"This is my thanks."
I wonder what she is like now. She must be sixteen, at the very least. I wonder whether she is still the tomboy she was, or whether she is a woman now – a woman like the one crouching on the floor in front of me. I wonder if she still has the spirit that she used to, the spirit that drew me to her when she was just a two-year-old.
"Fools," says the woman before me. "Even though I ran off, they still – they're fools, every one of them."
There is a harshness in her voice that surprises me. I expected her to be happy, perhaps, that they've come for her, but she isn't. She doesn't think they will be successful. Well, neither do I. But she would not have that tone, if she were in this situation. She would always have hope – never bitterness, or the coldness that reflects in my eyes. But then … I do not know her anymore. I haven't seen her for eight years, and will probably never see her again. What right do I have to make assumptions about what she would be like now?
What I do next surprises me. I do not know why I came up here; perhaps I just wanted to see this woman again, just to compare her with the woman she would have become in my mind. But looking at this woman, with her cascading dark hair and long lashes, all I can see is a braid snaking around thin shoulders, and wide blue eyes looking up at me through hauntingly dark lashes. My hand moves inside my trenchcoat of its own accord, and her short sword clatters to the floor.
Her eyes widen; she looks up in surprise. For a second I hesitate, wondering at what I am about to say. If it was her, would I still do the same? I think of what awaits this woman, and I know I would. "That is yours," I say. "I am returning it to you."
I can see the question in her eyes, the disbelief. She wonders what I am doing – she knows, but she doesn't believe it of me. Do I truly appear that inhuman? Would she recognize me if she saw me like this?
"It is better not to get your hopes up. They will never make it up here."
Is the truth always this cold, or do I make it sound like this? She already knows what I am telling her – why am I wasting my breath? What am I trying to convince her of? No one knows better than her what fate awaits her. So why –
"In an hour, you'll have nothing to prevent Kanryuu from torturing you."
There, I have told her that without reason. She knows. Why am I saying this? Am I trying to justify my actions to myself? That is not like me; once I decide something, I do not turn back. I listen to my own words, and I know that what I have said is wrong. Something can prevent Kanryuu. Death. And that is what I am offering her.
"A painful life or an easy death."
Someone said that to me once. I remember that, but I do not remember who said it. Was it Okina, perhaps? Or maybe Makimachi-san, her grandfather, some time before I was appointed okashira? Yes, I think it was him. I had told him that I wanted to be the next okashira, and he had told me that if I continued the way I was, I would get the leadership. But it will not be easy, he had said. It will be a hard, painful life, in which you will lose much of what is dear to you. But … if you shun the responsibility, you will have an easy death. And – Aoshi, an easy death is not always the coward's path.
"Choose your own path."
I hadn't completely believed him, when he had said that. Yes, I understood what he meant by it being a hard, painful life – and how right he had been – and that if I had refused the leadership, I would not be standing where I am now. I would be back in Kyoto, with her, perhaps … instead of living without shame, without honour, in the way we live now. But the part about an easy death not being the coward's path – well, no, I had not believed that. To die in pain and torture was heroic. What thirteen-year-old does not think that? And so my remaining streak of naïveté had led me to accept the leadership – I had chosen my path.
"We are not concerned with Kanryuu's drugs or money. What we care about is the fight."
What am I doing? I am pouring out my heart to her. I am telling her things that I have told no one – that I have not even allowed myself to think in front of anyone. Not that she understands the significance some of my words hold for me. I wonder whether she would have understood, had I said this to her. No, not likely – but again, how can I know? I do not know her as she is now. I knew a little girl, not the woman she must have become. How can I base what I know of her on a little girl?
"We came to fight for this shady smuggling business, and thanks to you we have some worthy enemies."
That is true, also. I never thought, when I was employed, that I would end up facing Himura Battousai in battle. I know I will – Hannya and the others cannot handle them, I know. It is ironic, really – how a job which, in my opinion, had honour equivalent to fighting for money on the streets could lead me to, perhaps, the chance at the greatest honour of all … the title of the 'strongest' …
"This is my thanks."
That was the truth too. It came straight from my heart, that thanks. Because I knew what I was going to do now. I would finish this job – I owed that to myself, and my honour, and to the others with me – and then I would stop. I would stop scraping for money the way we did, living the way we are. I would return to her, just to see what she had become, and then perhaps I would find something else to do. Something more honourable. And maybe – just maybe – I would have the title of the strongest when I returned. And I could thank this woman for that – she had led me to this, had presented me with this opportunity, and I would not let it go.
"You are one of little luck, so I have some sympathy."
I did, truly. But it was not for her because of her. It was because of her. It was because this woman could have been her, and I could not let her suffer the way Kanryuu had planned. I wonder, for a second, why I do not name her. It is not painful, in any way, to name her. Misao. It is so simple. But Misao is the girl I left behind, and the person I call she – she is the one who Misao must be now, the one I do not know.
"What you do with it is not my concern."
Yes, I had done what I could. Now it was up to her, to choose. I had given her her chance, and I had given her my thanks. I owed her nothing. She had shown me something I had failed to see over the past eight years, and I was grateful for it. There would be difficulties – there always are – but we would find something. All I wanted at this moment was to see her again. That was all. I knew that the thirst for the title would overcome me the minute I stepped away from this woman, but for now, looking at her, I only wanted to go back to Kyoto and see what Misao had become.
She had my thanks.
A/N: I … have nothing to say, really. About Aoshi wanting to go back to Kyoto – I would think it's only natural, while he's looking at Megumi. I mean, from a purely – ah – innocent point of view, he'd naturally want to see how the girl he half-raised grew up, wouldn't he? And I wanted to show that before Hanya and the others, he was still hopeful – you know, the way he thinks that he and the others would go back and find some sort of life for themselves … I wanted to show that that hope was mainly because he was looking at Megumi and thinking of Misao, because when he's not thinking of Misao, he doesn't show that hope (like when he fights Kenshin later on).
And … enough of the introspections … I think you can go and review now (I won't even bother to say 'hint, hint'). Everything that Aoshi says is from the manga, because that's the only direct source, isn't it?