The Nature of Strength
By Gabi (pinkfluffynet@yahoo.com)
This story takes place after Crying and before Raindrops and is just a short piece I thought I'd give to you so you wouldn't kill me ^_^ Sorry it's taking so long, but my semester is killing me c_c No time for anything x_x summer's coming soon :D Yay! Hopefully more fanfiction is also coming soon.
The air was bitter cold, but the sleet had changed to heavy rain hours ago. The thunder rumbled high and fierce overhead, and he could feel it, deep in his chest. The last peal had roused him from his half-fitful sleep and he had sat up almost involuntarily, driven to check the state of their camp, to verify that everything was all right.
Blessedly, everything appeared to be. Behind him, Kuri lay cocooned like a fat caterpillar in several blankets with his gi laid carefully over her. He had so bundled her after she had fallen asleep and the sleet and rain set in as he knew that she would not have taken the proffered garment if he had offered it openly. Kuri was odd that way. She guarded his health above her own, even though he was perfectly healthy and what Shishio had called a "strict family upbringing" had made him nearly immune to the effects of the environment on his health. He had slept outside too many times in the rain and snow for it to mean anything to him now.
She made a soft noise and snuggled herself deeper under the covers, and he gently leaned over her and tucked the blankets around her left shoulder in again, as they had come lose with her slight movement. The thunder sounded so closely overhead it was as if God himself were condemning the both of them. Soujiro shook his head slightly, even as he glanced out of the open mouth of the shallow cave they'd camped in. He deserved the condemnation, but the girl asleep beside him had done nothing more to warrant it than keep his company.
His eyes found her again: the gentle curve of her girl-child face, the soft abundance of her dark lacquer-brown hair, and the dark lashes that edged her presently sleeping bottle green eyes. She was beautiful, this child-woman of his, and he knew that he would do anything preserve the soft and unmarred innocence that she held, even if he was defending against himself.
Which he often was, as the longed for the feeling of her softness under his hands, and for the desperate sense of unity the act would give them. But she wasn't ready yet, this partner of his, or perhaps he wasn't really ready for it. He still felt the desperate need to protect her from everything: the raindrops and himself. He wasn't good enough for her, not yet.
The thunder rolled again and he shivered against it, in spite of himself, his back bare to the open mouth of the cave and he turned to stare out at the rain, which was still coming down in curtains, the music of the storm a cacophony of discord echoing the discontent that plagued him whenever the heavy weather set in.
He got up, thrusting his katana through his obi out of habit more than any sense of threat, and walked to the mouth of the cave, moving soundlessly so as not to upset the carefully guarded dreamer. Protecting a one time servant girl from the rain? Perhaps an appropriate occupation for a one time blood-stained assassin. He was still a blood-stained ronin. There was nothing that could wash that blood away, and as he stepped out into that thunderous rain he knew that he didn't want the blood to wash away, for it was his reminder of the path that he would never allow himself to tread again. No matter how many men he might slay in the future, trying to protect the delicate balance he'd built for himself, he would never again kill like a faithful hound, removing whatever obstacle he was pointed at cheerfully. The blood on his hands, on his body, was the map of his soul and he could never let himself forget where he had come from, if only for the woman-girl who trusted herself to him and hung on every word he said.
He looked up at the sky and then was forced to close his eyes as the rain wet his face and pooled around his eyes, reminding him of the terrible baptism he'd had so many years ago, reborn in blood and beholden to the man who would become his mentor. He still could not incontrovertibly say that Shishio was wrong, simply different. At this point, he did ascribe to a philosophy similar to Himura's yet markedly different. Unlike the goodnatured rurouni he knew that there were times when conflicts had to be unalterably resolved with swords. Because of this he still carried a bladed deadly weapon, a killing sword. There were times when it is more prudent to kill than let live, and his responsibility to the woman that slept peaceably in the cave behind him demanded no mistakes and no loose ends. So he killed when he had to and avoided it when he could, but the blood on his sword and the blood on his hands no longer dictated the path that he walked. They were instead occasionally unpleasant side effects and reminders of the path he had once walked.
The nature of Truth? Perhaps he'd found it and it slumbered quietly nearby, but perhaps the nature of Truth was bound up in its very quest, the path he walked and the choices he made. Perhaps to find it you had but to seek it and it was with you always during your search, ephemeral and translucent, yet always the comfort of a weary traveler and the balm of his tired mind.
Truth was many things to many people, but perhaps his was deceptively simple. If Truth were Happiness, then perhaps he'd found it, after nearly carelessly casting it aside a number of times because of the improper label. If Truth were selfless devotion, then perhaps he'd found that as well, to live or die at another's asking. If Truth were peace of mind, then he was still working on that, as it was difficult to find, even with Happiness at your side to assist.
For even as his guide on the path had reintroduced him to his humanity, she had also reintroduced him to what now visited him as guilt, which he had been curiously lacking before.
It was never any specific guilt, although visions of his baptism in the rain always haunted him on nights like this. Instead the guilt was more transcendental, washing over him like a slow tide and forever reminding him of the ocean of blood. And perhaps this was the reason he'd never taken her as he wanted to. He still felt washed in the blood and unclean. He would not be a blood red defiler of pure white. The greatest demon he defended her from was himself. When they did finally consummate their relationship it would be after he came to terms with the rhythmic roll of guilt that matched his heartbeat on nights when the wind howled and he was left alone to guard against his greatest faults. You can't make love to the woman you adore until you've discovered the meaning of Truth and unlocked your transcendental guilt. He may have criticized Himura as being a stern taskmaster once upon a time, but he found in himself a stricter slave driver than the red-haired rurouni had ever been.
He felt so alone, drowned in the rain and in his hopelessness. He could not, would not allow himself to go home to her until he had unraveled the mystery of himself. When he settled with his own demons, then they could truly walk the path together, but as of now, he was reverently following her as she tentatively lead the way.
As the rain came down, mindlessly attempting to wash away sins that did not want to be expunged, he could not help but letting a few tears join them. It was the first he'd cried since he'd met himself in the shadow of the rice warehouse where he'd spent his early boyhood. He could never cry in front of her, expose his weakness, his frustrations. As much as she was his guide, he was her steadiness and he refused to let her see him weak. But no one could tell the tears from the rain here, so a few shed in a moment of self-indulgence would do nothing more than remind him later of his latent self-pity, which also needed to be curbed, he knew, before he could make any real progress against himself.
As he wrestled his unnamed angel in this field of self-doubt, an arm came steadingly and gently around his waist and the sleeper, now awake, pulled him softly backward, to lean against her. She lay her head between his shoulder blades and then spoke quietly.
"Soujiro, it's terrible out here. You should come inside."
He relaxed against her and grunted something noncommittal because he found her presence comforting, even if he wouldn't allow himself to indulge in it. She was out in the pouring rain with him, and this was oddly appropriate.
A silence prevailed for some minutes with only the rain and their heartbeats to mark that time was passing at all. Finally, Kuri could not maintain the overhanging silence and she laughed softly and easily.
"Soujiro no baka," she loosed one hand from around his waist and then let it fall to rest on the hilt of his katana, "We're walking the path together. I'm willing to wait until you realize that, you great big idiot, and help you as much as I can along the way."
One of his hands dropped to cover hers on the katana.
"Now I'm willing to stand out here and contemplate the nature of the universe or whatever it is you're out here moping about as long as you want because it's important to remember, since you seem to be so fond of forgetting it, anyway, it's important to remember that you're not alone and you'll never be alone again, so long as I'm alive, even if we're apart. You can't get rid of me now, Seta Soujiro, so you have better get used to it."
She giggled softly and then squeezed him around the middle and would have probably attempted to poke him in ticklish spots to illicit a response had she not already known that he was virtually immune to that ever-so-useful method of coercion.
He was silent again for a steady spell and she wondered if perhaps she had judged the situation incorrectly and had made it worse than it already was. Then he quietly covered her other hand with his own and squeezed it back, responding softly, gently, "I'm glad you're here with me."
She nodded and he could feel it against his bare back, could feel her wet hair and the press of her cheek and the reassuring beat of her heart as he leaned against her, "I'll never be anywhere else, I promise."
He laughed quietly, that laugh he reserved only for her, and she knew it was genuine, as he answered in turn, "I'll hold you to that."
And as the rain came down in heavy sheets, two stood in it, not mindful of the cold nor the wash of guilt which seemed to have ebbed, if only for a moment, because they stood together.