If you haven't seen Trust and Betrayal, you might want to watch it before you read this. You will find modified portions of that movie and manga vols. 20 & 21 in this chapter.

And be aware this gets kind-of gory. Not hugely…I had to stop watching CSI 'cause it got to be a bit much for me.

Disclaimer: Kenshin is not mine, nor Shishou, slavers, bandits, Akane, Sakura, Kasumi, Tomoe. No profit made, nor sought. It all goes to Watsuki and multiple corporations.

New words: Shishou—older-style version of 'master'

jorou-ya—brothel(s)

sakabatou—who could know Kenshin and not know this? Reverse-blade sword

okāsan—mother

tanto—long knife, dagger

ri—2.4 miles

Tsutzumi—a drum, here used as one of the names for Orion

Yowatashi boshi—"passing the night stars": basically, the constellations

imōto—little sister

Ohayō gozaimasu—good morning

seiza –formal kneeling posture

saya—sheath

tsuka—hilt

kashiragane—end cap of the hilt where we'd have a pommel

mune—blunt spine of the sword

kuiaratame—repentance

yama—mountain

gawa--river

torii—shrine gate

Ah and Un— (not sure of spelling) the pair of beasts (dogs?) often seen at the front of shrines: they are believed to eat evil so that it cannot enter. (if I have any part of this wrong, someone more familiar with this than I, please correct me)

Stuff in Italics are Kenshin's thoughts. Still no paragraph indentations, sigh…

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Ichirizuka

Ch. 2 Atago-yama

The farms were behind him and the long grass flowed before him to the trees at the foot of the mountains. This was an area of temples and shrines. Once the temples had been palaces, but as the rulers died, they had been left to holy men in hopes that the gift would grant the former owners favor in the next life. Kenshin had seldom gone to Kyōto with his master, but Matsunō Taisha had been a frequent destination. It would require a brief detour now, but he needed some of the shrine's water.

He passed Koryu-ji. The abundant maple and cherry trees that drew so many admirers to the area in the spring and fall were now skeletal. Kenshin was possessed of an odd notion as he passed them by: their empty branches looked so like roots…perhaps top and bottom had reversed, and somewhere underground were leaves and blossoms… The sound of his zori was a soft shuffle as he crossed wooden Togetsu over the strongly flowing Katsura-gawa. The water ran high and looked frigid.

The small booths put up by sake makers clustered at a respectful distance outside the shrine. This was the shrine at which those men worshiped, thanking the resident gods for the water that made their product so desirable. Those booths were also the main reason for Shishou's and his trips to the spot, though Shishou always made a token visit to the shrine.

Kenshin passed beneath the torii, and between Ah and Un, who stood still and let him pass. He did not go to the grand shrine, but one of the lesser houses, to clang the bell and clap and bow and clap again. "To get the god's attention," his mother had told him long ago. He was not sure the gods ever paid attention, but this was the pattern he had been raised in, and he was still respectful.

Duty fulfilled, he followed the trail, lush with bushes still green, that led to the sacred spring. Out of the sun, under the pines and cedars, it was chill and dim, and the clear water was dark with the color of the rock beneath it. At the fount, he picked up the ladle and took a sip before he carefully dipped some of the holy water into his bamboo container.

He was soon back on the road, retracing his route over Togetsu, but this time passing to the west of Seiro-ji and crossing the Kiyotaki. The trail ascended to Adashino and its tiers of countless gray buddhas. This temple gave burial to the unclaimed dead. Perhaps, if he had died with the rest of the slaves, he would have ended there, watching the valley beneath for all time. There were worse things…

But he passed Adashino by, and continued a little further to where the trail forked. If he continued on, the road would climb to the pass and Kiyotaki village, where they had often purchased supplies. He would take the left-hand fork today. It would take him around Ogurayama, to the bottom of Atago-yama and the Hozu-gawa. The mountains looked as though they were molting: vast patches of barren trees standing sere against the evergreens, waiting for their new growth.

The road wound around the base of Atago-yama. After nearly five years, the twists and turns were still familiar to him. The place he sought came after the road had climbed away from the river, looping into a small valley that carved a deep groove into the side of the mountain before it dipped down again to a lower level. There was a point at each side of the valley where the loop disappeared, giving the illusion of being able to see the whole road: it had been a good spot for the attack. As a boy, he'd just considered it happenstance, or karma, that the slavers had been taking them on this road. Now that he was looking at it with the eyes of someone who had himself lain in wait, it bothered him. Why had they been on this road? There were better, safer, ways to get to Kyōto from Chōshū. And on such a lightly traveled road, what kind of prey had the bandits—if that was what they were—expected to find? He was no longer sure of what they'd been. If they were looking for money, why kill all the slaves, rather than taking them and selling them themselves? He would never know the answer: there was no one living to ask.

Kenshin veered off the road, walking a short distance under leafless trees towards the stand of old pines and the clearing it surrounded. The afternoon sun was still high enough to shine down into the maze of crosses and warm the air. It was nearly as he remembered it, though many of the crosses had fallen over. He slung his pack off his back and set it down under one of the trees along with the water and then began to pick up the fallen crosses and drive them once more into the soft ground with all the force of his arms. On the brief occasions that he had stopped here on his way home from Kiyotaki with Shishou it had surprised him, a little, that the graves had never appeared to be disturbed. Though at nine he was strong for his size from planting, hoeing, and scything, the graves had been shallow: it would have been easy for an animal to dig up the bodies. He was grateful that he had never found it so.

The three rocks that he had found and placed with such care still stood together, as the three women had stood to protect him. He retrieved the water from where he had left it and returned to the rocks.

"Kasumi, Sakura, Akane. I have no flowers this time, either. But I have brought water from a holy spring…,"

He opened the container and watched as the water flowed out and down over the grooves in the rocks, making trails of darker color before it puddled and soaked into the ground beneath. "Know that I still remember you and your sacrifice. I hope that wherever you are, your life is good."

He knelt before the stones and thought of the women. All of the women—there had been 11 in all, ranging from early teens to thirties—had been kind to him, but these three had taken him to their hearts and treated him as though he were one of their own: a little brother, perhaps. His young heart, still raw from having lost his family only a few months before, opened to them in gratitude for their affection. To lose them so quickly, and in such a way…He would have died to protect them, but they would not let him. Instead, all he could do was bury them and the others, dry-eyed.

And follow Shishou, to make sure he would never be helpless again. But of course, he had been. His family…the three 'sisters'…Tomoe: he'd never been able to protect anyone he loved.

The sun was disappearing from the valley, obscured by the height of the mountain, and the shadows were creeping along the ground towards him. To his left, he could see a portion of the sky glowing orange. It was at this time that Shishou had unexpectedly reappeared through the trees to speak, not unkindly, of grief and duty, and lead him away to another life, here on the mountain.

Kenshin rose and began to gather sticks: though the sun would continue to shine for another hour along the river gorge, night was almost upon him here. His mood had darkened also, and he did not feel like traveling any further. So, after starting a small fire, he pushed the fallen leaves into a pile and spread his extra blanket over them, pulling it up and around him as he sat, the sakabatou next to him. For dinner, he chewed on a piece of the dried fish and drank the little bit of water that he had left in the bottle: tomorrow he would have to refill it from one of the many creeks that ran into the Hozu.

The daytime sounds had hushed and the night noises were emerging. He could hear the river's rush more clearly on the night air, and the distant yip of a fox. He leaned his head back against the tree, looking up through the empty branches to watch for the moon, his hand reaching out by habit to rest on the sword. The unfamiliar feel of it caught his attention, but there was nothing he would do about it right then, so he went back to waiting for the moon, his thoughts wandering down well-worn paths.

If he had died here, it would have been a good thing in so many ways: no guilt for killing so many on the decision of others, no guilt for Kiyosato and Tomoe. No guilt for having survived the attack when everyone else—even the bandits—died. … No guilt for being grateful that the slavers had not reached Kyōto with their human wares.

While he lived with Shishou, he often dreamed of the horrible massacre he had witnessed, and thought about his days traveling as a slave. He had always just accepted that he was the only boy in the group, the only child. Even when he overheard the plans to sell the slaves to teahouses, he had thought nothing of it. Teahouses were where you drank tea, right? Perhaps he would work in the kitchen while his new friends served tea…

But later, he had lived with the men at the Kohagi-ya and listened, unnoticed, to their talk of teahouses and jorou-ya. And gone with Katsura as he visited Ikumatsu at the Yoshida-ya where she gathered information as she entertained. And he remembered all the comments he endured about his slenderness and feminine features, and some of the veiled suggestions when he was with the Kiheitai, and knew why he had been purchased along with the women…With the realization had come a fierce satisfaction that the slavers had died, only to be followed by confusion and guilt that he should be pleased with any part of the slaughter. Much easier if he had died…

The edge of the moon peered over the mountainside, looking for him. They had shared so many longs nights; this would be one more. As it climbed higher, he let the fire die down. He woke often enough at night to keep it from going out altogether. Picking up the sakabatou, he brought it under the blanket, out of the damp, and settled it on his shoulder. Leaving the moon to watch, he consciously relaxed against the tree and closed his eyes…

Kasumi is so tall! And pretty! Okāsan was a lot shorter and she looked tired. But I miss her…No! I won't think of that. I wonder if we'll get any fish with our rice tonight? I hope we stop soon. They were so close to Kyōto now that they were traveling late, taking advantage of the bright light of the full moon. Shinta looked up at the young woman who had watched over him the past three days. He'd been traveling with the slavers since they'd left Chōshū weeks ago, but three days past, Kasumi—along with two sisters, Akane and Sakura—had been bought. They were really nice. They'd tried to give him part of their food, telling him he needed it to grow. He knew he was little: back in his village, there were five year olds bigger than him. Imōto had been bigger than he was! But he just smiled and told them he was short like Okāsan.

Kasumi opened her mouth to say something to him, but her eyes grew wide with fear as the others around them began to shout and scream. She grabbed his hand and began to run, hampered by her kimono. He glanced back, and saw the bloody tip of a sword sprout from the chest of one of the slavers before a fleeing woman blocked the horror from sight, only to fall by the edge of the road herself, impaled by a spear. It was so unexpected, so unreal in its unnatural color, that he could only stare as he stumbled along with Kasumi. Everything seemed to slow, to grow crystalline in clarity, as he watched slashed throats spurting black blood; women he had sung with, eaten with, falling to the ground that quickly ran black. A spreading stain on the dark road…He was not even aware that he was still running, that Akane and Sakura had joined them. Sakura took his other hand to help pull him along, while Akane, noting his backward stare and glazed expression, dropped slightly behind to prevent him from seeing any more.

Kasumi had found a clump of leafy bushes beneath some pines and the three women huddled there with him, still as rabbits. The dark colors of the women's clothes might have saved them if one of the slavers had not run their way in an effort to escape his fate. But the armored robber cut him down with little effort, cleaving his chest open and spattering them with blood where they hid. Shinta could feel the women trembling with fear and the effort to remain unseen. The victim had fallen too close to their shelter, and Shinta could tell when the bandit noticed them…

He darted out and snatched up the sword that the slaver had not used, steadying it as best he could while panting with fury. I can't…I can't let…so heavy!...They can't die! I won't let them die! Before he could swing at the looming dark figures, he was jerked backwards as Akane ran forward, pleading for their lives. Her words were silenced forever with a vicious blow, and she fell to lie still, staring sightlessly at the white moon. Sakura started up in anguish, crying, "Oh, my dear sister!" only to be sliced through as she ran towards Akane. She sank to her knees slowly, gently, like a petal, and her breath sighed out as she crumpled. Her hand feebly groped towards her sister until it, too, became motionless.

Shinta had seen it all. Kasumi had thrust him flat, leaning over him till their faces nearly touched. But he could still see past her and feel Sakura's blood strike him in the face like heavy rain. Kasumi was speaking to him; he was aware of her mouth moving, but only caught fragments, "listen…" This can't be happening! "must live…"

Akane! Sakura! Suddenly he felt her weight jerked off him as she was lifted by the hair and the gory sword was thrust through her throat. Her hands clutched at it as though to pull it out, but when it was yanked out, shredding her palms, she dropped to the ground. Even then, she twisted her head to look at him. This time he clearly heard what she said in a gasping, gurgling voice before the blade plunged into her heart. "Live! Live for me…Never give up…"

Kasumi!... They've killed them!...They can't be allowed to hurt anyone else! Kenshin rolled towards the sword that had fallen as he was grabbed. He came to his knees before the bandit leader, lifting it menacingly, surprised at its lightness. The man backed away, unnerved by the way the moon, reflecting in the young man's eyes, gave them a demonic glow. Before he could take another step, Kenshin launched himself silently. The blade caught the light and gleamed just before it buried itself up and under the man's chin and into his skull. He was dead immediately, and as he fell, Kenshin twisted the end out and without conscious thought jumped over the body, moving swiftly and quietly towards the remaining three. They began to spread out to give room for their swing, but he was upon them too quickly: lunging forward at an angle, he spun, his blade tracing an arc through the air, severing their heads. And all was still.

Kenshin looked up when he became aware of the crunch of footsteps. The features were indistinct with the moon behind, but the size…and the cape--"Shishou?" he called out in relief. There was no reply, but as the figure came closer, he could see that it was indeed his master. There was no recognition in his face, however, only a stern impassivity.

"Murderer."

Kenshin's eyes widened with shock. He lowered the bloody sword that he still clutched in his hand and tried to explain…

"But, Shishou, I was onl-"

"You will not live long enough to offer excuses," the cold voice answered, and to Kenshin's horror, his master raised his katana to strike. Ryū Sou Sen Garami! Kenshin blocked the strikes, but staggered backwards from the force of the blows.

"Shishou, they were evil men. They killed all these people! They would have killed me!" he cried. It was as if he had said nothing.

"You have killed them all. I see their blood on you." His master advanced once again and Kenshin could tell by the tensing of the man's legs that he was about to spring: Ryū Tsui Sen! He tried to side-step as he raised the sword above his head, but Shishou was descending too swiftly: all he could do was drop to one knee as the katana met his blade to try and absorb the impact. He was smashed onto the ground and lay gasping, tears in his eyes from effort and frustration.

"Shishou! It's me! It's Kenshin! I'm your pupil!" The dark silhouette loomed above him, edged with the moon's glow. The eyes looked at him with no pity, with disgust. The arm drew back the katana for a final thrust.

"I have no pupil."

His eyes flew open as he shuddered and gasped from the subconscious need to stay silent, even in distress. His chest ached from the effort to restrain his sobs, and he arched back against the tree and ground the heels of his hands into his wet eyes to try and dull the anguish that lingered. The sakabatou slid from his lap as he drew his knees up and hid his face within his arms, working his way through the haze of nightmare into reality. He felt fragile and tattered, but eventually raised his head to look across the clearing at the gathering of crosses and their moonlight shadows. Standing, he drifted through them, reaching out to touch one, then another, reassuring himself of the truth of that night.

Shishou had slain the robbers, had told him to be grateful for his life, and then had left. All that night and the next day he had labored to bury the dead. There had been a small spade in the supplies in case the carts got stuck, or for digging pits for toilets. Without it, he would never have finished. As it was, his hands were raw from the handle when he was done. It was as he was dragging the first-killed bodies from the road that he found his top, dropped and forgotten. Wiping his hands, he picked it up and studied it carefully--as though it held all the answers—before tucking it into his kimono. When Shishou had returned the next evening, he had been just sitting, his mind blank from exhaustion.

He felt exhausted now. Wandering back to his tree, he saw that he needed to build up the fire. Picking up the sakabatou, he thrust it through his ties and began to gather more wood; there was no telling if he would be able to sleep again.

He gathered more than he truly needed, keeping busy to work loose the muscles knotted by the tension of his dream. When he finally sat down again, he pulled his tanto out of his bundle. Drawing one of the larger sticks of wood from his pile, he began to shave off curls. He stirred the coals and threw some in to make the fire flare up, and then fed in some more tinder, and then some kindling. Once he was satisfied with how it burned, he sat back and watched the flames, but soon became restless. He needed something to do…

He picked up the stick and tanto once more, and began shaving more curls. He experimented with how wide he could make them, how thin, how long, until he'd peeled it clean. He picked up another and stripped it of its thin bark, too. He realized, without too much surprise, that somewhere in the process it had ceased being busy-work and become a directed effort. He was making another cross. His own.

Shinta was buried here. The body had lived, as Kasumi willed, but the young boy willing to trust everyone, love everyone? He'd buried him as he'd buried the dead, good and evil. Even the name had been left behind as he walked away with his new master. And the young Kenshin? He'd died, too, in Kyōto, with his belief that everything was black and white and clear to see. It was fitting that they should have a marker here on the mountain that had played such a role in their lives. Battōsai? Hitokiri Battōsai had never been a person. He was a construct, a golem built of guilt and horror, who had no thoughts, no hopes, no past, no future. What good were such things when his whole life was centered on death? This new self emerging from the safety of that shell was still nebulous, just forming. He did not yet know what he was.

After he'd bound it with a piece of the rope in his bundle, he rose and carried the marker over to a spot near the three stones. Kenshin held it in his hands a moment more, studying it. He'd been so young, so foolish! Shinta and that Kenshin almost seemed entirely separate from him: as though they were people he'd only known for a while. And yet, he missed them, and knew that part of him was lacking…the joy in simple things, an openness. He remembered telling Tomoe that he had begun to find those things with her. But that was long ago. Perhaps now he'd find those things again. He hoped so.

He planted the cross in the ground. It looked so bare…and he had no more water, no sake. They had been good people, if young. Tomoe had never known Shinta, but she had caught brief glimpses of the young Kenshin. She would have liked both of them, I think. She watched over me in those first weeks…maybe she'll watch over them. With that thought, impulse drove him back to his belongings to gather up her scarf and return to drape it over the cross. As he looked at it, he felt calmer and more settled than he had since he'd approached this place that afternoon. This, then, was why he had come.

It was much darker now: the moon had traversed the arc of sky above the valley and disappeared. His only light was the fire. But the demons had been laid to rest for the night, and perhaps he could rest as well. Kenshin went back to his blanket, nestled the sakabatou into his shoulder, gave a deep sigh, and fell asleep.

The cold finally forced him to move. He'd roused several times, as usual. Long enough to put some wood on the fire and make sure all was well before sliding back into a doze. But now, his cocoon of a blanket was not sufficient; even sitting so close to the fire, the back and shoulders of the blanket were wet with dew and ground-chill was creeping through the pile of leaves underneath it. He built the fire higher, a few hisses and pops from the moisture on the wood. The warmth felt good and would soon dry him out. He moved his bundle closer to the fire so it, too, would dry.

The sky was still dark. He got up, carrying the sakabatou, and moved to where the light of the fire would not affect his sight. He looked south, towards the mouth of the valley and the stars he could see. Tsutzumi, the drum, was sitting on top of the mountain across the river, so it was probably near the end of the hour of the Tiger. It was still a while before the sky would begin to lighten. With the moon behind the mountain, the road would be very dark until he reached the end of the loop and was back in the river gorge. But he might try it, just the same: his night vision was good, he was wide awake, and he had no water with which to make his morning rice.

He went back to the fire and rooted through his bundle to find the daikon. He sliced off a chunk and chewed it, standing, as he and the blanket dried. I'll probably have to wear my boots for at least a while; once I leave the fire, my feet will freeze if I don't. Yesterday's warmth melted most of the snow, but higher up there'll still be patches. When he was done, he crouched down and pulled out the boots and his hanten and put them on. Then repacked everything carefully, including the now-dry blanket, and rolled it up. Tying the ends of the roll together, he picked it up and slung it over his head and shoulder, settling it comfortably.

The fire still needed to be dealt with, so he scooped up dirt from where he crouched and piled it on the fire before he spread it out with a stick. He waited a bit, then piled and stirred some more. When he thought that it was cool enough that the dawn's mist from the river would finish the job, he stood and gathered the sakabatou from where it leaned against the tree, sliding it through his ties. As Kenshin left the clearing, he bowed to his dead, bidding them farewell. Once in the midst of the pines, he stood a moment to let his eyes finish adjusting. He used the time to retie the cloth around his head. There was only the starshine to light his way and he stepped carefully until he came to the relative smoothness of the road. Then he walked more briskly; the stream he remembered was only about half a ri away.

Kenshin had startled several deer at the stream, sending them bounding off. The water had been ice cold, of course, and he had drunk his fill before filling the container. Now, as he strode along, the moon setting before him was wrapped in a thin veil of cloud, diffusing the glow as though it were in a paper lantern. Behind him, pale streaks of color were forming. Below was the river, a constant rumble overlaid with the occasional chirp of a waking bird. It formed a subliminal background for his continuing discussion …

Shishou may not even be there. He said that he had moved around a lot before he took me in. I never saw any of his calligraphy for sale in Kyōto…Maybe he is there. I could go see him…Maybe he is there, and he just doesn't want to see me! If he'd heard any rumors, he could have figured out where I was….

He was irritated with himself for not being able to make up his mind. He had to decide soon, for the path that led upwards toward the small house where he had lived with his master was not far ahead. There was a very definite possibility that he was no longer there. The Revolution was already in motion the year he joined Shishou; his master had watched the progress each year with his characteristic fatalism, while Kenshin, on the rare occasion that he went into Kyōto with Shishou, watched and listened, and judged. By the time they parted ways, Shishou had been mentioning the possibility of them moving on for a couple of months and had been finishing up several commissions.

Dawn was breaking: the sun's golden glare was shredding the mist that had spread from the river, and its warmth had felt good on his back until the road curved with the folds of the mountainside. He would cross another stream-- the one fed by their waterfall-- and the path would be there, climbing in looping curves till it reached their small valley. He longed to go back…to his lessons, his chores, the evenings when Shishou would just talk to him… Their relationship had been stormy in the beginning. Shishou's taunts and demands had often led to confrontations, until Kenshin had finally realized that the purpose behind them was to force him to learn self-control. After that, 'baka deshi' had become almost a joke between them. Until they began to argue over the Revolution and 'baka deshi' held a sting once more.

When I wanted to leave, I was angry that he denied me a sword. I was hurt that he would not approve my actions. I was sure that he was not trying to understand. That I was right and the world could be changed all at once, not just one problem at a time, as he believed. In my arrogance and stubbornness, I didn't even realize that he was opening his past—his pain-- to me so that I would understand!

He saw so clearly what I would become…

Trying to clear my conscience by telling them I had no personal feelings against them before I cut them down!

Baka! Feeling justified when they ranted or threatened or tried to bribe me before I attacked…Ahou! But once they spoke of families and hopes, as Kiyosato did, I could no longer take a chance that they would become more to me than a name in an envelope. I cut them down before they could make a noise, trying to keep them from becoming real. I truly was a murderer…and he had seen it.

And that thought ended his ambivalence. He would be ashamed to see his teacher now, having parted in such a fashion. Full of pride, unwilling to listen, disrespectful of his master, abandoning his commitment to the ryū. But more than the shame, fear would keep him from seeking his master out. Fear that, just as in his dream, Shishou would look at him with disgust and speak the word: "Murderer."

When he came to the path, Kenshin kept his head down and walked past. He had known what he would face when he had chosen his route, but it was even more harrowing than he had feared.

''''''''''''''''''''''''

Not quite a ri past the path to Shishou, Kenshin had turned off the road onto another trail. Before he left this area, he needed to accustom himself to the sakabatou and learn its ways. Since he had been unwilling to face Shishou, he hoped the hermit would let him share his house for a few days in return for chopping wood and hauling water. But then, the man had been so old when Kenshin had met him while roaming the mountain paths that there was a strong likelihood that the house would be empty.

There was a screech above him, and Kenshin stepped back smoothly, hand going to hilt as he looked up. The whole tree began to shake with screams and movement as a troop of snow monkeys swarmed up the branches, voicing their protest. I forgot that this was part of their territory…He relaxed and moved ahead quickly, followed by a hail of thrown twigs. This trail was much steeper than the one to Shishou's: he could feel a pull in his calves. Kyōto had foothills, but most of the city was level. And he hadn't needed to use Hiten Mitsurugi ryū for quite some time. His legs were telling him that he better practice more on his jumps. It would be easier here than it had been trying to find time and space in the city.

As he climbed higher, he saw more patches of snow under the pines. Only the ones in the deep shade were still mounded and white; because of yesterday's warmth, most looked like ivory pumice, riddled with holes and pockets. As the water leeched out, it had turned the path to mud. It was slow and dirty progress. The boots were going to have to be cleaned again…

He was beginning to doubt his memory of the path, when he saw that it began to level out. Nearly there…The trail kinked one more time, and then the trees thinned. Ahead of him, a narrow log bridge crossed a rushing stream, swollen with snowmelt, and a couple of small buildings faced him across open space with the rest of the mountain looming above. Despite the welcome sun pouring into the clearing, tempting anyone to emerge from the confines of the house into the promising morning, there was no sound, no movement.

"Ohayō gozaimasu! Is there anyone here?" Kenshin called out. He heard the crash of brush, but it was only a single deer fleeing the intrusion. Crossing to the house, he repeated loudly, "Ohayō!" Nothing. Now he could see that the door was open ever so slightly, so he climbed the stone steps and pushed it back. Empty. Now what shall I do? I can stay perhaps two days with the food I have. It will take me about half a day, at least, to get to the next village. Maybe less if I go down to the river and follow its edge instead of the trails. But if the river's running high, there might not be enough of an edge…

As he puzzled over his possible choices, he prowled the area. Had the old man died? Or had someone come to get him? If he had died, who had known to come get the body and his belongings? At a sunny corner of the house, he made a pleasant discovery: the remains of a garden. He recognized coltsfoot and onions. With any luck, if he dug, he might find some yams still in the ground. Perhaps he would be able to stay here… He crossed to the other small building, a storage shed. When he opened the door, he sent up a prayer of thanks to any god listening: within the shed, neatly arranged, were buckets, a wooden tub, a shovel and ax, even a chest that might hold extra clothing or bedding. A blessing, indeed! The old man must have gone down the mountain by himself, unable to take anything but the necessities.

Now that his problem was settled, he would pause to eat and then begin to set up his temporary household.

'''''''''''''''''

That evening, Kenshin was remarkably comfortable. The chest had surrendered two more blankets, a summer kimono, and a shower of moth larvae. The blankets had holes, but were still usable. The kimono was stained and old and he had torn it to pieces to use cleaning the house. The buckets were sound, and he now had water for washing and drinking. Some had gone into one of the two small pots he had brought, along with a piece of the dried fish and some of the onions, and was now simmering over the fire pit. He had seen some chickens at the edge of the trees, but they had been loose long enough not to trust him. Still, if he watched carefully, he would find their nests and maybe some eggs.

He leaned against one of the posts of the overhang. It was dark: the moon was rising later, and would be lopsided tonight. Right now there were just the stars. As he watched them, they were occasionally obscured by the dark silhouettes of hunting bats. The sound of the stream lulled him, and the occasional squeak or sleepy chirp from the forest only emphasized the peace of the night. It was tempting to just stay where he was all night, watching the yowatashi boshi make their slow spin around the sky.

But he couldn't let his soup boil dry, so he reached for the ever-present weapon at his side, and stood to go in.

The broth was warm and savory and welcome, though he'd had to set it outside briefly to cool as he washed his hands and face. As he sat and carefully drank from the one bowl he had packed, he stared at the changing shadows on the wall. In basic structure, this was much like the house he had shared with Shishou; sometimes that one had felt crowded with the two of them living in a space meant for one. But they had been remarkably complimentary: Shishou was artistic and Kenshin appreciative, though more physical in his nature; when they were in public, Shishou enjoyed drawing notice with flamboyant behavior, while Kenshin disliked the fact that he so often attracted attention because of his odd appearance and was glad of the distraction his master created. And Shishou liked to talk, while he…

He rinsed his bowl and picked up his blankets and sword and went back out onto the engawa. He wrapped himself up and dropped back down against the post, looking east. Who does he have to listen to him now? Is there a new boy hearing of the discipline and understanding that can be found in the stroke of a brush? Watching the stars with him and learning their stories? Looking forward to the day when he will be man enough to drink sake with his shishou? Or is the house empty and echoing? He felt a deep sadness. Which was worse? To think that another had taken his place? Or to surrender his one fixed point—and acknowledge that the time might never come when he would return to the man who had been father and brother to him, because he would not know how to find him.

Kenshin stayed out for a long time, watching the moon rise and the stars turn. Life was so short, but the stars were eternal. His family was gone; now his friends were behind him; he would die too, sometime. But the stars would be there… He finally went in as the night was waning. He was tired enough that perhaps there would be no dreams.

And indeed, when he woke the next morning, there were no lingering visions, though a slight constriction in his chest suggested that perhaps they were only forgotten. He folded his blankets and began the morning ritual of stirring the fire and starting the rice. Sliding open the door, he decided that there was enough light that he might be able to find the chickens, even among the trees.

After checking under the buildings, he widened his search, eventually finding both chicken and nest under a clump of bushes. He returned to the house with two eggs and multiple wounds on his hands and arms. The battle had been hard fought: the hen refused to be scared off and defended her nest with all the valor and fury of one of the Shinsengumi. Her beak was a weapon to be respected, and her wings had landed several heavy blows. But the eggs, poached and eaten with his rice, were well worth the fight.

The morning was as full of sound as the night had been quiet. As Kenshin knelt in the streaming sunshine coming through the doorway, he could hear the carrying shrieks of the monkeys down the hillside as well as the innumerable birds. He was focused on scrubbing the rice pot, but movement at the edge of his vision caught his attention and he turned his head quickly enough to catch sight of a cat as it ran across the yard and vanished into the trees. That explained why there'd been no signs of mice in the buildings. When all was clean and put away, he began to work on himself, stripping down and bathing as best he could using two buckets of tepid water. He stood at the corner of the engawa and poured a small portion of one over himself before soaping—wincing at the chill--and using all the rest to rinse off. He used a blanket to dry himself briskly and then wrapped it around himself to sit in the sun and comb out his hair. After tying it back—remembering to leave it low—, Kenshin went inside and got dressed.

Now that all his preparations had been made, he sat in seiza facing the open doorway, the sun just high enough that he did not need to narrow his eyes. The sakabatou lay across his thighs in its saya. Carefully he placed it before him on the floor, tsuka to the right, and bowed to it in formal greeting. Since the one time he had drawn it on the day that Arai-sensei had tossed it to him, it had remained sheathed. Indeed, he had avoided even touching the tsuka. But now he picked it up with both hands and slowly drew it forth from the saya, which he set to his left. He held the sword before him and studied it. It was slightly heavier than his katana had been, a little longer in the blade. The handle was just a little longer, too, judging by the distance between his hand and the kashiragane. Arai-sensei had made this with a somewhat taller man in mind, but it had not seemed awkward as he carried it. The mune was minimally thicker than normal, probably because now it was on the leading, striking edge and needed to be reinforced. In its oddity, it was still a beautiful piece of work

The grip in his hand was virgin. No one had ever held this sword long enough to leave a pattern of wear in the wrappings. When he had received the daishō, the grip had been worn by a larger hand than his and it had taken a while to alter it to his own. But he and this sakabatou would break each other in. He moved it slowly through one of the kneeling battōjutsu forms, only watching the gleam of the blade for now. Soon, he would get down to business, but now…He enjoyed its beauty, its purity. With this sword, he would not kill; he would only protect.

"Kuiaratame." It had a name.

Rising, he moved down into the yard. For a moment, he simply stood, eyes closed, concentrating on breathing from his abdomen, on centering himself. As he opened his eyes, he began the movements of the kata in slow motion, paying attention to the variations in balance and swing. He would not even try Hiten Mitsurugi or battōjutsu with their perfectly timed moves until he had remastered the basics. There was a tendency to swing a little too far, a little too fast, due to the added weight on the leading edge. The longer hilt helped balance the longer blade, so there was not much trouble with the tip wanting to dip down. He repeated the entire series of kata, making the necessary adjustments. When he was satisfied, he moved through them again, each time more rapidly. And then a final time, at his normal speed.

He had lost track of time, lost entirely in the need to concentrate: to breathe properly, to direct the strain and release of his muscles, to pace the rhythm and flow of the movements streaming into each other. This was what he loved about kenjutsu: the power, the movement, the control, the fluid motion that seemed to create its own reality, its own time. Shishou once, in a jesting mood, had told him that if he did not succeed as a swordsman, he would make a graceful dancer.

The sun was high, but he was not yet ready to stop. Kenshin had not felt this sense of euphoria for years. He went through the entire process again, this time seeking the best grip, the best turn of the wrist, the best swing to use should he ever need to employ the sharpened concave edge. As he paused to let his breathing slow, he became aware of his sweat, and the whisper of breeze that was curling around him. Most of the day had passed, and he still had water to draw and laundry to do.

'''''''''''''''

Kenshin had placed the tub on the engawa so he would not have to kneel in the dirt and mud as he scrubbed. Plunging his arms in, he began on his fundoshi. As he squeezed the water through the fabric, he remembered his revulsion when Shishou made him do laundry just days after he'd arrived:

" But this is women's work!"

His master had just stared down at him from his considerable height and remarked dryly, " I hope your powers of observation improve. Do you see any women here?" Then narrowing his eyes in a glare that made Kenshin shrink, he asked, "And who do you think washed them before youcame?" Looking up at the intimidating man with the muscular physique standing before him, he had swallowed any further protests.

In his days as an assassin, it had become an obsession. If he could remove the dirt and blood, perhaps the doubts and the guilt would disappear, too. Futile, of course. Even when they were invisible to others, he was always conscious of the stains, the smell…But today? Today there was no blood, no new guilt. He would think of the pleasure he'd felt that morning, moving through the sunlight instead of the shadows. Of the relief that he did not have to give up the sword entirely, and his satisfaction in the one given him.

But that led to other concerns…He wrung out the underwear and dropped them into one of the buckets to wait until rinsing. I can't kill quickly with the sakabatou, but if I am not careful, it could still cause death. Pulling out the kimonos, he shoved them under the water. I cannot use straight thrusts. I must be sure not to strike at the stomach or abdomen; aim for bones. But I can't extend myself too far there, either, or I'll just go through the bones and still hit organs. In his consternation, he scrubbed so vigorously that the water sloshed onto his hakama. Startled, he eased off, but continued his train of thought. I can't slow down, but if I don't put as much strength into the swing…better yet, if I keep them at the outer edge of my strike zone, perhaps I can swing normally, but there will be less contact. That seemed like a workable possibility. He wrung out the kimonos and started on the hakama. But the wounds…I've seen how dull blades tear. And I've seen the pain they cause…Try though he might, he could find no solution. Better to be in pain, or scarred, than dead. Most wounds heal and most scars fade. He was not happy with the decision, but it was the best he could do. The hakama landed in the bucket with more force than necessary, and he abruptly tipped out the tub. Time to fetch water for rinsing.

The next morning, after his rice, Kenshin stepped out into a breezy yard. All night his mind had worried at the problem of determining how hard to make his swing. He'd never had to consider that before: you just struck as hard and as fast as you could while maintaining proper form. What could he use to practice? All the animals he'd seen were too small for their bones to resemble a human's. And he was not going to hunt bear with a sakabatou or an ax. Nor would he kill something he could not eat. The only thing available was wood. It wouldn't be very accurate, but it might give him a feeling for the adjustments needed.

He gathered up quite a few branches of varying sizes, trying to find ones neither too brittle nor too green. As he'd searched, he'd been chased and scolded by the chicken for getting too near, and he had caught several fleeting glimpses of the cat as it slunk under the bushes. He finally dumped his selection next to the shed and picked out a stick that approximated the size of a rib. He rolled it up in a square of cloth and strapped it to the trunk of the tree whose branches brushed the shed's roof. Retreating to his normal distance from an opponent, he tried a simple lunging backhand only slightly less powerful than normal. No good. Though the cloth had absorbed the blow without tearing, he had both broken the stick, and left a dent in the trunk. All right, try again…This time he swung too softly and barely made a dent. Again…

Once he was able to consistently break the branch without marking the tree, he tried a forward slash, finding the right amount of effort much more quickly. He would have to find an alternate way to work on downward swings. And all of this would have to be tried again once he began working into Hiten Mitsurugi and battōjutsu. He only hoped that all of this would work when he had to deal with the speed of the other person's movements as well.

Kenshin walked back over to the pile of wood as the wind whipped his hair into his eyes. He blinked from the sting and looked up towards the sky, only to have his gaze arrested by the stare of the phantom cat, who had evidently been watching him from the roof of the shed. Past its head, he could see a ragged line of clouds sliding past the top of the mountain. A wind from the north was not a good sign. He would cover his hair and try placing the sticks on one of the lowest branches of the tree by the shed for the downward stroke. He might not have much time before the weather changed. Paying no more attention to the cat, he walked towards the house.

He had not been able to practice much longer. With the wind pushing them, the sky had soon begun to fill with silver-gray clouds that were now spreading and flattening. In the dimming sunlight they had the peculiar shine that usually presaged snow. At this height on the mountain, if snow was imminent he needed to make preparations. So he gathered up all the branches he'd been using and made a neat stack of them in one corner of the hut and went out to gather more.

He was trying to prepare for the worst. When he'd lived up here before, most snowfall had not been very heavy. But he could remember a few storms that had lasted for days. He and Shishou could go out only briefly and even then had to stay close to the house. By the time they were freed, it was a wonder they had not driven each other mad. He told himself that at least that would not be a problem as he set the tub in another corner and filled it with water he'd drawn from the stream.

The first flakes were drifting down when he began digging in the garden. There were, in fact, yams still in the ground. Not very big, but edible. He cut a large portion of the herbs and pulled out most of the onions, too. All were shaken or brushed off and taken into the house. He surveyed his work and decided that he was as prepared as he could be with his limited resources. He went to slide the door shut. As he watched the already clumping flakes blasted apart by a fierce gust of wind that howled at the corner, he gave a thought to the chickens and cat, but they would have to fend for themselves. He slid the door closed, and sealed himself in.

The first night and most of the first day went fairly well. Kenshin cooked, and sharpened his tanto. He read a few haiku from Katsura's book. He mended some of the holes in the blankets (congratulating himself on the small size of his stitches and remembering the number of scathing remarks Shishou had made when teaching him). He ate no mid-day meal because he had not done enough to be hungry. He checked for spiders in the wood. He kept the room just warm enough so the wood would last. By late afternoon, his mind told him it should be the hour of the Sheep, but the darkness and lethargy of his body told him it was night. At last he gave in and leaned against the wall to doze.

He did not sleep well. No dreams this time; he did not sleep long enough to dream. He found himself waking frequently. He looked at the fire to judge the time by how far it had burned down, only to see little change. The second night seemed to last forever. It was his bladder that told him it was morning: when he carefully slid open the door and stepped outside, all was still dark, with only the odd glow that shines from snow even when there is no moon to reflect. The light from the fire behind him was swallowed up. The wind was gone, but the snow was still falling heavily. There was no sound. Even the stream seemed to have been rendered mute. He could acknowledge its beauty, but he hoped it would end very soon.

Turning, Kenshin re-entered the house and slid the door tightly shut before resuming his place before the fire with a sigh. He was tired, but wide awake. And there was nothing to do. No laundry, no mending; he had enough wood and water for another day at least. He'd packed no writing supplies. There was his book, but even reading slowly and pondering the words would not make it last the day. He knew what he had packed, but went through his belongings again to see if he could find anything useful. He pulled out his money and recounted it, then idly began stacking and restacking the pieces into different designs.

Something across the room shifted, and Kenshin's head snapped up. A pair of impassive eyes stared back at him: the cat was settled next to the wood, paws tucked to chest. This was the first time he'd been able to see much of it. It was nearly all white, only a small patch of black at the top of its head, some brown by the stubby tail. Obviously, it had waited its chance and slipped in when he had been outside.

"Oi, neko-chan, will you come to me?" He held out his hand, but the only response he got was an ear turned in his direction. He rose slowly and began to move toward it, but it flattened its ears and hissed at him until he retreated back to the fire.

"You're not very friendly, are you?" The cat gave him a look that reminded him of Shishou.

"We may be together a while. You should at least try to be social." Kenshin winced to hear the words come out of his mouth. How many times has something like that been said to me?

He decided to boil some more of the fish; perhaps the cat was hungry. As he scooped water into the pan and sliced the fish, he made a mental note that it was nearly gone. He built up the fire a little, and found himself talking…

"It's very odd. For several years now, I've usually preferred to be by myself. But the longest that I have ever had time to myself--in my whole life--was perhaps a day, rarely more than that. And I always had something that needed to be done. But now I've been completely alone for most of four days: no shop people, no people passing on the street, no one on the other side of the wall of my row house. No one. And I'm finding that I miss that: other faces, other voices."

He looked at the cat to see if it was listening, feeling foolish as he did so. He was embarrassed to have spoken his feelings aloud, even to a cat. These were things best kept to one's self. He was silent after that.

When the broth was ready, he poured some into his bowl and set it aside to cool while he cut up the coltsfoot and onions into what was left in the pan. He took the pan for himself and swirled the liquid gently as he watched to see if the cat would come to the bowl. It sat up, but made no further move. Slowly drinking the soup, he contemplated the change in himself. It will still be a long day. I will still find it tedious. But I no longer feel so unsettled. Because of a cat?

He drank his soup and then got up to move the bowl nearer to the cat, who still hissed, but no more. He walked away, over to the door and opened it slightly. Still snowing, though the clouds did not have such a heavy look. He slid the door closed and went over to straighten out his belongings, scattered where he'd left them. Carefully picking up the money, he put it back in the bag and added it to the stack. He picked up the book and—looking once more at the cat, who was now drinking the broth—began to read.

He came awake all at once, surprised that he had dozed off. His dream had been no horror this time. It was a simple dream, a gentle one that left him melancholy. Nothing much: just him and Tomoe, walking down the road together, talking. When had they ever just talked?

Kenshin rose again, went to the door again. The cat watched him through slitted eyes. This time the snow was falling much more slowly and the clouds were broken, the day a little brighter. He pushed the door wide, letting the cold air in. The shock of it made him feel more alert, ready to move out of the stuffy warmth of the house. He grabbed his boots and pulled them on. He left the door open and jumped off the engawa into snow that came up to his shin and fell into his boots. He just stood for a moment and breathed in the cold air that burned the inside of his nose as the snow frosted his red hair. And then he leaped as high as he could, straight up into the air, and came down running, across the clearing and back several times. The height of the snow slowed him, and the run was awkward with high knees and odd gait, but it felt good to move! It didn't take long before his feet were wet and cold, and his fingers pink and tingling. He knew he had to go in and began slogging back. The cat was under the house, but when it saw him coming, bounded up the steps and ran into the hut.

It would be good to have tea. I'll buy some the next chance I get. His hair was drying and his fingers and toes were coming back to their normal color. He felt much more relaxed as he leaned against the wall. With any luck, tomorrow would be clear. He sipped at the water he had heated and thought about his dream.

I don't think we were ever that comfortable together. Maybe our last night… But for most of our time together we just shared space. After the first shock, her presence eased something inside me…and she seemed to want to be with me. But we seldom spoke and rarely did anything together. I never knew what she was thinking. It was like…Kenshin looked over at the cat across the room that stared back into his eyes. He felt the hairs on his neck prickle. She called herself a lost cat…..No, that's foolish…He knelt before the fire to wash the few things he'd used. Truly, I think we grew to love each other's silence and need. We were so much alike…

'''''''''''''''

The last two days had been clear and quite warm. The storm could have been a figment of his imagination except for the mud and increasingly desiccated lumps of snow that spotted the clearing. Back under the pines, there was still a layer of white, but the yard was nearly clear. He spent quite a bit of time outside, often just sitting on the engawa. He'd stolen a few eggs and caught a fish in a pool upstream. His boots were perpetually damp and muddy and his hakama was filthy: he had to take them both off before he went inside. The cat continued to follow him and share space with him—at a distance. He hoped that one more warm day would firm the ground up enough that he could practice again. He had been here a week and was ready to move on.

''''''''''''''''''''

It was still muddy, but firm. And slightly sticky rather than slippery. I don't have to move so much with the battōjutsu attacks. I'll work on them this morning and see if the ground is better for the rest of Hiten Mitsurugi this afternoon. He had his geta on this morning: better than boots, not as good as straw zori. He found the driest spot he could and sat down. He was known for his standing slash, but he had mastered all the positions: standing, sitting, kneeling. That was what truly made him Battōsai.

With his first draw, he could see a serious problem. He had been taught to pull up as he drew, to reduce the friction of the mune against the saya and speed the unsheathing and resultant swing. With the blade reversed, by pulling up, he was actually slowing his draw. He began to push down instead, but had to begin an upward wrist motion at the very moment that the tip emerged, or else the blade dropped almost an inch and spoiled the strike. This took the most concentration of any of the changes he had made so far, and he repeated it over and over until his wrist began to ache. He paused to let it rest, but continued to replay the move in his mind. When he began again, it seemed to work more smoothly. He was finally satisfied enough to continue, though he knew it was not yet up to speed. That would come with continued practice.

Lunch was shredded greens and he wished he had some vinegar. But he could not carry a full kitchen in his pack, so he must learn to do without. The egg would have been better with some pepper, and that he might make room for. He looked for the cat, to share his egg, but it had temporarily vanished. He had seen it earlier by the bushes, stalking something.

The kata for Hiten Mitsurugi followed all the basic forms for the attacks, though some had been left out: the horizontal spin of Ryūkansen Tsumuji, the ground-breaking Dou Ryū Sen. As he moved through the series, Kenshin incorporated the adjustments to his swing that he had worked out days before. He also inserted two extra forms, adding repetitions of Ryūtsuisen Zan and Ryūshousen, reversing the sword as he moved to replace the thrust with a blow from the kashiragane, wondering even as he did so if this was one more way in which he was dishonoring the ryū and his Shishou.

He was pleased to discover that he was becoming accustomed enough to the eccentricities of his sword that the changes he had to make came much more naturally. Even the grip, after so many hours of use, now seemed to welcome his hand. Arai-sensei had scorned the sword as a failure, but for Kenshin, it was hope and opportunity.

He would have to wash again. Tomorrow the ground should be dry, so what he cleaned would stay clean now. Before, it had seemed a waste of effort. To end his practice, he decided to do Ryūtsuisen Zan one last time. He was not sure he would ever use it, even using the hilt instead: the force seemed too great. He sprang to the shed roof, intending to leap from there, but as his foot touched the wood, he felt it bend and splinter beneath him, his foot disappearing into the jagged hole. He immediately let the sakabatou fall to the ground. With his hands free, he was able to catch himself and spread out his weight before his leg was completely through. He glanced quickly around, and then lay back, shaking his head at the vanity of the reflex. And who is there here that's going to see me fall through the roof like an idiot?...I hope there's something I can use to patch this hole. He withdrew his leg carefully, grateful that he only had several fine scratches to show for the mishap. It was a good way to break a limb or get killed in a fight. He should have realized there was a possibility that the snow had weakened it; he wasn't in Kyōto with its multitude of tiled roofs and sturdy walls. He jumped down and went over to pick up the sakabatou. Fortunately, it had landed in a dry spot and would not need much cleaning.

I better bathe before I do anything else. I stink. And it will clean the scratches. He moved towards the house to get the buckets. The cat was sitting outside the door, cleaning its face and looking pleased. I wonder how long it's been there?

On his way to the stream, Kenshin found feathers: chicken feathers. On his way back, he checked, but his adversary was still strutting not far from her bush.

He felt much better once he had clean clothes and a clean self. He brushed the dried mud off the tsuka and wiped the blade while waiting for the rice to cook. Tonight he would finish the rest of the daikon, which was getting limp, and have a roasted yam. The cat, if it had killed a chicken, did not need to share his dinner.

After the continuous effort of the last day, he felt the pleasant lethargy of tired muscles as he leaned against the post. The moon was a crescent tonight. I need to fix the roof tomorrow. And boil some eggs. Pull a few more onions. I don't know how much I'll be able to buy in Kameoka. Practice some more. Then I can leave the next day if the sky stays clear. He watched thebats, wondering what they found to eat with so many of the bugs gone. The cat walked past him into the house. He got up and followed it; it was time to sleep.

He forced himself through the snow, the taste of his own blood thick in his mouth. He leaned and spat, staggering as he did so. With the damage to his ears and eyes, his balance was off as well. He could not tell where he was going, but was driven forwards by fury and desperation, his thoughts churning in chaos. Why did she…? Who are these…? WHERE IS SHE? As he supported himself against the tree, he swung his head like a wounded animal, frantic to catch some hint of where he was and if anyone was near. He could see only light and vague shadows. Ahead of him seemed all light…was he out of the trees? As he advanced, there was a shift in the light to his right, a movement, accompanied by an indistinguishable rumble. Another adversary? Turning to the shadow, he made his challenge: "I am taking Tomoe back."

More rumbling, but no movement. Was he mistaken? Had he spoken to a tree? He strained his faulty senses, in vain. As he paused, there was motion and he was gripped by a vise around his neck and felt a wrenching pain. His mouth filled with blood again and he gagged as he was flung to the ground. But as he fell, he swung his katana and knew he'd etched a shallow score. He pulled himself to his feet, spraddle-legged, and listened for the rumble that he now knew was a voice. He was breathing hard, the air hurting his lungs. He could feel the cold-thickened blood oozing from his wounds and was all too aware of his weakness. His mind lost focus—Tomoe!—and he was pummeled by multiple blows striking his wounds. He swung and missed: the shadow was no longer there, but he was staggered by a strike to his legs. He swung again, knowing that he was being taunted for his efforts, his weakness. Where was his speed, his accuracy? I cannot let him win! I must protect Tomoe!

He spoke to his unseen assailant, buying seconds to gather his strength, his will: " I have no chance of winning…that may be true…" And he finished the thought in his mind as he leapt forward with a thunderous cry, but I will take him with me. I'm sorry, Tomoe, live on…

He felt his blade sink into flesh and cut through bone, and as he bore down harder into his swing, he could see black before his eyes and feel hair brush his nose. There was the scent of…hakubaikō!

There was a solid thump against his hip, and warmth. He came alert immediately, his heart still racing with the desperation and futility of the dream. There was no threat, but the warmth remained. He looked down and found the cat curled next to him. He slowly eased. This was a familiar dream; it always came at least once when snow fell. He had actually been expecting it each night. There would be variations, but it always ended the same. He was grateful to the cat for waking him up.

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

Kenshin stood in the doorway and looked out at the yard. Behind him the house was clean, the fire pit cleared. He had brought in the chest from the shed-- not trusting his repairs to the roof--and had placed the old blankets back inside. He had left a little of everything in the garden. Some other wanderer might need the blessing of this house's shelter.

He had spent the morning before hacking some rough slabs from a thick branch with the ax. The mended hole was ugly and of dubious efficacy. But with only a knife and an ax, nothing better could be done. He moved the tools, tub, and buckets to the opposite side of the shed.

His foraging had yielded a clump of enoki from the side of a log still covered with snow, and the banks of the stream had provided some more edible greens. He had made a last raid on the nest, almost regretting the loss of the challenge. All was wrapped and bundled with the rest of his possessions, once again slung across his back.

His sakabatou was at his waist, familiar now. He would hesitate to match himself against either of the two captains of the Shinsengumi that he had fought: his technique was still a little rough. But it was improving daily, and would still surpass most of the swordsmen he'd met. He had no more reason to stay.

But he paused a moment more, looking for the cat. It was not any friendlier than it had been before his dream; when he'd reached down to stroke it that night, it had given him a warning nip and growled. Yesterday it had flickered in and out of his sight as he went about his business. Today he had not seen it at all.

Kenshin stepped out and slid the door tightly shut. He needed to leave. Reluctantly, he walked down the steps and out across the clearing. When he got to the footbridge, he paused and looked back. From here, he could see the cat, high up in the tree by the shed. It must have been there, watching him, the whole time. As he watched, it ran down the tree and into the bushes.