Makasetekudasai
"Please leave it to me"
Rurouni Kenshin Fanfiction
by Laura Gilkey
*
So what am I going to do, just lay here until I die? Soujiro asked himself, but still he lay on the futon, on his side with his right hand curled limply in front of his face. The small heating stove had burned itself out long ago, and the overquilt was askew; one of the upper corners enveloped his hips and knees, but his stocking feet were otherwise bare in the chilly air, as was his upraised left shoulder except for its bandages—that side of his nemaki had fallen off of it. He'd been laying here for days, ever since...
The doomed messenger scrambled backward, screaming at the sight of his horse's head ripped off its neck and flung away into the trees by Soujiro's sword. Surely the man was desperate to escape that horror, but the blade was already waiting behind him to silence him with one thrust, the ghastly familiar sensation of steel on bone, the thin wall of his skull yielding to the swordpoint...
Soujiro squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fist—his sword-hand—in front of them. I never wanted it to be like this again... In the past few days, he had been over and over reasons why. That messenger probably had people to miss him, to be heartbroken at his loss; after all, that was true even of little birds. Anji-oshou had said that the way each person behaved created the world, piece by piece, and Soujiro hardly wanted to cast his vote for a world full of killers. Reiko-obachan had asked him, about the old days with Shishio, "Is that all over now? Do you really want to start again?" and it had been such an undeserved blessing to hear "I still want you to stay here," even when he could say "yes." I still want to... I still wish I could... Maybe that was all the reason he needed to be so devastated by another stormy night. I didn't want to do this...
But what could he do? It was the government's order, and what they had for repayment was the fates of everyone Soujiro had to protect, his family whom he loved more than himself. Even this was better than bringing punishment down on them. After all, he was the cause of all the trouble, so surely he should be the one to bear its weight.
It was just such a heavy burden... He remembered as a child, carrying the enormous bags of rice his family dealt in until he was exhausted and fell, pinned down by one of them, trying to stand up under its weight. Even that hardly seemed as difficult as now, bracing his right arm under his body and pushing himself up.
He picked up an empty cracker-box beside the futon and rose, setting it aside on a table where it knocked painfully against his sheathed sword. The day he had accepted this job, he had thought to buy crackers and new clothes. After that night, he had felt very sick, and even yet it hadn't completely faded. It had been late the next day before he could even stomach the crackers, but now all he could pick out of the box was a few stray crumbs, and putting them in his mouth only made him notice more that he felt weak with hunger. Even if he didn't feel like it, he knew that unless he chose to simply waste away, he had to eat something, and that meant going out.
His new clothes lay out, and had had plenty of time to dry: a new shirt, dark brown hakama, and a slate blue kimono with woven tonal stripes—and a scarf to hide the bruise from their persuasion techniques. At least it was getting cold outside; as a child, he'd worn a scarf once in mid-summer. And at least he hadn't had to wear his already-abused white uniform that night. It was stowed away in a closet, out of sight.
His hands moved very slowly in getting dressed, even further hindered by allowances for his broken shoulder. He felt every button on the shirt as he fumbled to push it through its hole, then donned the kimono and hakama, which were still a bit stiff from the rainwater. He put on the sling for his left arm, then finally the scarf, tucking it under his chin.
The hardest part was looking in a mirror to ensure that the scarf hid everything it should. At length he satisfied himself about that, although his right cuff was too loose to fully cover the scrapes and bruises there. But more than that, looking in the mirror, he couldn't hide from his scraggly, disheveled hair, the frown that had settled into his mouth, or the rings under eyes that sagged narrow with weariness. This doesn't even look like me... The tired face looking back from the glass was like that of a stranger. Soujiro tried to smile, that he might catch a glimpse of himself that way, but the lips in the mirror only stretched wider for a moment, and quavered at even that. But he supposed it was true that this was who he was now. He combed the days in bed out of his hair, but the rest he didn't know how to change.
When he stepped outside at last, the chilly autumn wind braced his cheeks, and he squinted in the sunlight as if he had forgotten how bright it was. In the past few days, it was as if he had forgotten that there was a world outside his rented room, and what it looked and felt like. His mind still couldn't free itself from its tormented paralysis, so he just started walking blindly and floated down the streets of Kyoto like a piece of driftwood in flowing water. He let himself be carried down the center of the street in the direction other people were walking, occasionally wandering to the side and pausing as if in eddies near the bank, looking at shop-windows, at the majestically varied layers of red and gold leaves, or at the front stairs of unremarkable buildings before being picked up again by the stream.
At length he managed to recall that he had come out to eat, and steered just barely, enough to be deposited at a noodle stand surrounded by open-air tables. He ordered soba with chicken, because it sounded easiest on the stomach, and sat down with it and ate very slowly. A shadow of an ache weighed on his arms, although from weariness in his mind, not his body. It drained him of energy, slowing him down, but with that sick feeling, this was a more comfortable pace to eat, and he didn't mind how long he sat there.
The noodles were half-gone and cold when a tall man cast a shadow over him and sat down beside him, facing the opposite way with his back to the table. Soujiro didn't turn to see his face, but his movements were those of a strong, trained body, and his warmth and weight felt too close to be another random customer.
"I recieved your message," Aoshi said.
He hadn't caught Soujiro with food in his mouth or even on his chopsticks, so in the pause, he only stared at his bowl. "Oh."
They sat in silence for several moments. Finally Soujiro lifted another bite of noodles, but stopped halfway to his mouth as Aoshi suddenly turned his head.
"I mean—" Soujiro blurted, but softly. "I... I feel so bad about how it was before... I found what was important to you and I used it that way... When I think about it like that, it's really the same thing..."
"'The same thing' as what?"
Soujiro lowered the chopsticks; his cuff had fallen back enough that he could see the bruises and scabs on his wrist, and he hurriedly pushed it down onto his hand. Maybe Aoshi, or someone else, had seen those marks, where he had struggled against his manacles while any defense he might have had against 'what it was the same thing as' had been choked out of him, in preparation for the final blow that had hurled him into that night. Again in the rain, a bloody sword, the headless horse twitching...
It was more than he could take, and he sprang up from his seat with a terrified, joyless smile. "I have to be going now," he said hurriedly as he turned.
"Ah, sir, just let me get your check—" a shopgirl's voice brought him up short. His face fell, and he whipped his head around so abruptly that his shoulder hurt at it. Had he even thought to bring money? Yes, but she was coming so slowly, he knew his hands would fumble to find it, and already his face burned with fear and shame. He started to turn back and found Aoshi standing in front of him, looking down at him with what, for Aoshi, was a strong look of shock and dismay.
Soujiro couldn't face it. His heart pounded in his ears; he could barely breathe. In another moment of this, he would surely faint. With one faltering step back, he braced his foot, kicked off, and ran hard into the street.
After a few explosive strides, he slowed to a gentler pace—still a fast run by normal standards, but easier on his legs and not so conspicuous. It was slow enough to weave through a crowd and disappear. He didn't fully stop running until he felt safely far away from the noodle-stand, and he slowed up and veered off to catch himself against the wall of an alley. He knew that people walking by could see him, but he stood there with his hand and forehead against the bricks, taking deep breaths to steady himself.
His stomach was knotted up again. His eyes ached and threatened tears. How had he become so pathetic, that he'd been forced to flee at such a little thing? And now it was even worse—the food turned over in his stomach at the realization that he'd stolen it, but it was more than he could do to go back and face it and make amends, almost more than he could bear to have anyone at all see his face. "Killer," "thief," he felt as if it must radiate from him; it must be written on his forehead in invisible characters that everyone could read and see it and blame him as they walked past him in the street, even as they walked by and saw him standing here...
He just had to get back to his room; there, he would be hidden and safe. How he would ever step outside that room again and deal with this, he didn't know, but for now he could just go back there and rest and think, maybe gather courage to do better... He thought he must be deluding himself on that last point, but anything was possible...
Soujiro realized that he didn't know where he was or the way back. Since the moment he'd left, he hadn't paid any attention to where he was going. Now, he froze up at the thought of looking at someone and asking for help, so he could only pick a likely direction and start walking. Still unable to focus his mind on the task, he wandered around in the streets for hours before happening onto a place familiar enough to lead him back. Normally, the walk wouldn't have tired him, but long after he wanted to stop, he was still trapped outside searching, so he was very weary when he finally found the building and went inside. He stared at the floor as he let himself into his room, and closed his eyes as he shut the door again and leaned against it in exhausted relief.
A slight shuffling sound alerted him to another person's presence, and Soujiro whipped around as they spoke.
"I was starting to wonder when you were coming back," Saitou said, rising from one of the chairs at the table. He held up a folded sheet of paper. "You have work tonight."
Soujiro fell back against the doorframe. "Another one? Already!?"
"That's right. This is what you agreed to; it won't do you any good to whine about it now." He put the paper down on the table next to the empty cracker-box and the sword. "Your orders are all there."
They passed each other as Saitou crossed to the door and Soujiro stumbled over to the table in a daze. He moved to pick the paper up and look at it, but he froze when he touched it, as if it had given him a paralyzing sting. How could he unfold it? Why? It was going to outline another night like that one, another long climb back toward the sun, and like today, he knew he wouldn't make it far before being knocked down by another letter like this. He knew he would never get out from under them again; they would just keep coming and bury him alive.
"No!" he cried.
Saitou turned and raised an eyebrow at him.
"I won't do it! I won't!!"
"Hmph. You're as stupid as Battousai, but you aren't strong like him. As long as you live, you'll be the killer Shishio created. Put away your idiot idealism and do your job, or roll over and die. I don't care which."
"No!!" Soujiro screamed. 'As long as you live, you'll be the killer Shishio created,' and Saizuchi had asked him 'What else are you good for?' Just weeks ago, he'd known a life that he was much better for than this. They asked him that when they were the ones who discarded that life, who decided to take happiness, peace, and love as worthless. "You're wrong!! You're wrong!!"
"Am I." He intoned it as a statement, not a question, and reached for the door-handle.
"Stop!" Barely even knowing why, Soujiro didn't want him to leave. Saitou certainly wasn't going to help him, but with him gone, he would be left alone with that letter, like there would be nothing else left to do, as if there was anything left to do now.
After one glance back at him, Saitou turned the knob.
Out of blind desperation, Soujiro's right hand still frozen on the paper darted to the side and snatched up the sword by the handle. He drew it past his chest where his left hand in its sling could take off the saya(1) and let it fall, and he pointed the bare blade at Saitou. With nothing to say, he only stood there breathing heavily.
Saitou lifted his hand from the door. Silent, eyes sharpened, he drew his sword and took up his Gatotsu stance in a motion at once swift and hypnotizingly fluid. The stance itself was utterly expert: the fingers of his right hand poised on the blade to guide its point with precision while his left arm was coiled behind it for devastating power, and his legs crouched for a powerful lunge, but not so much as to sacrifice maneuverability.
That last day with Shishio over a year ago was the last time Soujiro had seen anything like it, and he belatedly realized the deadliness of his situation. He'd been in places like this before; he knew what to do, he was sure of it. Always before, his old skills had come back easily when he needed them—he knew that this one was there, too. He could see it, but somehow couldn't touch it, as if it were there in his mind behind a wall of glass, and he was only pounding vainly on its surface while his body stood here, frozen in front of Saitou's sword.
When the attack came flying across the room at him, his dodge was no more than survival instinct, and against such an opponent, that wasn't enough. He was able to avoid taking the swordpoint in his body, but his right hand suffered the blow in friction as his sword was ripped out of it with such focused power that it must have been the target all along.
Instantly, Saitou pivoted at the waist, bringing his right hand around for a blow to Soujiro's forehead that tore him off his feet. His head, his back, and his broken shoulder were slammed against a wall, but as the impact faded, he couldn't fall. By the time he realized that it was Saitou holding him up by a grip on his bangs, the katana was already wedged under his chin.
He squeezed his eyes shut; with every breath, he could feel the sharp edge against his throat. In another second, it would slice through his neck and take his head off—after everything he had survived until now, he was going to die here, this pitifully. That second seemed to stretch on and on as his mind clung desperately to the last moment of his life, and he was torn between maintaining that grip as if he could put off the deathblow forever, and screaming at himself to let go and have it over with.
But neither of those were what he really wanted. Please... I don't want to die... his mind pleaded, but he couldn't speak. His body was paralyzed with sorrow and fear that gathered behind his eyes. As tears formed on his face, he realized that it was not just a single moment, but that Saitou was actually holding him here for the agonizingly long time it took for the drops to grow heavy enough to fall and make their way down his cheeks. His sobs were small, quiet ones, with his throat still checked by the blade.
In a moment of unbelievable blessing, the edge lifted away. Saitou threw Soujiro down on the floor by his hair and sheathed his sword again.
"If I were feeling charitable, I'd put you out of your misery," Saitou said. "It would be the best thing I could do for a worthless, broken swordsman like you. But as for today, if you want to kill yourself, use your own sword." With those words, he ground Soujiro's relief at being spared into the floor under his heels as he walked back to the door. "If those orders aren't carried out tonight, I'll send someone along tomorrow to collect your corpse," he said and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.
Soujiro lay there on the floor for some time, struggling to absorb what had happened. What had he been thinking?? He'd drawn his sword on Saitou not in the least wanting to hurt him. Worse yet, he'd started the fight when winning it would've meant throwing everyone back home to the wolves—if he hadn't done that anyway. No, he had to think not yet...
It seemed Saitou was right; he almost had to be. Soujiro had drawn his sword because he wanted to die. But I don't. 'Use your own sword'? Although he didn't even know what he was hoping for or clinging to anymore, he knew he couldn't turn the sword on himself. But he also couldn't face that paper, couldn't face going on like this... Attacking Saitou had been a desperate attempt to make someone else resolve the problem for him, not even thinking how, just so he would't have to decide. He clenched his face against yet another stifling layer of shame. How had he become so pathetic?
Saitou-san was right. You're worthless when you're broken like this.
Broken... I am a person who doesn't kill. He felt a distant echo of happiness just saying it to himself; he was proud of it. It felt so right, but it wasn't really true anymore. Now he was someone who didn't kill but who did kill, a person who didn't kill whom the Meiji Government had broken. Why... why...?
That's the way things happen. They're stronger, so they can do what they want with you. "The flesh of the weak is food for the strong." Whatever you wish or say, that's real life.
"No, that's not true!" he cried aloud, grasping his hair. It doesn't have to be true, what Shishio-san said... I was nice to Kotori-san—
And she's dead anyway.
—And my Ojisan and Obachan! He shouted louder in his mind to drown it out. What was that voice!? I protected Tomi-chan where she was weak! Himura-san helped me! That's my real life!!
Not anymore. This is your real life.
"Stop it!" he screamed. "Stop it! Leave me alone!!"
His demon only laughed at him. Wow, you really are being pathetic.
What was happening? It wasn't his voice—or it was, but not his words. There was no one else in the room; it was in his mind where he couldn't escape it. His brain was having thoughts that weren't his own, and he couldn't stop it. He put his hand on the floor to try to rise and get away from it, but his body lay like dead weight. At last he pushed himself up, but the sensation was of freeing himself from the load, not moving it. He buoyed up to a sit, floating as if in a dream, awash in yellow-white light. In a moment, the image resolved itself; he was sitting on the floor of a wide room, with the sun diffused but streaming through its paper walls, and a vast floor of tatami mats. This room...?
"If I saw anyone else acting like this, I'd think they'd have to die," the voice continued behind him, "but it wouldn't make any sense to say that to you, now, would it?"
Soujiro turned to face the speaker and found a mirror-image smiling back at him. No, not exactly a mirror; it didn't look the way he knew he did now. The face was chipper, not weary like him, but although the blue eyes were wide and bright, the smile didn't put an arc under them like the joyful smiles he had worn before this situation. The clothes were also different—no scarf here; the kimono was the old blue and purple he used to wear, crisp and unmended as before his battle with Kenshin, and this figure was wearing the waraji and tekkou(2) from that fight. Soujiro recognized the sword at his hip as Kiku Ichimonji. This was an image of his past self, the emotionless Tenken no Soujiro, crouched at eye-level to look at him, elbows resting on his knees as he balanced on his toes. "It looks like you're starting to recognize me," he said, in his old, ever-chirpy tone.
"What... What's happening?" Soujiro asked.
"We're sitting here talking, naturally," Tenken told him with a laugh.
"But why are you here? Why am I seeing you like this??" He clutched his head again and moaned. "Somebody help me... I'm going crazy..."
"Well, you might be crazy, but the other thing is why I'm here. I'll help you."
"Help me...? You?"
"Sure. It doesn't look like anyone else is going to, and I did when you needed it before, didn't I?" He didn't wait for an answer to continue. "You can't do this job, right?"
Soujiro paused. "I guess that's right..."
"So I'll do it for you."
"Ehh!?"
"Of course!" Tenken insisted. "I was always good at things like this. In fact, Shishio-san is gone now, so I guess that makes me the strongest."
"But you lost to Himura-san..."
He shook his head merrily. "The one he beat was you, not me. Don't you remember?"
Soujiro looked around and hesitantly stood. He remembered it very well, that battle in this room, its unfamiliar sensations, things Kenshin said that struck home inside him as nothing had in years. He slowly walked across the wide floor, toward the closet where he'd gone to change his waraji lace. What was it he said...? "Someone who could kill without feeling wouldn't care about the responsibility of not killing. I think somewhere inside of you, you need it." I did need it...
"That's right," came a comment from behind. "Myself, I could kill without feeling, so it didn't matter to me."
"Stop listening to what I'm thinking!" Soujiro wailed.
"Did I? To me it sounds just like you were talking out loud."
So what he's saying is that to fight Himura-san, I changed... into who I am now...
"Right again." Tenken smiled at him. "For the first time in ten years, you saw something you wanted for yourself, in all the silly things Himura-san did and said, so you went easy on him while you were figuring out what to do, and by the time you were ready to fight him seriously, you'd given away your technique, plus you're so emotional he could see everything you did before you did it. If you'd just left it to me, at the very start, I would have—"
"Don't say it! Don't say it!!" Soujiro shouted. He'd come to the wall by the closet, and kept facing it as he buried his face in his hands. He already knew it, and it was so horrible he couldn't bear to hear it said. If he'd just been content to remain as he was, in such a serious situation, he would have gone all out from the first, used true Shuku-chi and maybe even Shun-ten-satsu immediately. Even Kenshin, he probably would have been dead before he realized what was happening enough to counter, and after that, Sanosuke, as well. In Tokyo, both of them had helped him so kindly... He almost dared to think of them like family, too; at least for his part, he loved them. He shuddered to think he could have done such a thing, if he had been this other self. Even Shishio—whatever part of him respected and missed Shishio and Yumi would have been absent, so he couldn't even say he'd have done it to help them. This other him had said 'Shishio-san is gone now' without so much as a sparkle in his eye.
"Well, that's the way he taught me. He'd think I was stupid himself if I got sentimental like you."
So terrible... "Go away!" Soujiro cried. "I'll never go back! I don't ever want it to be like before!!"
"But if it hadn't been like that, you'd be dead; you can't deny that. Shishio-san was right, after all. You wanted to see for yourself, and for awhile you were able to keep running from it and have things your way. It looks like you really had a good time, but that's all over now. If you try to hang onto it, you're just going to be miserable and die."
"No... no..." he moaned, sinking to the floor against the closet doorframe.
"You know I'm right, but you don't need to get so upset." Tenken came up near him and crouched down again. "I can handle it, no problem, just like I used to do. That's a better idea than getting killed by Saitou-san, isn't it?"
Soujiro shook his head violently. "I won't! I don't want... I don't ever want to be like you! Not ever again!!"
Tenken laughed. "You won't ever be like me. You never were. It was never just one or the other of us, you know? In the ten years with Shishio-san, you let me take care of things, but you were always there, and you were like you are now, you just hid where nobody could see you. Sometimes I don't think you even knew yourself where you'd gone. And since you've been managing things, you still don't get upset at things that upset other people, although you're probably touchier than they are, really. Do you think that doesn't have anything to do with me?"
"I'm not like you anymore..." he sobbed.
The other him gave a sigh through his smile. "You're really stubborn. That thing has to be done tonight, though, so we don't have time for you to sit here and cry about it. You want someone to get you out of this, don't you?"
He looked up and found the two of them here and now in the rented room in Kyoto, sitting at the table where the paper lay beside the cracker-box. His saya was still here, too, where he had drawn the blade from it and dropped it. It was late afternoon, and the sun cast deep yellow light and long shadows instead of the ivory glow of Mugen no Ma(3)—except on Tenken, who was still washed pale by that glow as he sat facing him from the other chair.
Soujiro looked at the paper and knew that it would outline where he had to go and whom he had to kill. To save the people he loved, he couldn't just ignore it, so to save whoever it condemned, he would have to kill himself—and die hoping that the government would just let the charges against his family drop without the incentive of controlling him. Maybe it was horrible and selfish, but he knew he couldn't do that. So he would have to kill again, destroy more lives, break more hearts, create another ghastly scene... And with the cracker-box empty, when it was done, he would have to present himself to the world in his guilt and shame, or else lay here in this room and starve. That was all he had to look forward to. Yes, I want someone to get me out of it...
"Well, there you have it," Tenken declared, and picked up the paper without a hint of hesitation. "Let's see here..."
Soujiro noticed the motion, but didn't break from his reverie. I wanted someone to get me out of it so badly that I drew my sword at Saitou-san. It was pathetic of me to do that...
"Yes, I think that was the most pathetic thing I've ever seen you do," Tenken remarked, eyes on the paper. "This is easy stuff. I will have to work around that broken shoulder, but still..."
It was wrong for me to do that, Soujiro continued to himself. Saitou-san said I was weaker than Himura-san, too weak to be anything but a killer... I said 'you're wrong, you're wrong,' but then I proved him right... Now I'm proving him right... He remembered what he had learned at the time he visited Anji in prison. My real strength... to listen to my heart and follow it, at least as much as I can, for myself... And here he was giving that strength away, as he had given it away for ten years on that first night with Shishio... I was wrong... This is wrong!
"What's wrong?"
My real strength— "Give that to me!" Soujiro shouted.
"Eh?" Tenken turned to him blithely, still holding the letter.
"That paper! That's mine, give it back!!"
"Just forget about it. For me, this will be a breeze."
But Soujiro was determined; he knew it was absolutely necessary that he get that letter back, that he face it with his own heart, no matter how much it hurt. He seized the saya from the table and spun to his feet; with one swift, sure stroke that swept the empty box off the table, he had the tip under his other self's chin. "Give me that paper and get out of here!!" he roared.
Tenken's smile had fallen, but he only blinked quizzically at the saya before putting it back on with a little laugh through his nose. He stood slowly and set the letter on the table on his way up, smiling with laughing eyes even as Soujiro kept the weapon trained on his throat. "If you still want to try and do it your way, you can have that back," he said, "but really, you can't tell me to go away. I'm still part of you, so I really can't leave."
"Stop it!" Soujiro ordered. Although he'd won—he had the letter—those words sent him halfway to panic. "Get away from me!!"
"I'll always be here, if you decide you want my help after all."
"No! Get away! I don't want your help ever!!"
"I can't help it, and neither can you."
"Shut up!!" Desperate to escape him, Soujiro drew his sword-hand back to his hip and lunged forward with a wide stroke like a battou-jutsu. Tenken made no move to counter or defend, but Soujiro's movement suddenly felt encumbered, as if he were dragging an enormous weight. His attack followed through, but met no resistance, and the inertia of the unexpected load sent him toppling. Blindly, he put out his right hand to catch himself, and with a strong push, lifted his shoulders from the floor. At that moment, he recognized the weight as the sensation of pulling himself up from deep sleep, as if awakened by the events of a dream.
That was what had happened; it had to be. Looking around, he found that he was still laying on the same spot where Saitou had thrown him down. The paper, the cracker-box, and the saya still sat on the table, and his sword still lay on the floor, across the room.
It must have been a dream... But he remembered every detail, everything his other self had said. He couldn't deny the truth of it, or at least, couldn't afford to drop his guard against it...
The sunlight was fading as evening fell. Tonight... He couldn't waste any time. Picking himself up, he crossed to the table and took the hard-won letter, unfolded it, and began to read. As Tenken had said, it was an easy setup for him. Like the last one, entirely too easy. As he made his way down the page, his body began to shake with sobs. His tears falling on the paper made blurred brown-grey pools in the ink.
Even his real strength, this was as much as it could get him now. After all, the government was stronger. He knew that Shishio's old saying didn't have to be true, but they had chosen to make it true for him. Like my family, before Shishio-san... They'll bury me under work I can't do, but I'll do it anyway. They'll hurt me whenever they feel like it, and then when they're tired of me... After this many years, he could still remember laying there in the rain, fighting to look back over his shoulder as his brother drew his sword, the way it caught the moonlight, that terror... "Somebody, anybody, please help me—!"
But to be saved the way he had then, to survive at such a cost... Not again... This time, instead of that...
Anji-oshou had said "You could have chosen to die."
This time...
Saitou had said "Use your own sword."
No, not like that. Not now, just someday, when that time comes... And until then, I can carry this pain... for myself...
...by myself...
He squeezed his eyes shut, dropping another tear onto the paper, but he already had the information he needed. He put his saya in his belt and carried the letter over to the cold stove, lit it with a match, and watched the flame grow until the message would certainly be consumed before putting it in. He closed the small iron door on the crackling paper, then crossed the room to pick up his sword.
Owari
Footnotes:
1. Saya: the sword-sheath.
2. Tekkou are the hand-guards. (And to remind, waraji are the longer straw sandals, and Kiku Ichimonji is the sword Soujiro used in that fight.)
3. Mugen no Ma: the name of the room where Soujiro fought Kenshin.
