Paris, France 1884
Aoshi sipped the horrible coffee beverage that the Parisians were so fond of, although he enjoyed the relaxing atmosphere of the small café; it pointed out another marked difference between the western world and Japan. The teahouses of Japan were elegant and formal, the café's of Paris were notably informal. Like this one, most of the tables were located outdoors and although he much preferred green tea to coffee, which was far too bitter for his tastes, he appreciated being able to sit and watch the world go by.
Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a small sheet of paper and unfolded it, written across it were two addresses, one he had been to earlier that afternoon; the art school. The other address was his next destination; a small cottage on the outskirts of town, he lifted his head and scanned the horizon, noting the blue sky giving way to gray. Clouds were crowding in; not storm clouds but those of a refreshing spring shower; it would be dark soon and he wanted to make certain that he was there before nightfall as well as before the rain. Folding the sheet of paper Aoshi slipped it back into his pocket, climbing to his feet he dropped an appropriate amount of money on the table and stepped out into the street toward the outskirts of town. As he moved along the notably less crowded streets toward his destination, Aoshi found himself thinking of other city streets that he had walked not so very long ago with Himura…
Tokyo, Japan 1884 (three months earlier)
"Aoshi." Himura's voice broke the companionable silence they shared. "I need to make one more stop before going back to the dojo"
"Is it important?" Aoshi asked wondering if this was something the police chief had asked him to check out for possible criminal behavior.
"It has been hinted that some of Hiko's work is being exhibited at the new art gallery." He explained, his tone turning sullen as he continued. "I feel obligated to go."
Knowing how arrogant Hiko Seijuurou is, although it was not without good reason, Aoshi didn't doubt that Himura's former sensei had made certain to inform him, as well as anyone else who would listen.
"Shouldn't you be asking your wife?" Aoshi asked having no wish to be the object of Koaru-san's anger. She could really make someone miserable when she was provoked.
"Eto…" Himura's smile grew, his eyes creasing at the corners while he scratched the back of his head. "Koaru has no wish to go."
I'll bet. Thought Aoshi. She probably cracked him over the head a few times with her bokken and screamed loud enough to wake the dead when he suggested it.
"She still doesn't like Hiko eh?" He asked and without a hint of humor.
"No." His smile grew wider as he turned and led the way to the gallery.
They wandered through several exhibits before coming upon Hiko's work labeled with the alias he had assumed. Aoshi admired several of the pieces admitting that they were quite good, however not being a great fan of that medium his interest waned. Mumbling an excuse to Himura, he opted for exploring the many watercolors and woodblock paintings before moving on to the items recently brought from Europe. The differences were very notable, from the landscapes to the portraits, the styles and even the colors were not typically found in Japan. Growing up used to one style of painting it was hard to get used to or even like another and Aoshi much preferred the simplicity of those from his homeland than the vibrant and grandiose paintings on display from Europe. He passed by each with grudging appreciation until, his attention caught, he suddenly stopped, arrested by the haunting familiarity of a portrait on the wall in front of him.
Wispy locks of black hair framing delicate features; eyes that should be sparkling with life were solemn and dark. Lips that should be curved into a spirited smile were tight and drawn. The colors used in the painting were bright and bold, from the vibrant red of the kimono to the lush green of the background, however the entire painting looked as though it had been washed over in black, making it somehow melancholy. This was nothing however; compared to the sadness expressed by the subject, so poignant he had to choke back the burning sensation building in his throat. The face in the painting cried, screamed at him. I am lost. I am frightened, while at the same time it begged and pleaded, save me. Comfort me.
"Misao…" Her name a breathy whisper, lowering his eyes to the title plaque, located just beneath the work, looking for confirmation but hoping for contradiction. He found both as his eyes scanned over the title, simply called 'sorrowful' and below that the artist's name, his eyes widening in surprise as he read 'Hanya'.
Why would she…
You know why. His silent curiosity was cut off by his own silent self-reprimand.
Yes, I know why. Aoshi agreed with himself after a moment of silent contemplation. Misao's enormous heart, the capacity of which was infinite; she could forgive the world anything, the most undeserving of villains, himself included, would find refuge in her beautiful soul. Yet, she had not the ability to forgive herself, to live with her own mistakes and so… she had become someone else.
You know this, feel this and yet remain drifting within this pseudo half-life? His own scathing voice asked. Without her? Leaving her within the same? Without you?
Silence permeated as he neither protested nor accused for several moments. Half of him was allowing the other to think and perhaps realize what his true feelings were.
If you do nothing she will become what you once were, what her forgiveness saved you from. He scolded himself further.
Aoshi lowered his head in remembered shame as he thought of his path to darkness, to selfish ruin. In his obsessive search to defeat Himura Battousai for the title of 'the strongest' he had become cold and unfeeling. Is that what she was destined to become? Like him? Is that what he had taught her, darkness; just as she had taught him, light? Push your feelings aside and they cannot hurt you, bury you emotions deep and no one will be able to use them against you. Become what you can to avoid the pain waiting for you when you realize, nothing you can do will change what happened. He knew that, better than anyone. He knew her, better than anyone.
"Misao-dono!" Aoshi did not turn as Himura gasped beside him, putting an end to his internal exchange.
"Iie." Aoshi whispered, shaking his head as he came to a conclusion, lifting his head, searching the lifeless depths of eyes that should have been blue as midnight and sparkling with as many stars. "Only a ghost of Misao."
"I agree." Himura muttered after a long pause. He and Aoshi turned in unison and left the gallery, returning to the dojo in silence.
"Himura?" Aoshi called quietly, stopping just as they entered the gate, waiting while the one called turned his smiling, knowing eyes on him, waiting for him to continue, to ask what he'd been wanting to tell him these four years. "Where is she?"
"She's in Paris, France." He answered without hesitation.
So far away. He thought lifting his eyes to the horizon, searching the landscape coming back to rest on the now serious eyes of Himura Kenshin who watched him steadfast.
"Do not leave her there, Aoshi." He spoke with the conviction that had won over so many of his enemies. "She belongs here, with you."
He nodded then turned and left the dojo without saying a word, returning to his own house. He had several contacts outside of Japan; one of which he knew was still in France. He could use them to discover her exact location; it wouldn't be easy as she was trained well to be evasive. He was not home for more than twenty minutes when Koaru-san appeared at his door, without saying a word she thrust several envelopes at him and left. He stared after her curiously for several moments before looking down at the letters he held… letters from Misao. Closing the door he went back inside to read each letter, devouring every word and it was as if he could hear her soft voice, whispering the words into his ear, her soft breath caressing his cheek as she did so. He could feel her nearby, standing so close that the clean scent of her flowery perfumed hair filled the room, a few of the strands escaping her braid, drifting across his skin like silk threads.
He was gone outside of two weeks, Koaru's letters providing all the information he needed to find her and all the information he needed to realize everything that she had suffered in her self-imposed exile. She had very pointedly avoided mentioning him in any of her correspondence, a self-defense mechanism no doubt, after all, who wanted to be reminded of that which served only to cause you pain. He had grown hopeful in his long hours of meditation while aboard the ship; he would often stand at the bow and stare off into the distance, nothing but the blue sea before him, reminding him of the colorful depths of her eyes.
Soon, he would see her. And she would save him. Comfort him. Soon.
Paris, France 1884
Misao inspected the apple she held for any bruises, holding it up to the light to make certain it wasn't too ripe. There was nothing worse than biting into what you believe will be a crisp, juicy apple only to find it dry and mushy. Yuck! She shivered at the thought before determining that the one she held was good and placing it in her basket she selected another, subjecting it to the same scrutiny. She stiffened suddenly as the hairs on the back of her neck stood up, a sensation washing over her that she had not felt in years… someone was watching her, staring, intently. Trying to appear as casual as she could she turned slowly toward the street, looking carefully in one direction and then the other. There was no one, just strangers passing on his or her way home, no one out of the ordinary. Turning back she noticed Auguste, the owner of the small market she stood in front of waving at her from his window, beckoning her inside.
It must have been him. She thought as she smiled and nodded at the old man and quickly selecting one more apple went inside.
"Monsieur Hanya." He greeted cheerfully. "Come in, come in."
She greeted him with a smile and bowed at the waist, many of the people that saw her on a regular basis had come to expect it, knowing it to be a Japanese custom, some even bowing in return.
"Bon jour Auguste-san." She greeted moving further into the store as he kept beckoning with his hand. "I am on my way home and could not help but stop when I saw the delicious looking apples on the cart outside."
"Oui. They are the best quality, from a local grower, not far from here." He moved from behind the counter and led her to the back of the store. "Look here."
Misao followed him indulgently and then looked to where he indicated, gasping as her eyes widened in surprise and delight at the bulk of fresh cherries he showed her.
"Arigato! Arigato!" She cried forgetting herself momentarily sounding very Japanese and very feminine. "Ano… I mean… merci."
"It's okay Monsieur Hanya." The old guy winked at her, as if saying 'I know your secret, I know what you are.' It is good to forget ourselves now and then."
She nodded, eyeing him suspiciously, wondering if he had guessed more than he should have. He handed her a paper bag and she began to fill it, darting glances at him from the corners of her eyes.
Does he know, I wonder? She thought silently. Does he realize that I'm a woman, that I'm hiding, that I'm… No, he can't possibly know.
Misao filled her bag with as much of the cherries as she could eat before they rotted, collected a few more living provisions, paid for her things and left the store, catching the first few drops of what would become a dousing spring shower. She had reached the end of the street when the rain increased; she ducked into the doorway of a small shop and waited for the rain to let up. Not only did the rain continue but it was fast approaching nightfall, now it was not only wet but dark as well.
"Great." She grumbled buttoning up the front of her jacket, she tucked her paper bags of groceries inside, pulled up her collar and stepped out into the rain to make her way home, resolving never to forget her umbrella again, just as she did every time she got caught in the rain. Fortunately she was still fast and could cover the few miles in no time at all; of course she could have done it faster if she didn't have to worry about her groceries.
"Thanks a lot." Misao grumbled turning a gimlet eye on the sky that had ceased its downpour the minute she reached the lodge. She thought she might stop by and pick up any mail that might have arrived in the last week but looking down at her wet, mud splashed clothes she decided against it. She could just as easily come by in the morning. On the verge of turning away she stopped suddenly as the door flew open and light spilled out as well as the voice of the proprietor's daughter.
"Monsieur Hanya-san!" The little girl chirruped grabbing her hand and pulling her inside. Misao laughed but remained immovable, shaking her head.
"One or the other Aimee-chan." Misao corrected, then explained loud enough that her father could hear from behind the counter. "I'm covered in mud right now, I'll stop by tomorrow."
"No, no. Papa has a package for you." She pulled again and Misao looked up to see her father nodding from where he stood. "It came today."
She looked down at herself one more time, she really was a mess and didn't want to make more work for the family who lived in and took care of the lodge, the little girl tugged at her hand again. She could just as easily pick it up in the morning but doubted the little girl would relent and so she compromised.
"I don't want to get the floor dirty, so I will wait here Aimee-chan." She bargained with the little girl, looking up at her father she smiled. "Your papa can bring it to me; ne?"
Her father nodded and was already moving from around the counter, carrying a large package, it appeared to be the shape of a canvas and Misao's eyes narrowed on the brown wrapping. Who in the world would send her a painting? Probably someone who wanted his or her money back; she smirked at the idea. She was surprised at the weight when she took hold of it, struggling to balance it, she finally got it under control but had no way to hold onto her groceries, the bags were slipping out from under her coat.
"I will have Aimee help you carry your groceries." She heard the proprietor's voice from behind the bulky painting, then felt him collecting her grocery bags, fortunately for Aimee they weren't heavy and after some minor adjusting she was walking alongside the little girl to her cottage, set back into the woods behind the inn.
"What did you do today Aimee-chan?" She asked her young helper as they walked. She had always felt an affinity for the young girl, growing up operating an inn was not too far from her own upbringing if one didn't count the ninja thing.
"I met the man I want to marry." She sighed wistfully. Misao nearly choked, turning her head she tried to look at the little girl, barely managing to as the painting she carried made it next to impossible. "He was the most beautiful man I have ever seen… and kind."
"Aren't you a little young to be deciding on a husband Aimee-chan?" She asked with teasing laughter at the emphatic shake of the little girl's head she asked. "Where did you meet him?"
"He brought the painting, he said it was a gift." She offered and Misao's brows drew together in a frown, curious she remained quiet and let the little girl continue rambling. "Not for you but someone you know. He said you would know who to give it to."
Misao's steps slowed her frown deepening. A gift? She would know who to give it to? Maybe there was a note among the letters that Aimee carried; she hoped so because she could not for the life of her guess who it was meant for. Shrugging her shoulders she resumed her normal pace and only half listened to Aimee's chatter as they made their way to her door.
"He was like you, Monsieur Hanya-san." Aimee replied to the question of what the man looked like may have triggered Misao's suspicions if she had been paying more attention. To her disadvantage however, she only caught the mistake in her grammar, explaining to her again that she could use 'monsieur' or 'san' but using both was like saying the same thing twice.
They reached the cottage; Misao opened the door and set the painting carefully on the floor, leaning the backside of it against the wall. She turned and collected her things from Aimee and set them aside, pulling an apple from her bag she handed it to the little girl who beamed up at her, clutching the fruit to her chest.
"Ahh…reee…gaa…toh. Hanya-san." Misao smiled at the attempt the little girl made to imitate her.
"Do itashimashite Aimee-chan." She answered then chuckled as Aimee bowed slightly and ran off, back to the inn. She stepped inside and closed the door, picking up her bags she set them on the small table next to the window and began to unbutton her coat, turning back to the painting that rest against the wall behind her. She wondered again at the mystery of the whole thing, then, she stiffened as for the second time that day she felt someone's eyes on her, someone she knew without a doubt was in this room with her. Slowly, discreetly she reached under the hem of her vest and pulled the knife she carried from its sheath. Turning quickly in the direction of where she knew the stalker to be she took a defensive stance.
"Show yourself!" She shouted, staring intently into the dark, unable to see but knowing despite that, it was where they hid themselves. Damned thieves. They remained in shadow and she suddenly caught a sense of something, a feeling of… familiarity. Her knuckles tightened around her knife, her eyes widening momentarily as she realized that this person probably didn't understand her, that they were most likely not French. She swallowed hard, trying to choke back her nervousness, wanting to delay confirming what she feared but unable to she shouted a second time, in Japanese. "Show yourself!"
She felt their movement immediately, her eyes narrowed and her knife poised, ready to do battle with anyone who would challenge her, she waited. Even before he reached the light she knew silent feet he might have but nothing could dampen the presence of this man from her awareness. Still she waited. Immovable until he reached the light, unconvinced until she could see with her eyes. The sight of him was staggering, he was still so beautiful, still managed to take her breath away, still frightened her.
"Aoshi-sama!" She barely managed to gasp out his name, the knife fell unnoticed from her hand and she stepped back toward the door.
"Still so formal Hanya." The smooth timbre of his voice caressed her ears for the first time in four years. "After the passage of so much time I would have thought things would have grown less so."