Title: Hanafubuki
Part 3: Shinsengumi
AN: If you've read ahead and are wondering: What happened
to the first person? What happened to Kenshin? let me
explain that this part of the story is important for the plot, and
the best way (i.e. least boring) I could think of writing it was
as a series of flashbacks. They're not Kenshin's flashbacks, so
I couldn't very well write them from his point of view, you see?
Therefore, there is method to my madness. You'll find a return
to normality in the next chapter .
--
Memories descend
The past becomes the future
Without direction
--
Part 3
"Are you certain?" The man calmly lifted the sake to his lips, and kneeling across from him, the boy nodded. After a moment's silence, he replaced the dish to the tray before him, his eyes staring intently off at some indistinguishable point in the distance. "Well then, Himura Battousai, I'd heard you'd finally arrived in Tokyo, but I'd never would have believed it to be true. Even after all these years, I haven't forgotten you -- nor shall I until the day I die." The dark-haired boy regarded the floor blandly and did not reply.
"Sumire, you may do your chores now." A gently rustle of fabric, the soft sliding of a door, and then the man sat alone.
When he was positive that he boy had left, he carefully reached into his gi and extracted a woman's hairpin. Constructed of finely beaten gold, it held the delicate form of a flower half-opened and blushing in the newfound sunlight. Rough fingers traced the flowing curves worn smooth by years of such handling, and the man's eyes fell closed as his mind flew backward to days long past.
- - - - - - - - - -
"Otsuka-san, congratulations! I just heard the news this morning." The man had tensed at the sound of his name, his left hand falling instinctively to the hilt of his sword, but he turned with an indulgent smile when he recognized the speaker. The enveloping silken darkness of night caressed the sleeping city of Kyoto, and the two men in blue and white haori were the only figures strolling along the deserted streets.
"Thank you," Jiro Otsuka replied tersely before relapsing into his characteristic reticence. He continued walking as his younger companion fell into step beside him, and the two continued along increasingly darker and narrower streets with only the moon's pale light to guide them.
"Indeed, the gods have blessed you with good fortune to find a wife so beautiful and understanding in such turbulent days as these," the second speaker commented with a hint of awe, his voice a little too loud, almost grating on the ears. He up looked at the man beside him with deference, paying only minimal attention to the surrounding environment, and the awkwardness of his movements suggested that he wasn't yet accustomed to living in the shadows.
Jiro sighed, frowning. "Mizuki is naive to the horrors of the day. Perhaps I am wrong to draw her into the violence. I fear that she will be battered like a chrysanthemum in a storm." He looked neither to the left nor to the right as he walked, his eyes focused only on the empty road before him.
"Everyone becomes involved sooner or later. Even women nowadays can't keep their hands completely clean." The younger man unconsciously rubbed his palms down the side of his hakama in a accompanying his words. "I say, if you can find pleasure, Otsuka-san, it's yours for the taking, and you should enjoy it while it lasts. There's no telling when you'll be able to again."
"To speak with such confidence, you must truly be a man who lives for the moment." Jiro ducked into the shelter of a doorway, blending seamlessly into the architecture as if he were nothing more than the wood's shadow.
"I just don't believe in wasting good opportunities. You'll never know when you'll have the honor of dying." The last was spoken with a tinge of irreverent sarcasm, and the young swordsman drifted toward the doorway as if to follow the other's lead.
Jiro, face expressionless, stepped from the doorway back into the street. "Wait for me here. I will be with the others when I return."
"But Otsuka-san, you said --" The younger man's voice rose in pitch as he protested, cracking, and the speaker (little older than a boy) fell silent in embarrassment.
"I said nothing of the sort. You will stay here and wait for my return." The young man ground his teeth in frustration as Jiro Otsuka slipped away into the night with barely a sound. He had not seen the direction of his mentor's flight and could not follow.
- - - - - - - - - -
"Shimizu-san, your dinner." An elderly woman with hair as white as pristine morning snow knelt besides the man and placed a warm tray of food before him. Shuen glanced up in surprise, his large hand closing tightly around the hairpin, hiding it from view.
"Damn it woman, you should knock before you enter!" he exclaimed, temper suddenly flaring. Lost in his memories, he hadn't noticed that the sun had sunk below the horizon leaving him sitting in the cool purple darkness of twilight.
"My deepest apologies." She bowed deeply once more, then quickly rose to her feet and left. Again, the room was silent.
- - - - - - - - - -
"You're late, Otsuka." The speaker's tone was edged with barely-contained impatience and laced with biting reproach. "We almost left without you this time. Save apologies for later. There's no time for them now -- Let's go." His eyes accustomed to the darkness, Jiro squinted against the brightness of the lantern held up to his face by the speaker.
There were six men total, all clad in identical blue and white haori, and they flew though the empty streets as one, leaving only a vanishing cloud of dust as evidence of their presence. The leader stopped before the marked building, extinguished the lantern, and handed it off to his assistant behind him. As he closed his eyes, the wind blew though his hair in eager empathy, and when he resolutely faced his men, each knew the words that hovered on his lips. "Aku. Soku. Zan." It was their motto, and they lived every day by its elegant simplicity. Slay evil instantly.
The targets were two Choushuu loyalists rumored to be supporting the Ishin Shishi -- Imperialists fighting against the Shogunate for a return of imperial power. The guards at the door presented no problem at all. They were young, inexperienced Imperialist scum, and they hadn't had time to scream. Their blood sprayed across the entrance walls and ran down into puddles that spilled onto the empty street. But where were the targets? Where had the rats hidden themselves?
"You will go no further." The intruders froze, every set eyes sweeping the shadows for the speaker. "The Shinsengumi will not disrupt tonight's work. Lay down your arms." He stepped confidently through the open doorway, fierce amber eyes two glowing points of light in a sea of darkness.
"Battousai, so we meet again," the leader of the group muttered in greeting, drawing his sword with accustomed grace. "You seem to be everywhere in Kyoto these days." The hitokiri gave no reply, but as he charged forward, his sword leapt from his sheath, a slashing blur of silver. The leader dodged to the right at the last moment, leaving only a few sliced hairs lingering in the air behind him.
The other Shinsengumi, having recovered from the surprise at meeting the lethal shadow of the Ishin Shishi, at once reached for their weapons, eager to rush forward to their leader's aid. The assassin, noting the movement, didn't break off his attack. A quick diagonal slash slit the leader from shoulder to hip, and before the body even hit the ground he turned to face the approaching onslaught.
As the first man's hand gripped his sword, the hitokiri's blade cut through his throat, and his blood sprayed upwards like an arching fountain, only to rain down upon his comrades, drenching them in warm dampness. The second man managed to bring his sword up to block -- but it did him no good, for as half of it flew through the air and embedded itself in the wall, his head plummeted like a stone rolled lazily across a floor already slick with blood.
Jiro sank into the shadows, torn between honor and self-preservation. 'I have a wife waiting in bed for me -- a wife and a life ahead of me. It can't all end here tonight...' Uncertain of whether he had been spotted, he slid backward against the wall, trying to ignore the damp trails running down his face. The harsh metallic smell overwhelmed his senses, and even as he inched toward escape, he knew in his heart that the hitokiri was too observant to have overlooked his presence.
"Battousai." He was groping with one hand for the doorway when the voice startled him. Jiro froze, recognizing the speaker, then found a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Yes, he would make his escape while Battousai was distracted.
As Hajime Saitou, captain of the third Shinsengumi unit, appeared from an entrance to his right, the hitokiri lifted haunted eyes from the sea of bodies sprawled at his feet. "You have been busy with my men, I see, but this is the end. You will die by my sword tonight."
Even as Saitou leaned back in his powerful Gatotsu stance, Jiro Otsuka backed silently out of the doorway and fled into the night. His disappearance had not gone unnoticed.
- - - - - - - - - -
A light tapping on the door frame jerked Shuen abruptly from his memories, and he dropped the golden pin into his lap, hiding it in the folds of his hakama. Damn that woman, what did she want now? "Shimizu-san, have you finished your dinner?" The tray sat before him, untouched. The food had long since gone cold.
"Come take it away, but don't disturb me again tonight." He waited impatiently as the woman entered and left, his face a pale emotionless mask. Her movements seemed inordinately slow and her footsteps fell heavily upon the tatami floor. He exhaled in relief as the door once again slid shut. The night was far from over and the story only half-completed.
- - - - - - - - - -
Run. Footsteps pounded steadily behind him -- he should have known they would follow. Run. There was nowhere to hide, no rest for gasping lungs or racing heart. He twisted through the deserted streets of Kyoto not caring where his feet took him. Buildings flew by, indistinct flashes in his peripheral vision as the ignorant moon followed its nightly path across the heavens. Still, the icy hand of fear gripped his throat and spurred him onward.
"...it is not allowed to deviate from the proper path of man..." The words so often repeated in his presence rang through his mind, reverberating from every corner. "...no one is ever allowed to leave the..." It was Shinsengumi Law, and there was only one punishment reserved for offenders: seppuku ritual suicide. He had given up everything to join the fights against the rebels. Now he would do the say to escape the certainty of his demise. Run.
As the pink-tinted rays of morning crept above the horizon, the streets at last fell quiet beneath his sandals. The pounding echoes of determined pursuit seemed to dissipate like a fragmented nightmare does at the advent of morning, but his sweat-soaked jacket and aching lungs were evidence that he hadn't been dreaming. There was no time to think and only one path his feet could follow. Find Mizuki and leave -- that was all that mattered.
The journey had been long and onerous, made even more so by the early onset of winter. Together they had traveled from village to village, their only goal being to put distance between themselves and Kyoto. And finally, when they could go no further they collapsed exhausted onto a small slice of land in the middle of nowhere and began to gather wood enough to last frigid nights. Mizuki was heavy with child, and they had run out of time.
The tiny dilapidated farmhouse had been abandoned for several years, but although the diakon radishes and hakusai chinese cabbage had long since gone wild and rotted in the fields, Jiro still managed to salvage enough to last a week at least. Yes, they had escaped! A sense of profound relief washed over him again and again -- reducing other problems of survival to nagging details, which he ignored.
Underneath the thatched roof Mizuki rested on a heap of tattered blankets. She shifted restlessly from side to side, unable to get comfortable underneath the weight of the new life inside of her. By the power of its kicks she knew that it had to be a boy; no girl could possibly have such strength before birth.
Jiro added another log to the crackling fire. The rotting walls of the farmhouse swayed back and forth in the rising wind, and he knew that when the snow began to fall most of it would surely find its way indoors. There was no way to avoid discomfort. Still… these were all minor details. "We are safe, safe." He repeated the words over and over in his mind. It was a chant to shield against the onset of insanity and despair.
The days passed, as they inevitably do, each sunrise limping onward to following sunset. Weeks faded gradually into months, and with every breath he took, the horrors of Kyoto sank further away in his mind, closer to the edge obscurity. Why had he been so terrified? Everything was calm and peaceful, quiet and serene. Nonetheless, he jumped at the soft scurrying of a mouse behind him; old habits are always slow to die.
- - - - - - - - - -
When he opened his eyes, the room was bathed in silver overtones, spidery fingers of moonlight that streamed down from the sky to grasp the Earth and bind her until the sun once again claimed the sky. Just as he gripped the treasured hairpin, the shadows of the past locked their hands around his body and held him captive. Like the cycles of the moon, history had to run its course, and not by all the praying in the world could he alter the past.
- - - - - - - - - -
"Will you watch Sumire for a moment? I must have left my purse at the house." Mizuki held the small hand of her bright-eyed toddler out to her husband, cheeks flushing slightly in embarrassment. "I'll only be a moment." Jiro nodded without comment.
The first summer away from Kyoto had been, at the same time, both wonderful and lonely. The air seemed to be clearer, the night sky more expansive, and the flowers more radiant in their ephemeral glory. But although the noisy conversations of the cicadas filled the twilight hours with random noise, the native inhabitants of the countryside made poor company day in and day out.
If the first summer was metaphoric of the calm within the eye of a storm, the second seemed to dwell far outside the radius of the swirling winds. Although he still carried his swords at his side, Jiro found that he no longer jumped at the swaying shadows, no longer glanced over his shoulder every few paces, no longer feared daily for his life. He no longer pounced upon every traveler, hoping for news from Kyoto, and he no longer practiced kenjutsu in the empty fields at night with only the indifferent cicadas for an audience.
"Papa?" The boy tugged cautiously upon his father's hakama, small hands dusty from digging in the dirt road. "When will Mama be back?" He stood, barely reaching up to his father's knee, with one hand in his mouth and tousled black hair sticking up on the back of his head.
"Soon. Be patient," Jiro replied, not paying close attention. Something in the air, some elusive flicker clinging to the swirling wind, brushed faintly upon his senses and tickled his body. He suppressed a shudder as the tingling danced up and down his spine.
Smoke. It began as a thin line climbing leisurely toward the heavens, but (in what seemed to be only a moment) even the clouds were tainted by dark ashes and licking flames. Fire. He shoved the boy roughly into the bushes, warning him not to move if he wanted to stay alive. Blood sang in his ears as he sprinted up the road toward the farmhouse. Muscles unused to such activity cramped, and his chest ached with the effort of breathing. Still, he pushed onward with only one thought on his mind -- Mizuki.
He was too late to catch them. By the time the engulfing flames filled his vision, they had already left, and there was no need for the naked blade in his hand. He collapsed to his knees, weak and dizzy from exertion and emotion. Even with his eyes closed he could feel the heat of the fire on his face, hear the crashing of the burnt walls as they fell onto the smoldering grass. And he shed warm tears with his forehead pressed into the dirt as his arms fell limply to his sides.
It was the bright glint of reflected sunlight that eventually caught his attention. A few paces off, a small object nestled into the grass took in the fading daylight and spun it back out toward the world with golden brilliance. He reached for it and clutched it to his breast, dirt and tears merging upon his cheeks. Underneath Mizuki's golden hairpin, a roughly scribbled note fluttered gently in the breeze.
"She was loyal to you until the end. You should be pleased, as loyalty has become such a rare commodity. You may have escaped me twice, Jiro Otsuka, but you will not be as fortunate in the future"
The note was unsigned, but there was no mistaking its origin. Although the voice of Hajime Saitou resounded in his ears, it was the grim features of the Hitokiri Battousai that filled his vision. This, everything, it was his fault and his fault alone! Had it not been for the one night in Kyoto, Mizuki would still be by his side. Had it not been for that one fateful night, everything would be different; everything would be as it should be.
Oh yes, Jiro Otsuka would live. Even with a young child underfoot there were places he could disappear to. He would live, if only to enact his revenge. Those who had caused his misery would pay dearly for their crimes against his spirit. Although the mind and body might one day have forgiven, it is in the spirit that anger achieves immortality.
end of part 3
- - - - - - - - - -
Note 1: Ah, another part finished... I'm not certain how long this
story is going to be when I'm finished with it. It's supposed to be
a response to the K&K mailing list challenge asking writers to write
a story in which Kenshin breaks his vow never to kill ack, did
I just ruin the whole plot? I think not. Ah, so there's your teaser...
and on that note, I think I'll take my leave Patience is a virtue!
- Mir (06.17.2001)
Note 2: Here's the revised version of this chapter. Mostly I've
just gone through and smoothed out some rough spots as well
as corrected the typos.
- Mir (02.28.2002)
Note 3: Ah, so I was wondering why this chapter was looking
particularly good--it seems I already revised it in circa 2002. It's
actually quite fun to go back and revisit this story. I've forgotten
how much I like some of the scenes... almost like reading something
written by someone else!
- Mir (06.16.2008)
.