A/N 1: Hello! Here's something that I was working on for a while, but left abandoned for about a year. Then the Rurouni Kenshin revival came about, I watched the trailer and read the new manga (kinema-ban) chapters, and was inspired again. This was supposed to be published to coincide with the movie's release a few days ago, but I was being a perfectionist. It was surprisingly emotional to write, I hope it pulls a few heartstrings here too.
Disclaimer: If I owned Kenshin, the live action movie would have had a worldwide release on the same day as the Japanese release.
Sketch Thirteen: Dreamscapes
Time passes, and Kenshin dreams on.
He left the dojo, hoping that the girl would be sensible enough to stop her night patrols. She was brave, he had to give her that, but she was also foolish. Foolish and naïve, just as he had been, when he had believed that a bloody sword could carve open a new era.
He dreamed that night, camped out under a bridge overlooking a small river.
He dreamt of red lanterns chasing shadows in alleyways, of vicious steel tearing through moonlight, of deceit and bloodied snowflakes.
He dreamt of the light leaving a pair of dark eyes, and when he woke he tasted the same name that had been uttered far too frequently for his liking over the past ten years.
"TOMOE!"
He thought that if he were someone else, he could get used to it. To sunshine, to friendly bickering, to the clack of wooden swords echoing off hallowed walls. Kanryuu was in jail, he had saved another life (hadn't he?), and all of a sudden he thought that maybe he could get used to it.
Then night entered his room, and tauntingly his dreams came along with it.
He dreamt of three large stones and dirt under his fingernails, of feral eyes and the gnashing of wolves' teeth, of a lavender shawl forever stained red with his sins.
Yet, this time he knew. He knew that he was dreaming, he knew that it was the past, and he knew, with such absolute certainty that it almost frightened him, that when he opened his eyes he would no longer see the bloodied streets of Kyoto but a dojo bathed in the warm light of dawn.
Still, he could not help but scream silently as he once again made the rain of blood fall.
He settled down for the night, sitting in front of a fire crackling feebly on what dry twigs and leaves he had been able to find.
He had resumed his wandering again, but this time he had a destination – Kyoto. And he knew without a shadow of a doubt that his dreams would follow him there.
That night, he dreamt of dry infertile soil and a choking disease, of steely determination and worn-out wrist guards, of betrayal written in ink and blood.
He also dreamt of soft, muted firefly light reflected off heartbreakingly blue eyes, of warmth he didn't deserve but nevertheless seeped under his skin, of the sound of shuffling feet and his name upon her lips.
He had started wandering again, and he had expected his dreams to follow him. But he had never, not even for the slightest moment, dreamed that she would come along too.
Everything was different now, yet everything felt the same.
He wasn't really sure what to expect anyway, now that Shishio was defeated and he no longer thought that his existence was a waste of space (it came close, but if his master taught him anything, it was that maybe his life had more meaning than being the plaything of the gods). But he had thought that with such a shift in perspective, the way he saw things would've been different as well. Wasn't the sun supposed to shine a little brighter? Weren't the daily quarrels in the dojo supposed to be louder, the crack of wooden swords against each other more vibrant than before?
Everything should feel different now, yet everything was the same.
He did chores in the day; and when night came, he dreamt.
He dreamt of a pair of questioning, inscrutable eyes, of the dying sun set against raven-black hair and snow-white skin, of seeds set in soil and the echo of children's laughter in the distance.
He dreamt of a stinging left cheek, of snow crunching under his sandals, of blurred vision and muffled hearing and distorted senses, of sword-silver flashing before his eyes before…before…
"TOMOE!"
Before the smell of white plums and blood reached his nose, and then all he could see was snow tainted with his greatest sin, all he could hear was his traitorous heart thudding loudly in his chest as hers slowed, and all he could feel was horror and despair engraved onto his cheek.
Then he dreamt that a season and an eternity passed, winter turned into spring; the snow had melted and she was gone, leaving only the faintest traces of dried blood on the earth beneath him. He dreamt that he stood up and started walking, through familiar streets and up a familiar dirt path, to a familiar place that he knew held sun and life and peace. A place where he could return to, because someone was waiting for him.
"Okaeri nasai."
Everything was different now, yet everything felt the same. But he didn't mind it much, because it felt as natural as going home.
He stumbled along the dirt path, eyes empty and shoulders slumped. His chest was burning, his hands were cold and his head was a mess of despair and guilt. He was tired, he was so tired…
He dreamt of fog and the glint of sunglasses, of the cloying scent of bloodied plum blossoms, of white hot pain that refused to release its grip-
Please let me not be too late, please let me make it there in time, please let me protect her, ohgodohgodpleasepleaseplease letherbealive!
He dreamt of empty blue eyes that once held everything he believed in but lost, of an ugly mirroring scar that reflected every one of his inadequacies, of a sword in a heart he could never deserve.
He dreamt that he was crumbling, his heart shattering as his soul screamed with loss, with an agony that had killed him once before; he could not possibly survive a second time. He dreamt that he was trapped, directionless in the once familiar darkness, the only tangible thing his sword in his hand.
But what use is a sword without someone to protect?
He dreamt of the light leaving a pair of bright eyes, and when he woke and tasted that different but familiar name; he knew that he had not been dreaming at all.
"Kaoru."
He sat on the veranda, looking up at the full moon with a warm cup of tea in his hands. Only two people lived in the dojo now, and while the days could be as noisy as ever, the nights were quiet.
He looked over at the woman next to him, her shoulder and head leaning against one of the wooden pillars as she slept. She had dozed off when the conversation started to lull, fading into a comfortable silence that they had slowly familiarized themselves with over the past couple of months.
He sipped his tea and listened – to her deep, even breaths, to the soft tinkling of the wind chime overhead, to the low chirping of cicadas. And when he finished his tea he set the cup down and moved over to gather the woman in his arms, soothing her barely conscious protests with a hum of assurance as she buried her face into his neck.
After he tucked her into her blankets and shut the sliding door, he washed the tea set and went back into his room, laying down to sleep.
That night, he did not dream.
But he thought he might have heard an old smile and tasted a new laugh.
He slowly squatted in the corner of the vegetable garden, mindful of his stiff joints. His hair was partly gray now, and the corners of his eyes were more pronounced. Digging his hands into the yielding soil, he pulled out a couple of radishes for dinner, smiling as he heard his son in the dojo, counting down the strokes for his beginner students.
They had dinner together for the first time in a while – his son had been busy these past weeks chasing after the daughter of a nearby dojo's master. When they were done they cleaned up, quietly slipping into roles that had not been inhabited lately but were never forgotten. He gathered the dishes and wiped the table, his son washed the dishes and his wife dried them. As he cleaned the dinner table he heard his wife's teasing laugh drift from the kitchen and his son's voice rising defensively, a blush tinting his words.
They took their tea out on the veranda, making gentle conversation about nothing in particular. A warm summer breeze blew across the garden, and the bright tones of the old wind chime weaved through the air. He smiled and sipped his tea as his wife and son entered a mock argument, her hand still warming his as she turned around to hit his son on the head.
He performed his nightly routine of checking the grounds and locking the gates before entering their room. His wife was already in bed, and when he slipped in next to her she turned to face him, brushing her lips across the fading scar on his cheek before settling against his chest. He slipped his arm across her waist and brought her closer, savoring the light smile on her lips and her breaths against his neck as his eyelids drooped.
And for the first time in a long while, he dreamt.
He dreamt of a bright pink sky, of a frog that meowed, of a line of ducks that marched towards a river, only to turn into rice balls as they hit the water. He dreamt of a log that melted into silk when he sat on it, of a hard-boiled egg setting over the horizon, of a pair of sandals that walked themselves across the sky, leaving clouds behind them. He dreamt of worms holding parasols and crossing a bridge, of bears scattering stars into a field, of flowers that bloomed from kimonos, as vibrant as the children wearing them.
He slowly rose to consciousness the next morning, blinking bleary eyes at the dark hair splayed across his arms. As he shifted his wife stirred, and blue eyes gazed at him, the remnants of a dream lingering at their edges.
A wry smile played on his lips. "I just had the strangest dream… The sky was pink, and ducks turned into rice balls," he told her.
His wife's mouth opened in surprise and confusion, before turning upwards into a familiar smile. And as he told her about his dream, their laughter echoed through the house, warming wooden panels dampened by the morning dew.
And slowly but surely, Himura Kenshin no longer remembered at night. He dreamed.
A/N 2: I've always wanted to chart Kenshin's character development through his dreams. It occurred to me when I was re-reading the manga that Kenshin never really dreams, he remembers. He has flashbacks, and maybe nightmares (the two are kinda equivalent anyway), but never dreams the sort of irrelevant, weird dreams that are simply that – dreams. So I thought that one way to really show that he is truly at peace would be for him to have a strange dream totally unrelated to his past. Or his present. Just something that has nothing to do with real life whatsoever, as dreams usually are.
I had to take a pretty macro-level view of Kenshin's entire journey to write this, and when you think about all the ups and downs he's been through, getting hope only to have it torn to shreds – I really feel for this man. And I think that's saying something about Watsuki's writing, being able to portray a character that is so layered, so sympathetic, so real. I hope the different stages of his life were obvious enough (I didn't want to explicitly state where in the RK timeline each section was), but above that, I hope I did Kenshin and his character development justice.
But enough about me, what do you guys think? As always, reviews are greatly appreciated!
(And are you excited about the Kenshin revival that's happening? I know I am! I just wish the movie would get an international release already...)