Title: "Autumn Winds"
Author: MsJadey
E-mail: slashingmsjadey@hotmail.com
Archive: Anyone: you want it, you ask, and you got it.
Rating: PG
Warnings: violence
Summary: A missing scene from the manga; Saitou reflects on what should have been.
Disclaimer: It all belongs to Watsuki-sensei; I hope he never finds out what I've done to his boys. The title was taken from Part 252, Volume 28 of the manga from Maigo-chan's translations.
"You fool."
"Ah, light'n up already. You hang out here with yer nasty smoke; I'm gonna file those reports." Chou left the office, letting the door bang rudely behind him.
Saitou stared at his newly crushed cigarette. It smouldered still, giving the appearance that it might suddenly relight. But before his eyes, the trail of smoke dwindled and died. He pushed the ashtray aside and turned to look out the window.
It was indeed autumn now. The amber and scarlet leaves fluttered like fire on their branches in the cold wind. Soon enough, their vibrancy would litter the ground, dead. Strange that they would be so beautiful right before fading, before winter suffocated them.
Saitou sneered, annoyed at his morbid thoughts, determined to focus on something more productive. As discarding his fruitless quest had been productive.
Disappointing, that. He had been sure that Battousai would wait for him forever. He could still remember the way they had locked together in the battlefield. Blood strewn across buildings like festive streamers; blades reflecting moonlight onto corpses. Their bodies had been one, as intimate as possible; eyes and swords caught up with each other. True adversaries.
Even when they had flung each other apart, panting and grasping at wounds, they had remained joined. Forever one in spirit, no matter which side of the war each had taken.
There had been few men like that, fighting in the Bakumatsu. And Battousai had been the best of all of them. Saitou could recall the wanton exhilaration that came with spotting the vicious golden eyes, slight figure, and bright red hair. They had fought several times and most of the time it had transcended even a battle between swords, becoming a contest of wills.
Better than whores, better than drinking, better than mowing down a crowd of revolutionaries; Battousai had made the war into Saitou's world, becoming the only thing that would ever cause him to consider his own wants over the needs of the country.
Fighting the Hitokiri Battousai had been an unforgettable experience and Saitou had looked forward to repeating it, after the man's location was finally revealed to him.
He had, of course, never believed in Battousai's death. He'd assumed the disappearance was a precaution against being swept under the rug with all the other skeletons of the Ishin Shishi. It was merely a matter of biding his time until Battousai resurfaced, and then confronting him for a final duel.
The opportunity presented to him by the government had been most fortunate.
Saitou had been mildly surprised to hear the ridiculous "wanderer" story, and upon investigating Himura Kenshin, had been almost shocked. The company the man kept--a ruffian, a brat, and a psychotic girl--was undignified at best. None of them had any idea what the war had been like from an adult perspective, or had any idea who Battousai truly was. They knew his past, of course, but the disrespectful way they pushed him around and engaged him in their silly lives made it apparent they had no real appreciation of his skill.
Not that Saitou blamed them--Battousai was putting on a spectacular little show. Imagine, lowering himself to fight with street thugs, gimmicky ninja, and countless psychos, and then actually being injured by that charlatan, Raijuuta. It was disgraceful. No wonder his little rat pack had been clueless about his true worth.
He'd considered the idea that Battousai had taken on his naïve companions in order to teach them proper fighting. The brawler had a magnificent amount of potential, though it was wasted with self-teaching and lack of purpose. The raccoon girl was amusingly strong, even if her ideas about fighting without killing were laughable. Even the rabid little boy showed some aptitude, and being the descendent of samurai, he at least deserved the chance to honour tradition.
But Battousai had not instructed them. When Saitou had approached the punk, the boy had shown the same sloppy fighting styles he'd used against Battousai in their first meeting. For all Saitou could see, it seemed Battousai was actually trying to live up to the pacifism fantasy.
Saitou had felt his stomach turn as he'd realized that his once-admirable rival had reduced himself into a sniveling, idealistic, weak idiot. Even when his precious friends had been endangered, Battousai had coddled Akamatsu, refusing to kill even scum like that. It would have served him right if Saitou had slaughtered his friends. The only thing that had stopped him was the knowledge that while pathetic, none of the foolish residents of the Kamiya girl's dojo actually deserved death, and that the government required Battousai's body and mind intact.
He had been angry. For many short but long years, he had dreamed of reencountering the Battousai. Every free moment of his time had been spent going over their old fights, reliving them and examining them for flaws. To arrive and find his perfect rival withered and useless had been infuriating. The Roosterhead should consider himself lucky he only lost a little blood, and not the whole arm.
In the tiny hall of the dojo, with ten wasted years between him and his single personal dream, the bloody nights in Kyoto had swum around him. Though none but he could feel it, the air had been tinged with battle and heady violence. He'd been alone in his memories of the past, alone in the dark streets of Kyoto with no blade to press his own against.
Battousai had ceased to exist for him. Instead, suppressing his anger and returning to the role of protector of the country, he had called out the wanderer Himura, as was required of him.
With the rurouni's first movement, he'd known the mission was a failure. A peaceful wanderer was nowhere near what they needed in the fight against Shishio; Himura would not do. Saitou had considered ending the fight immediately, to give his rival's memory the last bit of respect he could, by using his own sword to rend apart the pitiful life of what Battousai had become.
But even as his Gatotsu proved its superiority, he'd had an idea. Despite how useless Himura was, there had been glimpses of his true self during fights. Saitou had taken a chance that a reversion might be possible, and had allowed the fight to continue. By the end of Battousai's second move, a slight change had been apparent--he was indeed reverting.
When the Battousai had nearly killed him with the fourth move, Saitou had been sure. He had found his rival and his final battle. In those moments, dreams of Kyoto overcame both of them. Saitou paid no thought whatsoever to his orders as Fujita Gorou. By fighting Battousai again, after such a long wait, seeing that red hair whip almost as fast as the gleaming blade and sharing once more the ferocity of that golden stare, he was completed. Death at each other's hands would have been a pinnacle achievement.
Unfortunately, it had not come to pass. Would never come to pass. Their fight had been interrupted, and Battousai had hidden his true self once more, convincing himself ever more deeply that his cowardly way of life was the right choice. Saitou had missed his final chance.
Nevertheless, the wanderer had sufficed against Shishio, but the passion and glory had vanished. Even until the Enishi debacle, Saitou had continued to consider the possibility that Battousai would reappear, but in the end, he knew his hopes were pointless. Not only was the wanderer fable too deeply entrenched in Battousai's mind; his body was falling apart anyway.
At least the invitation for a final duel proved there was still honour left in the man, no matter how wasted. But all it had done was force Saitou to wallow in regret and anger. There was no Battousai, and killing a peace-preaching fool would never bring him back.
Saitou lit another cigarette, but left it absentmindedly on the windowsill to burn out. The moon was full in the sky, collecting bright stars around its girth. By tomorrow night, it would begin to wane.
He felt tired. He had every right to, of course; this had been a trying case, and he would take a day to recuperate before beginning the next one. But this tiredness felt deeper. As if his very bones were calling for relief.
For the first time in a while, Saitou considered his age. Ten years was a long time indeed, but surprisingly simple to forget. He wasn't old, but he would be, one day. He wasn't entirely certain what to do with his free time now, what little there was. His friends were dead, his wife comfortable, his children born and in the process of being raised. His past was buried.
He remembered that he'd always enjoyed instructing new soldiers in the ranks of the Shinsengumi. Perhaps he could take on a student, do something productive.
Not that his work wasn't productive. He took great pride in his accomplishments as a special agent of the law. Already, he had exterminated many of the vermin that crowded the government, eager for money and power. But that was unchanging--he would never be able to rid humanity of its need to be greedy, and his job would end only on the day he died. He did not question his future, and was happy with it. It was not easy, these days, to find a death with honour in it.
But he still felt worry creep about his hidden thoughts. He saw the leaves begin to fall off the trees, and remembered how suddenly age approached. How it struck just at your prime, at your fullest and brightest.
One of the leaves caught on the wind, blew into his office. He snatched it out of the air. It was still partly green, but a red-brown stain like dried blood covered it in patches.
All along he'd be certain of the constancy of the past. After all, who could change what had already happened? But in the end, though a wolf remained a wolf, and a Shinsengumi remained a Shinsengumi, a man-slayer could become a peaceful rurouni.
Saitou looked out upon the trees and wondered why they changed their colours. Even after so much time had passed, when spring was a memory, summer was dying, and winter had begun to swing its bitter scythe, something compelled them, in the midst of old age, to take on a totally new appearance. One would have thought it was too late for such differences.
Saitou let go of his anger. Let Battousai rest in peace, he reasoned. If Himura had decided upon his lifestyle with such dedication, then let him have it. It didn't matter anyway--all leaves fall once winter comes.
Perhaps a rest wasn't such a good idea. A man his age shouldn't need such a lengthy recuperation and the corrupt weren't waiting until he was ready. He would file for his transfer immediately, and see that he left Tokyo as soon as possible. He'd gotten word that there was a smuggling problem up in Hokkaido, and considered that that might be a peaceful place to work, compared to the memories and people on the mainland.
He stood from his chair and tossed the leaf out the window, then closed it. It was time to get back to work.
Epilogue:
As he passed his desk, his eye caught on a report that had ended up on his desk "accidentally" when he had noticed a familiar name and "borrowed" the papers out of interest. He recalled his idea about finding a student to amuse him.
As he worked his eyes over the page--wild brown hair and sparkling brown eyes flashing in the background of his mind--he decided that this might be just the thing he'd been looking for. A way to move a useful and entertaining item out of Himura's grasp and into his own.
A smile nearly forced its way onto his lips. It wasn't as if this case wouldn't be investigated thoroughly anyway, considering the clout of the politician involved, but handled in just the right way, it could be very useful to his own ends.
As long as the interception connected, he would easily be able to argue that Hokkaido and his sword would be ample protection for an innocent, young fugitive. And from there, the possibilities were endless.
He did smile. Battousai might be dead, but he still had time left. Hokkaido was starting to look very appealing, and with his little plan, he could now count on being amused as well.
He lit his second-last cigarette, and then sat down at the desk to begin writing up his transfer request. He would be pleased to see the last of this city, and all of its aggravating inhabitants. Well, most of them.