A/n: I LIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE
So, my grandmother was unexpectedly hospitalized, and passed away a few months ago. Then my cat, who I'd had since I was eleven, died a few days later. Then the kitten I got a few weeks after my first cat's death, also died of FIP. And on top of that I was starting a new job. So that's why this sort of was not a thing for a while.
But. I'm back, bitches.
Enjoy.
The competition hall rang with chatter to the top of its vaulted roofs. The crowd jostled excitedly for seats. A few competitors were already on the floor, chatting as they went through warmups. Their teachers watched from the sidelines, eyeing their students with varying mixtures of pride, concern, and the occasional hint of irritation. All did their best not to let their feelings show. Such a display would be shameful.
"Uncle Ken!"
"Yes?" Kenshin turned to see Ayame jogging towards him, her neat new competition uniform hanging in crisp falls. She skidded to a stop.
"Suzume can't get her ribbon done and she won't let me do it. She says you have to or it doesn't count."
"Oh dear." He glanced at the western clock hanging on the far wall, squinting to make out the numbers. "The juniors are going on in an hour," he said, dismayed. "Will she come out? I can't just go into the lady's dressing room…"
"I think so. Want me to go in and get her?"
"Please. Tell her I'll fix her ribbon, but she has to come out first."
"All right," Ayame said dubiously, and jogged back off towards the dressing room. Well. Dressing closet, really. There weren't many women or girls competing, and the tournament organizers hadn't quite known what to do with them. For a while it had looked as if there might not be any kind of changing space for them at all, but then Sir Maekawa had pulled the most loudly-protesting coordinator aside and said something low and hard in his ear. The man had frowned and clearly wanted to object, but Sir Maekawa had glared and shortly after that a small storage room had acquired a sign indicating that it was for the convenience and comfort of the female competitors.
It wasn't much. But it was a start.
Ayame vanished into the dressing room. Kenshin kept one eye on the door, the other on the students going through their paces. Nervous energy crackled through the air like heat-lightning, grounding itself in a different way in every student there. Some clustered together, chatting idly; others worked alone, focusing intently on the same basic exercises. And a few – a very few – mugged for the crowd or their teachers, clowning to stave off their nerves.
Only a handful of the young faces out there were slave-marked. They tended to stick together, and their freeborn peers gave them wide and uncertain berth. But no one bothered them. For all the whispers and glances, no one openly questioned their right to be there.
Not much. But a start.
Ayame emerged after a few minutes, dragging her reluctant sister behind her. Suzume's hair was tangled and she clutched the ribbon that Kaoru had given her tight in one small hand, a comb in her other. Her little face was scrunched with worry.
"It won't come right," she nearly wailed. "I wanna look like Big Sister and I can't – "
"Now, now." Kenshin patted her on soothingly on the shoulder, guiding her over to a convenient bench and sitting her down. "Not to worry, let's see what can be done."
He pried the comb gently from her hand and went to work detangling. Suzume wiggled, trying to get comfortable. Ayame settled herself on the bench beside her sister, rubbing her gently on the back.
"Uncle Ken's gonna fix it, all right? Now be brave, like a proper sword-lady."
"Kay." Suzume straightened her back, knotting her fingers tight around Kaoru's ribbon. Kenshin plucked it gently away and she let it go.
"You wanted your hair up?"
Suzume nodded.
"Like Big Sister!"
He had to chuckle at that, and at how the worry knotting her little brow smoothed over as she felt him pulling her hair up high in a facsimile of Kaoru's ponytail. Suzume's hair wasn't quite long enough to imitate the elegant fall of black whipping out behind her idol, but he could get a fair approximation. And he could certainly tie the lovely blue ribbon in the same simple bow that Kaoru preferred.
"There we are," he said, ruffling her bangs. "All fixed."
"Thank you!" she cried, hopping off the bench and flinging her arms around his waist. He hugged her back, and then Ayame took her hand.
"C'mon, let's go warm up."
"'Kay!"
She went away easily, holding her older sister's hand. Kenshin watched them go, a vague sense of loss knotting under his heart. If only every problem were so easily solved.
"Excuse me," someone said behind him.
"Yes?" Kenshin turned and looked up, blinking at the height of the young man behind him. "Can I help you?"
"Are you a representative from the Kamiya dojo?" The stranger's mouth twisted in something that might have been a smile, if not for the anticipation in his eyes. As if there was a joke that only he could see, and he was waiting eagerly for the punchline.
Kenshin took a step backwards, uneasy.
"I am." He resisted the urge to cross his arms, forcing himself to stand loose and calm as the stranger looked down at him with amusement flickering behind his calm façade. Amusement, and something far stranger. "Do you need something?"
"Ms. Kamiya invited me to observe the tournament." A flash of vicious grin. "Might she be available?"
"Not at the moment. She's meeting with the other referees. I doubt they'll be finished before the tournament starts." Without quite thinking about it, Kenshin angled himself to stand between the stranger and the students warming up. His heart rattled in his chest, unease growing as the stranger shrugged, seemingly indifferent.
"A pity. I'll have to speak to her later."
"May I have your name?" Kenshin asked it as innocently as he could. "I'll make sure to tell her you came by."
The stranger paused and looked at him. The sense of expectation grew heavier, like the air before a lightning strike. He pushed his small, round glasses up his nose, and the twist in his mouth became a definite smirk.
"I am Enishi Yukishiro," he said simply. "I believe you once knew my sister?"
Kenshin's blood turned to ice. The stranger – Enishi – Tomoe's brother, her younger brother, who'd gone off to war and fought in her memory. Who never saw his father, and sent letters only twice a year.
He searched for words and found nothing, only a roaring behind his eyes. Kenshin swallowed, opening his mouth to try and deliver some inanity except that his tongue was lead and his throat was wood and there was no air in his lungs.
"I see Ms. Kamiya didn't mention me." Enishi crossed his arms. "I suppose there wasn't any time."
"I – suppose." Kenshin said weakly. "She invited you, did she?"
Enishi gave him a strange look. "Yes."
"Ah. I – hope you've been well, this past year."
"Well enough." He shrugged. "And you?"
The glee was gone from his voice: he might as well have been an old acquaintance catching up, and not the predator he'd been a few moments ago. Or had he been?
Kenshin straightened his shoulders, determined not to hide.
"I was sorry to have missed you when I visited Mr. Yukishiro," he said warily. "He said you were with the intelligence division…?"
"The Home Office, now. You live at the Kamiya school?"
"For the past year, yes." Kenshin paused, then rallied. The sense of vicious glee had retreated so completely that perhaps... "Would you – that is to say, perhaps we should speak more privately, later on?"
Because he had never had the chance to apologize, as he had with Mr. Yukishiro, to talk things through and set things right. And he should; he owed the past that much. If Enishi was willing.
"What about?" Enishi looked almost startled. Then he blinked.
"Ah," he said, understanding in his voice. "No, I don't think that's necessary."
It was Kenshin's turn to startle in confusion at the ease in Enishi's voice, the casual way he tossed it off. Enishi smiled in a way that was almost genuine, except that there was something stiff and broken in it. Like a bit of leather that had stretched until it cracked.
"My father told me what you talked about when you visited him. There's not much more to say on the matter, is there? Unless you left something out…?"
"No," Kenshin said, quietly. "I didn't."
"Well then." Another shrug. "I look forward to the tournament."
He bowed and walked away.
Enishi felt Himura's eyes on him as he walked away and didn't care. His sister's eyes grew remote, disapproving: he frowned in response, and a youngster who had nearly pelted into him bowed in apology. He didn't acknowledge the gesture.
Perhaps it hadn't been fair of him to ambush Himura like that. But then again, what was fair in this world?
He found a spot towards the back of the seats reserved for spectators, where the crowd was thin and he wouldn't have neighbors. He didn't want any, and by the looks he garnered as he moved through, no one wanted him as one. All to the good, then.
The referees began to file out of the back room, apparently finished with their meeting. Tension crackled through the air as a hundred-odd students slowed and then stopped their warmup, turning inexorably to focus on their teachers and judges. This wasn't a terribly important competition, being so early in the seasons – more an exhibition than anything else – but it was the first to allow freed and freeborn to compete side-by-side, as equals under law if not in practice.
For that reason alone, he might have come to see it.
His sister shook his head, indulging him, and faded as Kamiya strode confidently from the back room to her appointed station. She walked with measured grace, ignoring the quick, sharp spike of whispers as she was recognized. Like daggers glinting for a moment beneath a bandit's cloak.
Enishi leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his knees, and watched.
The opening ceremonies went by in a blur of protocol. He spared barely a glance for the other masters, focusing on Kamiya and her students. They made a good showing, as far as he could tell: swordsmanship had never been his particular specialty, and the arcane rules and careful forms of the competition circuit were thoroughly divorced from anything he'd picked up on the battlefield. But the crowd seemed impressed. Himura, sitting close to the front and impossible to miss given his head of red hair, was practically glowing.
He was probably in love with her. Well, Enishi couldn't blame him for that, given what he'd been through and what she'd done for him. Though he wondered if Kamiya returned his feelings. She found time to meet the eyes of everyone else in her school's cheering section, but barely glanced his way. Almost as if she was trying to avoid seeing him.
Curious, that.
Equally curious were the fellows milling nearby. He watched them from the corner of his eye, wary. They seemed far too old and hardened to be competitors, and too rough to have any friends or relatives in the tournament. Their clothes were neat enough, but the feel of them…
Thugs-for-hire, he was nearly certain. What could they be doing here?
Handfuls of them broke off, heading in various directions away from the main hall and towards the rest of the building. And the exits.
Enishi rose, his face schooled in an expression of pure disinterest, and sauntered off behind a group headed towards the restrooms.
"Wash, wash, wash," Buntaro chanted happily, rubbing his hands together under the stream of water as Kenshin poured it from the ladle. Kenshin smiled absently, his mind elsewhere. Miles away and years ago, in a small house on the outskirts of a smaller city where he'd first met Tomoe's father.
He had been uncertain of his reception, afraid of the older man's reaction. And, he'd realized in hindsight, even more afraid of the possibility of forgiveness. He had carried the burden for so long... the memory of Tomoe falling, of his own helplessness, of days and nights in darkness and filth, reliving her death and all the others. Shadowed, incoherent child-memories of sickness and hunger, the reek of unwashed human as the villagers fell one by one to disease until he was the only one left, and every one of them with her face.
It had been easy to give in. A relief. And that was the deepest secret, the one he tried the hardest to forget, the one he was determined to carry into death with him. How much he'd wanted, in the end, to surrender. To blame himself. It was easier that way.
Until Kaoru's voice had called his name, until her gentle hands had drawn him out and the web of easy lies had crumbled in the sunlight. His choice – his choice to trap himself, and his choice to be free. But she had reminded him of strength, given him a reason to be strong, and that was… everything.
Old age, Mr. Yukishiro had said, coughing dryly. He had been little more than a wizened head and bony hands under layers of thick blankets. It comes to us all.
He'd offered Kenshin a cup of tea and begged forgiveness before Kenshin could say even a word of the speech he'd so carefully prepared and practiced (as he'd had to, in those days, when even simple greetings were a struggle). Forgive me, he'd said. Forgive my family. Forgive my daughter.
A strange thing, to seek forgiveness and find it begged of you. The world had tilted in that moment, never to quite right itself again. He remembered how Mr. Yukishiro's liver-spotted hands had clutched at the blankets as he bowed his head, the tea steaming from the mug he'd held in his gnarled fingers. There had been a spray of cherry blossoms printed on the side.
I'm sorry, Kenshin had managed to say, free words – words not dictated, words of his own – still an uneasy thing in his throat. I'm sorry for everything.
"Done now!" Buntaro announced, drying his hands on the little strip of cloth left out for that purpose. Kenshin patted him on the head, anchoring himself in what was now.
"Let's go back and watch, okay?"
"Okay!"
Buntaro toddled out of the bathroom, moving as though he were near falling. He was undersized for his age and still walked by propelling himself blindly in the general direction of wherever he wanted to go. Kenshin kept an eye on him, lifting him quickly and without comment over the high step to the latrine. It wasn't his fault that he was so small, and had been so slow in growing. That didn't stop him from hating when anyone drew attention to it.
They still weren't sure if he was an orphan or not. Mr. Tanaka had found him wandering near the docks after the Second Battle of Edo, and the police hadn't been able to locate his parents. So Kaoru had taken him in with the rest. No family had ever materialized to take him in, and those who'd adopted the other orphaned and abandoned children in Kaoru's care had had little interest in an undersized, slow-learning child.
Not that it mattered. There would always be a place for him in Kaoru's home. As there would be for anyone she had taken in.
Except for me, it seems – no, that wasn't fair, he chided himself. Kaoru had kept her word. If she resented his presence – if he was, as she'd implied, the unwanted ghost come to lure her from a happy life – she had never said so outright. Had never tried to make him unwelcome, or treated him poorly.
She'd just been… distant. From him, and from everyone else, too.
She's selfish and horrible and cruel! Kaoru's voice echoed in his memory, torn with grief. She destroys him because she doesn't have the strength to let go!
Maybe she was right. Maybe he'd expected too much.
Maybe…
Buntaro tugged on his sleeve, shaking him from his dark reverie. Kenshin lowered his hand and let the little boy grab onto his fingers to lead him back to the competition hall, careful to keep a happy smile on his face. There was no need for the children to worry. That had already been through too much for their short lives.
How old had Tomoe's brother been when she died? Not much older than Buntaro.
Short lives, stained with blood and tragedy. It would be easy to lay it all at the slave-masters' feet, say it was whatever ancestor that first proposed the old way to the shōgun who was to blame for all the horror. And yet, no one had objected. Not seriously, not for more than a few generations. It had simply become the way of things – imperfect, but then what was perfect in this flawed world?
That had been the hardest thing to understand: that it wasn't malice that had caused evil to take root. Just… apathy.
Kenshin started to sigh. Then came a prickling on the back of his neck; the hairs on his arms stood up, and a sense of being watched overwhelmed him. He was always conscious of stares, of speculation, but this – this was something else. There was an impersonal hostility in this gaze, a gleeful anticipation of violence for its own sake.
"Buntaro," he said, leaning towards the child. "I forgot something. Do you remember the way to the tournament?"
The boy gave him an exasperated look. "Down the hall," he said, pointing with one chubby finger. The duh was heavily implied.
"All right, all right." He removed his fingers from Buntaro's grasp. "You go back to the tournament and find Yahiko, okay? Tell him to come find me."
"'Kay." Buntaro toddled off, his back a little straighter and his stride a little stronger for having been entrusted with such a mission. Kenshin watched him go, keeping his breath deliberately slow and even. Control the breath, control the heart, control the pace of blood through his body. Control. He was responsible for what he did, and no one else. Such was the burden of liberty.
Then he turned towards the gaze, and waited. A heartbeat passed before a band of thugs detached themselves from the walls and corners they'd been lurking in, fanning out in a semicircle.
"You should have gone with the kid," one said. Perhaps the leader. His eyes were narrow and cold, unsmiling: his mouth was curved in the facsimile of a grin. An iron headband obscured his forehead, the character for justice engraved in the center.
"Forgive me," Kenshin said absently, his heart rising in his throat. His hand fell to the hilt of his reversed sword. "This seemed most efficient."
Formality was invading his tongue, but he could still speak his own words. That mattered.
The man looked past him, nodding. Kenshin turned –
Everything went black.
The men were not professionals. This was evident in their movements – too obvious and threatening, making a point of declaring their existence – and in their dress. There were ways to dress for combat that did not reveal one's purpose, and they had used none of them.
They had at least managed to avoid having too much of a uniform. Although the hats each carried or wore at their waist were something of a giveaway, if one was accustomed to looking for such things.
Enishi sauntered down the hall, looking neither right nor left, and dipped his hand into the breast pocket of his Western shirt. The man standing by the exit tensed, then relaxed as he drew out a pack of cigarettes. He didn't actually smoke, of course; they had other uses.
A few quick pats, a look of disgruntlement, and Enishi approached the thug. He was a tall, skinny fellow. Barely a muscle on him by the looks of it, but the proof of that pudding was in the eating. Caution, always, until the variables were sufficiently resolved, and right now the equation was still mostly placeholders.
"Terribly sorry to be a bother," he said, twisting his voice light and self-deprecating, "but you wouldn't happen to have a match on you, would you?"
His answer should have been no. Instead he lowered his head, just for an instant, patting at his pockets –
In one quick movement, Enishi grabbed the back of the thug's head and slammed it into his knee. His nose broke with a soft, sick pop like roasting chestnuts; before he could gather himself, Enishi had spun him around and wrapped his arm around the other man's neck, his forearm and biceps pressing against the carotid arteries. Just enough pressure to keep him limp, not enough to knock him out
"Who do you work for?" he asked softly. The thug struggled, trying to get enough leverage for a flip. Enishi pressed his hand to the back of the thug's head, cutting off air and blood until he was nearly choking, then relented.
"I ask again." Still soft, almost kind. Genial. It was more frightening than anger, he'd discovered, and seemed to get faster results. "Who do you work for? If you answer, I'll let you live."
The thug hesitated. Enishi kneed him in the lower back to help him make up his mind.
"Raijuta!" he gasped out, spittle running down the sides of his mouth as Enishi applied more pressure. "Isurugi… Raijuta…"
Raijuta. Enishi knew the name, of course. A posturing fool, one of many, with a small coterie of equally ignorant followers railing against the tide of history. The most that they'd ever gotten up to was petty crime against the vulnerable, harassing impoverished freedmen and the struggling merchants who did business with them, that sort of thing. An annoyance – a bug to be squashed when and if he came across them – but not his true prey. So he'd let them be.
He had, however, come across them now.
"Thank you for your co-operation," he murmured, and choked the idiot out. He crumpled to the ground like a paper doll. Enishi stooped low over him, drawing his folded knife, and flicked it open. One less louse crawling on the surface of the world…
Then, for no reason he could name, he hesitated.
A pair of bright blue eyes gazed out from the back of his mind, steady and remote. The tip of the blade rested against the thug's artery, not breaking skin. Not yet.
His sister did not show her face. But then, she never did, not in moments like this. When he was the necessary evil, the vicious drug purging the body of infection…
The sword that protects life. Black ink on white paper. Words in a dossier. Idealism, sweet as sugar and just as unhealthy for the path he'd chosen, the only path that would let him set things right –
His lip curled.
He slit the thug's throat. There was no satisfaction in it.
Then he stood and headed back towards the main hall. Perhaps it was not too late to warn them.
There was comfort in the rhythm of the tournament, the steady back-and-forth of students clashing without the intent to kill. To conquer, yes: to overcome. But not to hurt. It made Kaoru glad.
There had been moments, of course. Freeborn students sulking over losing to freemen and begging their comrades to seek vengeance, or entering the ring intent on proving outdated ideology, but so far the judges had caught each one and seen the perpetrators penalized. So far, it was exactly what Master Maekawa had promised her it would be. Just a tournament, a chance to exhibit skill and honor. To show that there were no differences under the skin. None that mattered.
And there had been victories, too. Freeborn losing to freedmen and then begging to see the move that had defeated them with nothing but awe and an eagerness to learn shining in their faces. Freedmen defeating freeborn and then bowing in profound respect for their opponent's skill and a match hard-fought, and the two walking off as newfound friends to dissect their errors and compliment the others' skills.
Not perfect. But a start.
"Red penalty, shoving!" she called, seeing a strike land a little too hard and followed through with a push that was almost a shove. It was the second time this particular competitor had been unnecessarily aggressive in his follow-through. One more, and he'd yield a point.
His teacher gave her a dirty look from the nearby ring. Eyes on your match, she thought, and chose not to say. It was hardly worth it. Although if his student lost, he may well protest – the man was arrogant enough – but that was a concern for a later date.
He'd probably protest anyway, given how many matches his students had lost already.
The other student – Naoki Akibara, she recalled, who had won every match he'd entered so far – rallied, sliding forward on a neat bit of footwork and feinting to the head, only to twist rapidly to the side when his opponent went to parry and tap him lightly on his armored abdomen.
"Stomach point!"
The scorekeeper noted it down. The aggressive student – Hiroshi, that was his name – scowled, redoubling his efforts. But Naoki had the measure of him now and danced fluidly out of the way, nearly scoring another point against Hiroshi's knuckles. Kaoru smiled, appreciating his grace –
Comet trail of red hair whipping out behind him, men scattering like wheat in a hurricane as he whirled through them, her throat too sore with blossoming bruises to command him to stop –
She forced the memory away in time to see Hiroshi aim a strike at Naoki's back, one that would have hit had Naoki been less agile. And, once again, he followed through with a shove. Kaoru stifled a sigh.
"Red penalty, unnecessary roughness. Forfeit one point."
"No way!" Hiroshi snapped, turning to face her. "I challenge that ruling!"
Kaoru called a time out, nodding in assent, and gestured for the nearest senior referee. Who happened to be Master Maekawa. He sauntered over, his hands clasped behind his back, and listened carefully as Kaoru and the scorekeeper explained. The two competitors stayed silent, as was only right and proper.
"The ruling is valid," he said at last. "Mr. Hiroshi, restrain your enthusiasm."
Hiroshi's face reddened, and he looked as though he desperately wanted to say something but didn't dare. Kaoru sighed inwardly. They would definitely be hearing from his teacher by the end of the tournament –
There was a boom from the end of the hall. Kaoru jumped – cannons roaring from the hill, muskets blaring high-pitched counterpoints to the screaming melee – and reached in a panic for a sword that wasn't there. Where was her sword –
She caught herself, forcing her breath to evenness. The main doors to the hall had slammed shut; a man the size of a mountain stood before them, flanked by four other men. All wore flat straw hats bearing characters for – she squinted, trying to make them out – something about glory and the past. A slogan of some sort.
Master Maekawa raised an eyebrow.
"May I help you?" he asked, pitching his voice to carry over the confused murmuring of audience and students. All eyes came to rest on him, a wary sense of waiting settling over the crowd. No one was panicking, not yet, but all knew that something was happening. The matches had stopped without anyone calling time, competitors and referees uncertain what would happen next.
The man smirked.
"I am Raijuta Isurugi," he said, his eyes glowing with strange fervor. "And I have come to enter your tournament."
"I apologize for the inconvenience, but registration has closed." Master Maekawa turned away, deliberately dismissing the interloper. "If you wish to register for an upcoming tournament, please speak with the senior student at the other end of the hall."
"I will do no such thing." Raijuta snorted, crossing his arms. "This tournament is open to all, is it not? Even casteless half-breeds and slaves."
Kaoru suppressed a snarl, sticking her hand out without thinking to stop Hiroshi in his tracks before he rushed the man, like an idiot. The crossed scar on his cheek stood out white with rage, and he trembled at her touch.
"This tournament is open to all citizens of the Empire of Japan, and to any interested foreigners with proper sponsorship," Maekawa corrected coolly. "You are creating a disruption. Please remove yourself."
Raijuta smirked. Kaoru tensed, looking instinctively for her students. They had paused where they were, just as everyone in the hall had, eyes riveted on the confrontation. The strange challenger's agenda was blatant, and the outcome… would be important.
"No."
"Very well." Maekawa sighed, gesturing to his assistant. The young man gulped and bowed, darting off to fetch a pair of bamboo practice swords from the sidelines. "Though I do not deserve the honor, I am the senior master here. Will this humble person serve as a satisfactory opponent?"
Kaoru nearly laughed at the sarcastic courtesy. She felt Hiroshi relax. The mockery had cleared the air; she saw students and teachers beginning to move, adjusting themselves to watch with an air of anticipation. Naoki moved softly to stand at his Hiroshi's side and she risked a glance. He was standing loose, easy but ready, and with the air of one preparing to back up a friend. Their dojos were on the same street, she recalled: they had a long history of rivalry, both friendly and not.
"If I must." Raijuta snorted as he accepted the practice sword, eyeing it like it was a dead rat. "Do you insist on these children's toys?"
"This is a tournament, not a deathmatch," Maekawa said mildly, rolling his shoulders. "Your pardon, Master Kamiya, Mr. Hiroshi, Mr. Naoki, but may I borrow this ring?"
"Of course." They bowed and stepped back, allowingMaekawa to take up his position. The back of Kaoru's neck prickled, awareness tingling up her spine. She searched the crowd for Yahiko and saw him making his way towards her. Her sword was in his hands.
Raijuta stalked towards the ring, sneering, and made sure that his every step landed with a noticeable thud. Emphasizing his size and power, no doubt. Kaoru resisted the urge to dismiss him. For all his clear pretensions and apparent foolishness, there was an important point to be made here. Too many people would take it as a sign if Master Maekawa lost this match, and it would mar the message of the free tournament.
Master Maekawa stood ready and at ease in the center of the ring. Kaoru stepped forward.
"Please allow this unworthy Kaoru Kamiya to referee the match."
"I would be honored, Master Kamiya." He sketched a bow in her direction. Raijuta shrugged.
"It matters not who judges the match. The results will be plain for anyone to see."
"So you say," Master Maekawa countered. "Let us begin."
"Positions!" Kaoru snapped out, raising her hand. "Three stroke match, first round. Begin!"
Raijuta exploded into movement. Maekawa dodged, but not well enough; the bamboo sword whipped down against his should with a sick, audible crack, driving Maekawa down on one knee. Kaoru sucked in a sharp breath in time with the gasping crowd. It was fractured at the very least, probably broken –
She gritted her teeth.
"Would you like to forfeit?" she asked her father's old friend. Maekawa gritted his teeth and nearly snarled.
"No." he gasped out. "The match continues." He glanced over at Kaoru and risked a small, reassuring smile. "I have his measure now."
He was lying. Kaoru knew it, a cold certainty in her bones. She was no child anymore to be soothed by kindly falsehoods.
But Maekawa was a swordsman, a master. Not a student. And he had made his choice, although he hardly had another. He couldn't afford to yield, not in this match which was not merely a match. Not when the whole city was waiting for the free tournament to fail. He would lose – but he would lose with honor, and courage, and in a way that made it clear that Raijuta was a brute. Hardly ideal, but still something they could use.
Kaoru closed her eyes, trying not to see how his arm hung at his side. It was possible that blow had just ended his career.
"Second round!" she called, raising her hand. Raijuta and Maekawa eyed each other across the ring. Maekawa braced himself. His eyes dropped to Raijuta's feet, watching for movement.
Raijuta lunged. Maekawa didn't bother dodging; he brought his sword up, crippled arm and all, and barely managed to parry the blow. It slid off his weapon, grounding itself in the floor and Maekawa stepped in, intending to make a body-blow. Raijuta side-stepped it, snorting in distaste. Maekawa lurched forward, pulled off-balance by his wounded arm and unable to stop his own momementum. He ducked, trying to avoid the inevitable back-blow –
No use. Raijuta slammed his blade across Maekawa's shoulders. The old teacher crumpled to the ground and lay still.
The crowd fell horribly silent.
"Second point," Kaoru heard herself say. "The match is ended."
"And that for your false equality," Raijuta said, tossing the bamboo sword aside as if it was a used-up dishrag. "An idea as weak and feeble as this old man. As I have just proved."
"You've proved nothing."
It took Kaoru a moment to realize that she was the one who'd spoken. Her heart pounded with rage, her blood throbbing like drumbeats in her ears, roaring like the sea in storm as she raised an arm in accusation. She remembered Kenshin's teacher, vaguely – another mountain of a man – but she had faced him down knowing that his heart was kind, and this – this monster –
"All you've proven," she snarled, "is that you are a bully." Her finger thrust down to the ground in emphasis. "A great, cruel, ignorant bully who can only make his point by threatening children and hurting old men! You have disgraced yourself, your teacher, and your school by your actions here today, and I demand satisfaction of you!"
An audible gasp from the crowd. Kaoru snapped her mouth shut, shocked by what she'd said, by the words carried righteous on her tongue. Maekawa lay on the floor between them, still dazed; the students in the tournament – scarred and bare-faced – watched, and Kaoru knew she had made a mistake. Upped the stakes. Now she had to fight him.
Now she had to win.
Then suddenly Yahiko was at her side, her wooden sword – the one he had given her all those years and miles ago – in his hands. He held it out to her, wordless.
She took it.
"Isurugi Raijuta. I am Kaoru Kamiya of the Kamiya Kasshin style, and I challenge you." Her heart beat wild against her ribcage, her lips dry as stone. She resisted the urge to lick them.
A thin smirk played across his lips.
"I accept."