Chapter 8
Ivory fingers clenched the futon's heavy blankets. Slender shoulders heaved silently; damp black hair framed the hidden face of an anguished young woman. Tremors threatened to take over as Misao wrestled with her wailing spirit. The world had never denied her anything before: when she was orphaned, Jiya and the others had taken her in. When she lost Aoshi-sama in early childhood, she found him again out of her own free will, and Kenshin brought him back. She was working on obtaining his love, the only thing that seemed to be out of her grasp until recently—now she wasn't sure if she could even mother children.
She wanted to be his first—his all. But how could she give her all to him if she couldn't even share his bed for fear of becoming pregnant? She may not even marry now—what man wants a damaged fruit, a limited tree? Even if she was persistent and gained his love, what would they do? He would abstain from marriage for fear of hurting her, or worse, killing her. On top of all the remorse he felt for the fall of his companions, his attempt to kill Jiya, and his temporary madness, would the burden of a fragile lover mount the pile? Misao would not be the source of his pain; she would rather bluntly tell him the truth, feign indifference and refrain from marriage with anyone else, content to live with her one love, even from afar. The pain of her decision and the sudden isolation she felt was almost too much to bear—no solace, no relief. Her tears fell abundantly, soiling her yukata, as she vowed silently to the night, "Tomorrow I will be strong, just let me grieve tonight."
Subtle morning sunrays fell on his midnight kimono collar, burning his neck. He held a deep breath as he stepped off the train, ready to face anything—even Misao. He was not surprised to see the Himuras already waiting for him—Battousai was very insightful; he had foreseen his actions with accuracy, and was standing before him, the very embodiment of natural amiability and calm. He bowed in acknowledgment, his tone colorless: "How fares your family, Himura Kenshin?" He would not dare to call the auburn-haired man 'Battousai' in such a crowded location, not with his family at risk.
Despite the gravity behind the visit, Kenshin couldn't help but smile: Aoshi, always the same in some ways, yet so different in others. He was the epitome of masked apathy and the improvising actor who did not follow the script, but his heart. Particularly when it came to a certain young woman. He nodded in response, "Well, thank you Aoshi-dono. I suppose the Aoiya is prospering, ne?"
"Aa."
After waiting for his wife and his friend to exchange greetings, he lifted a hand up to direct Aoshi to the way home, "Come, Misao-dono is waiting."
She was not in her bedroom at the clinic, which was expected, but when they found her wiping a sick man's brow by Megumi's side, focused and caring, the incomers could only wait and watch in stillness. When the two women were finished with the patient, Megumi and Misao gave each other self-satisfied smiles for their work well done, and Misao gently slipped the handkerchief that had held her hair back from her head, letting a pool of thick ink-colored hair fall from its confinement. She was sweating, pink and bright—the embodiment of health and vigor. Taking a hair ribbon from a pocket of her borrowed doctor's kimono, Misao began to pull her hair into a ponytail, humming contentedly as she watched her friend gather the equipment together. A sudden turn and a flick of long hair brought Megumi eye to eye with the silent spectators. A small smile, slight and knowing emerged on the graceful doctor's lips as she registered the scene before her: a smiling ex-hitokiri who was watching his openly stunned wife who in turn was disbelievingly watching a taken-aback Okashira battle with his emotions as he watched his lovely Misao arrange her hair. How amusing—they were such lovebirds. To goad Shinomori into embarrassment and to give Misao some time to register her shock at his arrival, Megumi launched herself into one of the longest laughing sessions in the course of history: "Ohohohohoho!"
Misao jumped up in surprise; her back as straight as a rod. That laugh of hers always made the hair on her body stand upright: "For the love of Kami-sama, Megumi! Was that really necessa—" Deep blue tumultuous eyes that devoured and avoided her at the same instance clashed with her ocean clear ones. Jewels and daggers, morning clarity and midnight chill. She shivered unconsciously as she tried to control her own confused feelings, trying to make sense of his eyes, not surprised that he had come, really. Just surprised with his one look. She dropped her gaze to her hands, awkwardly held together in front of her: "A-Aoshi-sama," she muttered, blushing a faint rosy pink, "It's good to see you again." She then smoothly dropped her nervous hands to her sides as she shifted her unsteady gaze to her married friends, "Kaoru! Himura! Good Morning… how is Kenji? I heard…"
"Misao," an even voice interjected, "it would be favorable if we could talk now."
Urgh. She hated it when he wouldn't let her slip off.
She was entrancing—even with the sheet of perspiration, the drab doctor's kimono top that was too big for her, and her hair held back simply. He tried futilely to unknot the tangled mess that had confused his entire being. Earlier, when he watched her wordlessly in the sickroom tying her hair back, he felt a primal desire take over him when he saw her pearly arms hold back the mass of black hair, revealing her delicate neck. It wasn't a good idea to ravish her in front of the Himuras and the lady doctor, but no one could vouch for the trip back home once she had recovered. He gave her a quick searing glance—she seemed relatively intact; if it weren't for the crutch and leg bandages. The bandages covering her abdominal wound were hidden from view with her kimono front. He cleared his throat and asked tentatively, "Misao, is everything all right? I hope you are recovering rapidly." The stiff straightening of her shoulders and the rapid intake of breath did not escape his notice. So there was something wrong.
"Aoshi-sama, I have a damaged uterus." There—said and done; blunt and ugly. The poor man stood stiffly, letting the abrupt words sink in. The trees that aligned the clinic swayed softly, the rustling of leaves and the whispered sayings of the wind weighing down upon the two.
Aoshi had a fairly good grasp of western medicine—he knew exactly what a uterus was, and the connected meaning with the aforementioned organ brought sudden knowledge: She couldn't bear children. He stared back at her, astounded. All of the earlier resolve, his plans for her and him, even his love—all had to be reconsidered. As he gathered his wits, retreating to the safety of his muted mask, he observed Misao. She had trembled after telling him her problem, but then a deep fire had sparked in the wells of her eyes. He admired her spirit—she would not be the one to run; she faced her situation head on, even with his flailing and dumb shock. Damn all his careful deliberation: he wanted and needed her—he would hold her now, even if he couldn't do so later in the future.
She blinked in surprise; she had seen him retreat behind his wall of ice and had prepared herself to face reality by herself, but she had underestimated him. Held tight against his chest, she was too shocked to do anything but look up to see his face, to look up for answers. She didn't find any: his eyes were closed, his mouth as unyielding as ever. She was bewildered, what was this embrace supposed to mean? Whatever it was, she couldn't help but relax in his arms—she had been given a glimpse of paradise—why not take advantage of it, even if it was for a little while?
She felt light and soft in his arms—a little bird with a fluttering heart and soft breasts. He inhaled her scent; she smelled of mint, juniper and clean sweat. She made him feel dazed and wonderful, she made him feel foolish. She was dangerous, he was dangerous—the perfect pair. Unfortunately, there was too much danger involved; he would have to find a way to deal with this new dilemma. Could he marry her, knowing that one night of wedded bliss could bring her death, or could he shun her, knowing she could have been his every day behind his chilled mask, his winter fortress? No, he knew he could deny his own happiness. He had been doing so for the last twenty or so years. But would he endanger hers? A novel idea flitted through his mind: why not ask her? Reluctantly, he released her but not completely—settling his large hands on her shoulders, he looked her square in the eye and murmured, "What should we do now?"
Misao swallowed audibly. Liberation and entrapment, confidence and hesitation; his few words had gratified and terrified her in one instant. Love overflowed from her for the faith and new openness he portrayed: vulnerability on his side was not a face he liked to show. Yet, it seemed like the matter was forced on them too early. Could they—would they do the right thing? They were still young, and unripe with the matters of love. Doubt festered her mind, even as hope illuminated it. Misao was always an optimist, but also a realist; could she make the correct decision when it was her beloved's life at stake as well as hers? She closed her eyes, running her tongue over her lips, "I don't know."
His hands dropped heavily from her shoulders.