stopped at a little stream trickling down from the forest and rinsed his hands. It was a warm day and they were a little sticky with sweat. He had nothing to dry them with, so he shook the excess droplets from his fingertips and folded his still-damp hands into the sleeves of his kimono as he walked back through the winding streets.
"I thought I'd find you here," Iizuka said as he sat down beside Kenshin at the small tea shop's bench. Kenshin took another bite of the chicken skewer in his hand, his tea cup sitting next to him on the bench. Iizuka motioned for a cup of tea from the hostess and leaned back on his hands, looking out the open wall of the shop at the busy street just on the other side.
"The leaves are beginning to change color," he observed with a little grin playing on his thin lips. "The women will be changing colors soon, too."
Iizuka spent an inordinate amount of time in the pleasure district and so was more aware than most of the changes the seasons brought to the wardrobes of the courtesans. Kenshin set down the empty skewer and sipped his tea, ignoring the man's sly comments and the leer he gave the hostess when she dropped off his tea.
"Yare, yare," sighed Iizuka, looking at Kenshin's blank face. "Always so serious."
"Was there something you needed, Iizuka-san?" Kenshin asked, not liking his handler's teasing. He felt the man covertly slip an envelope of folded paper into his sleeve, and showed no reaction.
"Just something you need to take care of tonight," Iizuka said, at a quieter volume. He took an impolite gulp of tea.
"I see," Kenshin said, then finished off his own. He stood, flicked his sleeves straight, and ducked under the noren and into the street.
"O-oi!" Iizuka said, startled. Kenshin could hear him scramble to catch up.
Grumbling, the handler fell into step with him. "We should get you a woman; it might improve your attitude."
"My attitude suits my purposes," Kenshin said repressively, trying not to blush. Iizuka gave him a sideways glance and a sly little smile.
"If you say so," he said.
"Was there something else you needed?" Kenshin asked with ill humor. Iizuka pursed his lips.
"No." He continued to walk with Kenshin, who resolved to ignore the older man. Iizuka was crass and disrespectful, but he did his job and had not done anything more destructive than taunt Kenshin a little, so Kenshin had no reason to request a different handler. He was sure Katsura would oblige him if he asked, but it seemed petty and childish to do so without reason.
And Hitokiri Battousai would not bother.
"What lovely… eyes she has," Iizuka mused almost inaudibly beside him. Despite himself, Kenshin glanced in the direction of Iizuka's attention. "Pity about the brat."
The woman in question was a young mother; one glance was enough to know that Iizuka was not admiring her eyes. She was sweet-faced, though—warm and soft like the statue of Kanzeon bodhisattva Kenshin had seen once. He watched her a moment before his attention went to the small child toddling unsteadily a few steps in front of her.
The little boy had clearly not mastered the art of walking; he stomped forward with what were barely-controlled falls more than steps. Kenshin felt the tightness of his brow ease, watching the chubby little arms wave awkwardly for balance.
They were walking towards each other. Kenshin slid his eyes away and hilted his head just so, his hat obscuring his face. His unusual coloring sometimes discomforted people, and he had no wish to see the happy smile erased from either the child or his mother's face.
A loud squeal was his only warning. Kenshin froze, tensing, but the noise wasn't followed by an attack. Instead, Kenshin watched as the little boy suddenly toddled faster, stumbling forward with surprising speed… right toward Kenshin's knees.
He blinked as the child neared him, then stooped quickly when the boy tripped over himself and nearly dove into Kenshin's legs. Catching the boy with one hand, Kenshin looked down at the gleefully chuckling child. Little hands clenched in Kenshin's sleeve, and large brown eyes stared up at him. Kenshin relaxed and smiled, righting the boy. Softly he said: "Careful, now."
The mother rushed up, eyes creasing in fear and concern. She bowed repeatedly, and deeply. "Please forgive me, samurai-san! I should have been paying closer attention to him! I am very sorry!"
Kenshin's heart twisted. If he had been samurai, he would have been within his rights to claim offense at the child's actions. He could have unsheathed his sword and killed the child, or the mother, or both. The woman looked at him and saw only the two swords at his waist; the mark of a killer.
Kenshin straightened, words of reassurance on the tip of his tongue. He released the child, now standing steadily on both legs, and froze halfway through the motion.
Right on the front of the child's clothes, smeared across the chest, was a bloody handprint. Kenshin's bloody handprint.
The breath stilled in his lungs.
"Please, forgive me!" the mother said again, her hands entering Kenshin's field of vision as she grabbed her child and pressed him against her legs, shielding him with her own body. The bloody handprint resolved itself into mere shadows in the folds of the boy's kimono.
Not blood at all. No. His hands were clean; he hadn't had an assignment in days. Kenshin stood all the way, keeping his chin down and the hat between himself and the bowing woman.
"No," he said tersely. "It is no problem."
He turned on his heel and strode quickly away.
"Well," Iizuka said as they ducked down the side street that led to the inn, "What did I say about your attitude? You're even scaring the locals now."
"Iizuka-san," Kenshin said, touching the hilt of his katana. Iizuka's eyebrows rose and his hands lifted.
"Easy, easy. Alright, I get the message." He hung back and said nothing more as they arrived at the inn. Kenshin stiffly walked through the door and barely paused to slip off his sandals before disappearing to the back of building where the kitchen was. Iizuka did not follow.
It was after lunch, and Okami's girls would be washing the cookware. There would probably be some water to spare for Kenshin to wash up.
Kenshin blankly watched the top spin itself slowly across the tatami of his room, the blur slowly resolving itself into bright colors painted onto the wood as it ran out of momentum. The top wobbled and fell, rolling in a fat arc on its side before coming to a rest against Kenshin's foot.
He reached for it, and had started rewinding the string around it when a knock sounded at the door.
"Yes?" he said, tying off the string at the end. The door slid open to reveal one of the maids. She bowed politely.
"Himura-han," she said with the soft Kansai accent common to the area. All the girls who worked at the inn had the same accent, including Okami. It was beginning to sound familiar to Kenshin. "Katsura-han is back. He wishes to speak with you."
"I see," Kenshin said, slipping the top into his kimono. He stood. "Where is he?"
"In the back room, Himura-han." She bowed once more and left, job done. Kenshin slipped out of his room, sliding the door shut behind him. He made his way to the room indicated, and tapped on the wood frame of the door.
"Enter," said Katsura's voice from within. The softly plucked notes of a shamisen filtered through the rice paper as well.
"Excuse me," Kenshin said as he opened the door. Katsura sat reading with and arm rest and a candleholder beside him and a small tray with a sake service upon it in front of him. His consort Ikumatsu played her instrument in the corner.
"Come in, Himura," Katsura said. "Sit."
Kenshin did so, resting his loosely fisted hands on his thighs. Katsura closed the book in his hand and set it aside. "How are you doing?"
"All of my recent assignments have been successful, and I have remained uninjured," Kenshin replied. A strange expression passed over Katsura's face, then was smoothed out.
"Yes, of course," he replied. They paused, the slow, calm melody of the shamisen filling the silence between them. Katsura broke it first. "You have been with us for about half a year now. You have a flawless record and over a hundred kills to your name."
"Yes," Kenshin agreed. Katsura lifted an eyebrow.
"Your alias has gained some notoriety; my sources tell me that the Wolves curse the Battousai. Members of the Bakufu fear your shadow."
Kenshin didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing. Katsura flickered a smile. "And you have impressed Oukubo-san. I believe that deserves some celebration."
Katsura turned toward the sake service and poured a cup. Kenshin nearly refused; living with his shishou, he had learned the taste of sake, and how to drink it. But he had not tasted even a drop of it since leaving the mountain.
Something stilled his tongue, though, and he reached forward obligingly to pour Katsura a cup as well. The sake was heated, to combat the chill in the air. Kenshin could feel the warmth seep into the bones of his fingers as he cradled his cup delicately.
Katsura drank, but Kenshin held his cup still, staring down at the liquor.
Cherry blossoms in the spring, and starry skies in the summer. The autumn brings the full moon. The winter brings the snow. These things make sake taste good.
"Miyabe and Oukubo want to borrow you," Katsura said. Kenshin looked up.
"Borrow?"
"Of course I told them no," Katsura said. He tipped back his sake cup again, draining it. He held onto the empty cup, however, so Kenshin didn't refill it. "Don't look so concerned, Himura. I made a very specific deal with Takasugi when I took you from the Kiheitai. Loaning you out was not part of it."
He placed his cup on the tray, a signal. Kenshin brought his own cup to his lips and drank.
Blood.
He swallowed convulsively.
It tasted of blood, the warmth of it clinging to his lips like blood as well. He swallowed again, wanting to cough but suppressing it.
"When I took you from Takasugi, he made me swear to set aside my sword," Katsura said. Mechanically, Kenshin replaced his empty cup on the tray and then took the flask and refilled Katsura's. He, in turn, refilled Kenshin's. "You became my new sword. A weapon bared for the sake of the common man, for the sake of the revolution. That responsibility is mine, and mine alone; I cannot allow another to wield you. You bear the burden of my purpose, no other."
Ikumatsu gamely strummed on, and Katsura sat back, cup in hand.
"Why are you telling me this?" Kenshin asked.
"Why, indeed?" Katsura said quietly, looking at the sake in his cup. He tipped it back. "If I or one of the others should die, the revolution will likely fail. I am the head of the Choushuu Ishin Shishi. If I fall, the alliance will at the very least weaken. We cannot afford even that. We are already balanced on a knife's edge.
"Himura, if I die, you do not have an obligation to the others. You have a choice. You can choose to continue to fight, or you can chose not to."
Kenshin was silent a moment. "Katsura-san, has something happened…?"
"Not yet," was the reply. Katsura's face in the candlelight was grim. "But this is far from over. The fighting will get worse. We will have more need of your skills soon."
"I see." Kenshin took his cup and drank it.
Blood. Still blood…
Kenshin placed the cup upside down on the tray. He stood. "If that is all?"
Katsura said nothing, and let him go. Kenshin walked around the engawa and then stepped off into the well courtyard.
If you don't like sake, then there is something wrong with you.
He needed to wash his hands.
Author's notes: I've been obsessively watching Samurai X: Trust & Betrayal. Does it show?
There are many fanfics that make use of the 'Lady Macbeth' syndrome ("Will these hands never be clean?") for Kenshin. While I don't think it's something that comes up in the manga, I really liked the subtle hints of it in the OVA and I really do consider it canon. The recurring scene of Kenshin washing himself (usually hands, but there was also the full-body douse after the Kiyosato incident), and the one little line from Iizuka: "You're still cleaning up?" I love the meaning behind it. So I tried to capture that here. I'm sure I'm not as subtle, but that was intentional. You as the readers are supposed to notice it, but Kenshin only slowly does. He makes excuses for it ("my hands are sweaty" "I didn't wash well enough the first time"), but it gets worse the more he kills, and then he realizes it. Hence the title.
I borrowed from the OVA for this, obviously, but I also changed some stuff. Primarily how Kenshin's first job went. The manner of the target's death and his name were fictions made up by me. The scene is different in the OVA.
I don't know if they actually made tekko from leather. The ones depicted in the OVA looked like cloth, but that's just... well, pointless. They wouldn't do anything if they were cloth; in the OVA they aren't used to keep sleeves out of the way, and cloth wouldn't stand up to any hard use at all. And they didn't look like they had plating inside them; they didn't fit like they did. So I made an executive decision and made them soft leather, which just seemed more practical.
Kansai-ben. I made the maid speak in this dialect mostly because in the OVA I'm pretty sure Okami (the inn's proprieteress) spoke with a Kansai accent. Also, Kyoto is in the region where the accent is found. So. Made sense. Also, it is a quirk of the dialect that the honorific 'san' is pronounced 'han.'
It might seem strange to some of you, what Katsura says in the end scene. But it's kind of how I understand him to be. He never forced Kenshin to do anything. He asks if Kenshin can kill with the Hiten Mitsurugi. He asks if Kenshin will be a hitokiri for him. In the OVA, after Tomoe's death he asks if Kenshin is still willing to fight. So he always gives Kenshin a choice. It's just that, once Kenshin makes the choice to fight, Katsura doesn't really shy away from using him. So, with the war ramping up even further, and fully aware that he could die, Katsura reminds Kenshin that if he does die, Kenshin still has a choice.
Anyway. Enough of my babbling. Thanks for reading. Please leave a review; thank you kindly.