Chapter 11

Disclaimer: I do not own Rurouni Kenshin, but Midori was my idea.

This chapter's going to be a little different; I'm going to try my hand at writing from Kenshin's point of view.

He should be dead, she thinks to herself as the man before her lets loose a demonic shriek of intense pain. This man would be better off dead.

And any normal person would have died, had they been doused with oils and set afire.

As her charge writhes on the futon in a feverish fit, the woman who was once Zetsumei Kurohyou secures the last tie around his left ankle, effectively shackling him to the mattress. He is already so grievously injured that she is unsure he can be saved. But she will do her best by this man.

She owes him a life-debt, and she means to see it repaid.

It is not weeks, but months later that her patient again becomes aware of his surroundings. Months in which the woman bathes his body several times daily with buckets of ice cold water; months of waking in the middle of the night to his agonized screams and trying to sooth his literally burning hot flesh.

She is running a wet rag over his chest when a searing hand snatches at her wrist, squeezing hard enough to bruise. She says nothing; her head raises just enough to meet his red, fever-glazed eyes as she attempts to extract her hand from his. He does not release her.

"Who…" he rasps out; she cannot help but notice that this is the first time he has ever spoken to her without heavy arrogance in his every word.

Twisting her torso, she reaches out with her free hand and grasps a bowl of cold water. She tilts it to his lips and lets him drink his fill. A different bowl is soon in her hand; this one contains a thick paste that she has created to put on his skin, in hopes that it will keep his abnormal temperature under control.

"Let go of my arm."

His eyes widen at the sound of her voice, and his grip slackens enough that she is able to extract her wrist. Dipping two fingers into the paste, she begins lightly rubbing it into his chest and stomach.

"You're…Zetsumei Kurohyou…my old partner…"

"I was," she concedes, leaning over him so that she can apply the paste to his side. Red eyes follow her every move.

"Where…?"

"A small home not far from where you burned. If I had known that it was you who was screaming, I would have gone to your aid sooner. My apologies."

"Why are you – "

She moves the sheet covering his nether regions away and begins applying more paste. "I owe you a life debt. If it is possible to save your life now, I will do so. Go back to sleep."

The next time he awakes, several days later, she has wrapped his entire body in bandages coated with the same paste she had previously applied directly to his skin.

"You're not going to die, Makoto Shishio. I have lowered your body's temperature enough that you need not fear having your blood boil. You should avoid strenuous activity; your life as a swordsman is over, unless you wish to kill yourself."

"How long have I been here, woman?" He shows no reaction in facial expression or tone of voice to what she has just told him. He is staring out a small window to the side of the futon he occupies; he is sitting up, the bonds on his wrists and ankles having been removed months ago.

"Six months."

Those eyes turn to gaze impassively at her. "You cared for me for six months?"

She shrugs. "I owed you a life debt. You may consider it paid."

"What is your name? You never told me."

She gazes indifferently at him for a long moment. "You have yet to earn my name, Makoto Shishio."

Ginger. Himura tasted like ginger.

Midori's good hand, released from his grasp, was planted on his shoulders, whether to pull him closer or push him away was uncertain. His hands were tangled gently in her hair, titling her head to find an angle that gave him better access. She had gasped in shock as their lips met and he had immediately capitalized on the opportunity to taste her. His hot breath flooded her throat as his tongue lightly massaged the roof of her mouth, just as his hands were lightly massaging her scalp.

Midori had always loved ginger.

She was torn. Part of her was aching to pull him closer; screaming at her to tear away his clothes and pride and lies and betrayals, tear away everything that stood between them and take him for her own. That part demanded that she give herself to him, now.

Another part of her was demanding that she maim him. She was injured, damn it. She was injured and feverish and she didn't trust him, couldn't let herself love him again. Because if she allowed herself to love him as she once had, and he betrayed her again, it would be the end of her. It would kill her more completely than any blade ever could.

Midori pushed weakly with her good hand, and Himura pulled away just enough to part their lips. His eyes, molten gold now, bore into her own.

"Wait," she gasped, fighting to regain her breath after his assault. "Just…just wait, I…I don't –"

A finger was pressed to her lips, and he growled, "Do not lie to me."

She reached up and irritably removed the offending finger. "I am in no condition to do…this!" She was flustered, embarrassed. What were they doing, exactly?

Before she was able to speak again, the world shifted around her. When it righted, she was somehow straddling Himura's lap with his arms wrapped tightly around her waist. She glared weakly at him; the effect was no doubt lost between her tousled black hair and flushed cheeks.

"Himura –"

"My name is Kenshin," he interrupted her, fingers stroking slow circles on the sensitive skin of her lower back. She twitched forward, looking to get away from those wandering digits, only to jerk back to stop from pressing against Himura's chest.

"Let me go," she muttered to the wall just above his shoulder. She couldn't look at him; couldn't face those eyes and still tell him to leave her alone.

Keeping one arm firmly around her waist, he took her good hand in his and pressed it to his unscarred cheek. She tugged halfheartedly, but he would not release her.

"Look at me."

She shook her head furiously; the lump in her throat made speech momentarily impossible. When he moved his head to the left, she raised her eyes to the ceiling to avoid his gaze.

"Kabu," he probed, his voice infinitely tender, "if you can look me in the eye and tell me that you want me to let you go…I will do so. But if you can't…"

Her hand was moved, and something warm and moist wrapped around her smallest finger. She yanked furiously on her arm, but the iron grip around her wrist didn't budge.

"Damn you," she whispered, suddenly exhausted. "Why are you doing this to me? Why do you ask me for something I can't give? Have I not had enough pain in my life to suit you, Himura?"

A sharp pressure that felt suspiciously like a bite was applied to her finger. Reluctantly Midori lowered her gaze to meet those hypnotizing pools that threatened to drown her in their depths. Her suspicions were confirmed when she watched him pull her finger from his mouth and blow gently on it, staring directly at her the whole time.

"What do you think it is, Midori, that I am asking you to give me?" he asked softly, nuzzling the back of her hand like an over-sized cat.

"My love," she muttered, renewing her attempts to free her wrist. "My trust. The heart you put a blade through on orders. Things I once would have given you without pause. Things that one who is dead cannot extend or receive."

The arm around her waist pulled tighter around her, forcing her closer until her head rested wearily against Himura's neck. Her hand was release, and Himura used his own newly freed hand to stroke his long fingers through her hair. She balled hers into a fist against his chest and closed her eyes wearily.

"You are angry that I attempted to kill you, as I was ordered." There was a note in his voice that she couldn't decipher; some emotion that she couldn't name without seeing his face and at the moment, she was too damn tired to move.

"Should I then be angry that you sold yourself and important information to the Shogunate in return for my immunity should we have lost?"

Her eyes snapped open and her head jerked up until she was staring at him, shock and disbelief flittering across her face.

"Wh – what?" she breathed, her face so close to Himura's that she could feel his breath on her lips.

"Our superiors knew about your dealings with the Shogunate, Midori." The continued use of her name would have confused her further if that were possible. "They were aware of the deal you made for my life; they were aware that you would have died in my place. They knew that you endangered our cause for nothing more than the safety of one man."

Alarms and questions were ringing in her head. The words Himura was speaking made no sense to her. Dealings with the Shogunate? The only dealings she had ever had with the Shogunate were as their executioner. Willing to die in Himura's place? Well, she had to admit that was at least not completely false. If Himura had been in danger and she could have saved him at the cost of her own life on the battlefield, she would have done so without hesitation.

Himura was angry at the idea that she would have died for him?

"Where did you hear this?" she asked, studying his face. Restrained fury; that was the tone in his voice that she had been unable to place earlier. Fine, he could be furious with her; she was suddenly pissed, too.

"Where did you hear this, Himura?" she repeated when he made no answer, her voice dropping into a cold whisper. "Did you by chance hear this story from the man who gave you the orders to kill me? Would that man happen to have been Ekinosuke Retsuuo?"

The very name left a vile taste in the back of Midori's mouth. Ekinosuke Retsuuo; she remembered him to be a heavily religious man, constantly fingering a set of prayer beads kept at his waist. Renowned for his ability at storytelling. Himura was a damned idiot.

"How did you know that?" Himura asked her, the fury no longer prevalent in his tone. The gold in his eyes was fading even as she watched; indigo reflected her haggard features back at her.

"I made it my business to know who spread the rumors that had my allies calling me a traitor."

She still heard their voices sometimes in her nightmares. She could still see the anger and hatred in the faces of the men that had hacked away at her until Himura had showed up and skewered her. The memories still caused her to wake up screaming. All because of one man and his talent for lying.

Fingers brushed against the nape of her neck; she flinched at the sensation, startled.

"Did you sell yourself for my safety, kabu?"

Midori glared at him, incensed that he should have to ask her that question. She had assumed Himura knew her better than that; obviously she was giving him far too much credit.

"I was not one so foolish as to make deals with my enemies," she told him, voice quite frosty. "I thought you of all people would have known that. But apparently neither of us knows the other as well as we thought."

She pushed against him again. She wasn't going to have a conversation with him while sitting in his lap, literally half naked with a newly stitched wound in her chest area.

His arm around her waist stopped her retreat. She sat there, one hand hanging limply at her side while the other was pressed flat over the center of Himura's chest. Through her hand, she could feel his heartbeat.

"Why will you not let me go?" she asked, her voice flat now. Anger is an emotion that requires energy to sustain it; her body was empty, drained by her fever. All she wanted now was for Himura to leave her in peace so that she could sleep.

The hand that had been brushing idly at the nape of her neck circled around to the front. Slowly, as though he hoped not to startle her, Himura began lowering his hand towards her chest. Naturally Midori removed her hand from his chest and caught the wandering limb in a tight grasp, green eyes narrowed.

"Don't."

"Why are you so afraid of this, kabu?" he murmured, his free hand once again stroking the scars on her back; Midori shuddered at the feeling, a strange warmth building low in her belly. "Or is it me that you are afraid of?"

She was having supreme difficult concentrating on his words when his hand…gods, what was wrong with her? Why did his touch make her feel so alive?

For ten years she had walked the earth as a dead woman. Midori had been all over Japan; had tasted exotic foods from foreign lands; heard and seen and experience things most people would never know or dream. She had held a newborn infant in her hands; she had watched men die by her blade. But never, not in ten long years of living death, had she truly felt alive.

Ironic, that the man who could make her feel this way was the same man who had stolen her ability to live in the first place.

"Why?" she whimpered, fresh tears blurring her vision. Without warning she suddenly leaned forward, once again resting her head on Himura's chest. Her hand tangled its' fingers with its' captive, clutching tightly. "Why does it have to be you?"

Tentatively, carefully, Midori planted a small kiss on Himura's chest.

She heard the sudden stillness as his breath stopped. His arm pulled her closer, until her body was pressed so close to his that her fevered mind couldn't distinguish where he ended and she began.

"Why does it always have to be you?" she whispered.

He brought their joined hands under her chin; forced her head up so that he could see her face. Slowly, giving her time to protest or to pull away, he lowered his lips to hers once again.

Kenshin Himura wasn't exactly sure what the hell he was doing.

He should have left after stitching Midori's wound. He was sure that if Megumi-san found out that he was now planning on spending the night with her, he would be the recipient of a harsh scolding. Not to mention several bruises.

And if Kaoru-dono were to become aware of this…he shuddered to think of the possible fall-out, for Midori as well as for himself.

Kenshin was not a stupid man. He was well aware that Kaoru-dono's feelings for him were not of the type he felt for her. Yes, he did love her; but it was the love an older brother harbored for a cherished little sister. She and Yahiko-chan were like siblings to him. He could never even dream of loving her the way she wished to be loved. Kaoru-dono was just so innocent. To stain her soul with the blood on his hands…he could never condone such an act.

But Midori…his precious kabu…

He pulled her closer to him, deepening the kiss. Gently Kenshin freed his hand of her grasp only to bury it knuckle deep in her glorious hair. She was trembling against him – in fear or something else, he couldn't be sure.

She knew the darkest parts of him, the parts he could never share with Kaoru-dono. She had been beside him through the darkest years of his life. Her soul was even bloodier than his own; she would never judge him or his past choices.

She had haunted his nightmares all these years. Night after night he would watch his younger self drive his blade into her skin; night after night he would see her blood and hear her screams. Those days usually found him at the nearest water source at dawn, furiously scrubbing at his own hands; desperate to rid his skin of the blood. Her blood.

And then she had shown up at the Kamiya dojo with Sano in tow, thin and pale and alive.

His first thought was that he must have dozed off waiting for Kaoru-dono and Yahiko-chan to return for dinner. That it must have been some new version of his old nightmares. It was only when he had become aware of Sano shaking him, telling him to calm down, that he had realized he wasn't dreaming. She was really here, standing not ten feet away from him with that horrible look of fear in her eyes.

He never wanted to see that look on her face because of him again.

Kenshin blinked and found himself hovering over her, her back to the floor and her startled green eyes gazing up at him. Her chest heaved as she gasped for breath, her breasts rising to brush gently against his clothed chest with each lungful.

His gaze moved away from her flushed face, meandering down to rest on her freshly stitched wound. Anger flared in his blood at the memory of Saito's blade piercing her. Her demented, hatred-filled gaze flashed before his eyes and he flinched; though she had not been directing such a look at him, the sheer intensity of her loathing had shaken him.

His attention was caught by a similar scar on her opposite shoulder. It was red, raised and inflamed, as though the wound had never fully healed. He did not recognize this scar; in their time as assassins he had been the one that had doctored any wounds she received, he should recognize – comprehension hit him hard in the gut. This was from his blade. He had given her this scar. Reverantly, he extracted his fingers from her hair and stroked them gently over the mark.

"Did you doctor this wound yourself, kabu?" He expected an instant yes; perhaps a scowl at such a foolish question. Obviously a woman assumed to be dead cannot easily seek medical aid without drawing attention to herself.

He did not expect her to turn her head away, letting her long bangs fall over her eyes in a concealing curtain.

"No," she whispered. "Don't question me about that, Himura. I don't want to talk about it with you or anyone else."

Himura. Still she refused to speak his name. He would even settle for ninjin, her silly pet name for him. Anything but a cold and distant Himura.

Deliberately, Kenshin lowered his head and slowly ran his tongue over the scar he had given her. He smiled against her skin as she gasped and brought her hands up to press against his shoulders.

"Hi – Himura –"

Not yet, then. Kenshin trailed his mouth across her collarbone, trailing lingering open-mouthed kisses over her hot flesh. She tasted of oranges and salt. He dallied over the edge of her jutting collarbone, nibbling tenderly, savoring the taste of her.

He brought one hand up, supporting his weight on the other so as not to crush her, and very gently cupped her breast in his calloused fingers.

Results were instantaneous.

A sharp pain stabbed at his lower thigh as a fist collided with the side of his head, sending him sprawling to the side. Midori was up and away from him before he could blink; in an instant she was across the room, crouched in a corner with her arms crossed protectively over her chest.

He picked himself up slowly, body tensed in reaction both to the pain of the blows and to the intense warning radiating from the huddled figure. She was shaking; even in the dim lit from the single lantern, Kenshin could plainly see the furious tremors that wracked her frame.

Belatedly, his brain decided to inform him that the flush in her cheeks was not a product of passion, as he had assumed; it was a product of fever. The gasp from earlier was not one of pleasure; it was one of fear.

Guilt hit him then. He shouldn't have touched her. Midori was still running a high fever; was probably in a good deal of pain; and they had woken her from violent nightmares and rambling mutters of 'no' and 'don't touch me'. She was terrified now, and once again it was Kenshin's fault.

His eyes cast about for some way to calm her, landing on the neatly folded black gi he had fetched from Midori's room days earlier in the event she woke up and wished to dress. Black hakama rested on the floor under the gi, but he had a strong suspicion that complete chaos would be sure to ensue should he suggest she change those as well. A roll of white bandages for her to wrap around her torso sat atop the gi.

Hesitantly he looked back to her. Glazed eyes watched him with unfocused distrust. Abruptly she coughed, the sound rattling in her chest. Midori put her face in her hands as her body was brutalized by a violent fit of coughing. When at last the fit subsided, Kenshin watched as she pulled her hands away from her face and stared at them as crimson liquid dripped from her hands and chin to the floor.

"I can never rid my hands of the blood," she whispered, voice so hoarse it was painful to hear. "Why will it not wash away? Why must it coat my skin so?"

Immediately he was at her side, his own magenta gi torn from his body to wrap delicately around her hunched frame. She flinched violently at his touch but did not otherwise react as he gently lifted her into his arms and carried her over to the water bucket Kaoru-dono had provided. Setting her carefully on the floor he grabbed up the cloth draped over the bucket's side and dunked it, bringing it up quickly to wring out the excess water. He turned back to Midori and reached for one of her hands. She made no protest, merely staring at a point somewhere to his left as he cleansed the blood from first one hand, then the other.

Kenshin was unsure what to do about the line of blood trailing from her mouth to the tip of her chin; would it scare her further if he wiped it off? Slowly, being very careful not to startle her, Kenshin reached out with his free hand and cupped her chin. He turned her head towards him, peered into her eyes. She seemed to stare through him with empty green orbs that sickened him with guilt. Was this how she coped with the pain she carried in her heart? By withdrawing into herself and blocking out the world? He wanted to weep for his friend; wanted to curl her scarred and battered body into his arms and soothe the pain away. But it was not the pain in her body that brought that dead look into her beautiful green eyes; it was the pain in her soul, and he could do nothing to ease it for her. Very gently, he brought the cloth to her skin and wiped the blood away.

Later, as he settled for the night against the wall near the shoji, Kenshin cast a sorrowful look at the still form under the blankets on the futon in the center of the room.

This woman was a ghost; she closed herself off, held herself aloof from everyone, even him. The shine he remembered in her eyes was gone, lost under the shadows of pain and betrayal. His betrayal; for it had been betrayal when he believed the words of one man, a superior, over hers. She who had been his partner. She who had held him as he wept into her lap, when he had returned to Kyoto after the death of his wife. She who had trusted him above all others.

She who would have offered him her heart.

And he had killed her because he had not trusted her enough.

He had brought her to this state. It wasn't the wound or the fever or Saito; it was Kenshin. And if he lived for a hundred years he would never be able to forgive himself.

Why should he forgive himself when she would not?

When Kenshin awoke to an empty room the next morning, he knew with a crushing certainty that she was gone.

The futon was neatly put away; both sets of her clothing were missing; and his own gi was folded beside him. He picked it up and buried his nose in the cloth. It smelt of oranges; of her. Slowly he put it on, rose to his feet, and exited the room in which he had spent most of the last two weeks.

He went straight to her room. He knew she was gone, had probably left hours ago; but his feet would not listen to what his mind was telling them. He moved as if through a dream: aware of movement but unable to stop it.

Her satchel of belongings was gone. The room was empty but for a single piece of paper on the floor. Kenshin's hand, when he picked up the note, was trembling.

Himura,

I have what I came for. There is no longer a reason for my presence. In the dining area you will find a coin purse; see that it is given to Kaoru-dono as payment for any expenses caused by me. Be sure she understands that part of it should be used to purchase a new training gi and hakama for Yahiko-chan. Part should also be used to repay Megumi-san for her services.

Tell Sanosuke goodbye for me.

For you I leave what is left of my heart. Do with it what you wish.

Sayonara.

She was really gone.

Kenshin slowly sank to the floor, crumpling the letter in his trembling fist. He was aware of the presence behind him; he simple did not have the strength to turn or acknowledge his friend.

There was a long moment of silence.

"She's gone?"

Sano's question was flat, dead. It was a question to which he did not wish to put an answer; he merely asked because he had to. Bleakly, Kenshin nodded, holding up the note in a silent invitation for Sano to take it. When it was pulled from his grasp he let his hand drop lifelessly into his lap.

When Sano stomped around in front of him, fisted a hand in his gi, and jerked him into the air, he let himself hang from the bunched up cloth as he stared dully into Sano's angry face.

"Are you just gonna sit here and mope?" the taller man yelled, shaking his prisoner about by the collar. "Go after her! You know her better than anyone, Kenshin! If anybody's gonna find her it'd be you!"

"I can't go after her," Kenshin replied, his voice so quiet it was barely a whisper. "Tomorrow I must meet with Secretary Okuubo. And…if she does not wish to be found, no one alive will find her."

Sano gave a roar of rage. His fist connected with Kenshin's jaw; the redhead flew across the room, slamming into the wall with a crash. He slid down to the floor, not even caring about the throbbing pain.

"You idiot! Who gives a shit about old man Okuubo?"

The letter was tossed at his feet; his friend stormed past him, halting briefly in the doorway.

"You read the last thing she wrote to you before she said goodbye, Kenshin. You read that again, and then tell me that Okuubo is more important."

The shoji slammed behind him with a bang.

Kenshin's vision was oddly blurry as he reached again for the letter. Through the haze of tears in his eyes, he scanned to the last lines as Sano had ordered.

For you I leave what is left of my heart. Do with it what you wish.

Again the note was crumpled in a trembling fist. Kenshin Himura closed his eyes; lowered his head.

And wept.

A/N: Review and tell me what you think. And go read the one-shot Death and the Messenger. This chapter will then make more sense.