For War Is Kind ~ Chapter 2
The troops stirred slowly to life that morning, filling the air intermittently with the clinking of weaponry being buckled into place, the humming of conversation. Sagara left them to break camp, and climbed the small bluff to the north. It was a good vantage point; they had combed this area well already, but he wasn't going to miss any of the tiny homesteads tucked into the pine groves.
The clouds had broken for a moment, and fresh sunlight warmed the frozen ground. As the sky began to grow light, lazy plumes of smoke from cottages in the foothills below him faded slowly into existence, intermittently breaking the white of the sky at dawn. Sagara knew that if he were a little nearer he would be able to hear the shuffling of bedding being tucked away, the hiss of water for tea being put to boil. Mornings like this always made him a bit nostalgic. He could almost feel the freshly lit fire melting the chill from the air, smell the cooking rice. These modest farms sprawled like toys at his feet now, but it hadn't been so many years that he couldn't remember what it was like to call one of them home.
Sagara smiled faintly. The slight tug he felt, this affinity, it was to be expected. The expanse of sky that stretched out before him was tangible as a wall, something impregnable standing between him and the simple warmth, simple comfort, of the farmhouses below.
The longing was always there – a spike beneath his ribcage, a bit of wire under his tongue – but it was times like this that made it sting all over again.
Five years ago, it had been a day just like this; winter, but right on the edge of something warmer. There wasn't much work to be done around the farm because of the snow, but the cold made what work there was twice as hard. There were whispers of fighting to the south, and for nearly a week now the sky over Edo had been stained red by flames at night, and bruised by plumes of smoke during the day.
In idle moments, when he knew he was alone, Sagara found his gaze drawn there. For months, he had been plagued by the need to move, to act, anything. It felt as though if he stayed in the same place for even one year, one season more, this wanderlust would gut him.
Despite his conviction, it had taken three days to gather the courage to speak those five simple words – "I'm going to the capital" – to his family. Perhaps by that point he had become so used to the way they sounded when he played them over in his mind that he wasn't prepared to hear them at last spoken aloud. A soft gasp chased them from his lips, and his eyes widened a little as he waited for judgment.
For some reason, it seemed he had expected tears, had prepared himself for tears, but there was nothing like that. Only a quiet glance his mother and father had exchanged, and then two sets of eyes turned upon him, dark and accusing, as if he had violated some unspoken contract. It was the only thing he hadn't been prepared for, and Sagara wondered even now how he'd held his ground.
"But you're just a child…" Back then, he didn't known how true those words. At sixteen years old, Sagara had lived all the life that ten acres of farmland had to offer, and so he did not know the truth until the first time he felt his blade found the soft hollow between ribs. Until the instant he looked down and his senses were saturated with the blood that soaked his shirtfront, wide and damp and gaping; red, like a woman's mouth.
Until the first moment a sword kissed his own flesh, and he felt the crush of mortality, dragging him down like a drowning man's boots.
Sagara shook his head, a few narrow lines appearing around his eyes as his brows drew together in annoyance. He should have been able to distance himself from memories like that, keep them as far away as the plumes of smoke that curled from hearths far beneath his feet. What he did now was the closest thing that could be done to washing away all the blood of the past seven years.
Sighing, Sagara tilted his chin back slightly, searching the pale sky for something to center his wandering thoughts. He found only the endless sprawl of clouds, rimmed in fresh sunlight. It was shaping up to be a beautiful morning, and the moment he heard the trill of a voice calling his name from the hill below he knew he hadn't wanted to spend it alone.
"Sanosuke." He greeted the boy as, panting, he crested the bluff.
"Good morning, Captain," Sanosuke said brightly, bending slightly at the waist and planting his palms on his knees while he caught his breath. He straightened, and followed Sagara's gaze to the horizon. A few hazy ribbons of sunrise still stained the clouds over the mountains in the east, bright against the hard gray of the winter sky. "Someone's looking for you, you know."
Sagara chuckled softly. "Would 'someone' happen to be your lieutenant?"
"No." Sanosuke shook his head emphatically. "I've never seen him before. He's too mean to be a friend of yours; I think you should go see what he wants. He says he's been sent by the Government General…"
This was something new. Sagara had lost track of how many months had passed since he had last been contacted by a commanding officer. It was beginning to feel like they had been forgotten out here.
Sagara glanced down at the boy. He was too young yet to keep the emotion from painting itself clearly in his eyes, and Sagara felt a sudden and inexplicable stab of shame at being able to read him so easily. Something had unsettled him, and Sanosuke was nervous in the vague and embarrassed way the very young become nervous when they aren't quite certain what has caused their apprehension.
Sagara's eyes grew a little thinner, and abruptly he turned. A gauzy curtain of shed snow clung to the tree limbs, making it hard to see through to the road below. "Show me, Sanosuke."
Somewhere, distantly, he could hear the sound of hooves on packed earth. And though he had never before thought it an ominous sound, this time around it sent a chill down his spine. He shook his head faintly, as though suddenly confused, and when he looked again Sanosuke had begun to descend the hill.
He must have hesitated, because the next thing he heard was Sanosuke calling to him.
It only took a moment for Sagara to find his smile, warm and reassuring, again. This was foolish; Sanosuke couldn't have known how fortunate the arrival of new orders was, but Sagara did. He knew better than this, didn't he?
"I'm coming, I'm coming," he said lightly. "You're too quick for an old man like me."
Sanosuke laughed and bolted ahead, boots skidding a little on the snowy path. As they neared the foot of the hill, the pounding of hooves from somewhere further down the path became audible once more, and the boy drew back a little, to Sagara's hip.
A man with a mane of coarse white hair and an immaculate uniform that immediately made Sagara aware of the sorry state of his own coat and boots drew his mount to a halt just before them. He nodded shortly. "You're Sagara, I take it."
When his answer came in the form of just a slight narrowing of gray eyes, he nodded again and continued. "My name is Tatewaki Shindou, staff officer of the government army. I come from headquarters at Shimosuwa."
"Well?"
Sagara started, damn near biting clean through his lower lip, which he had been worrying thoughtfully between his teeth. He couldn't stand people sneaking up on him, and if he wasn't mistaken, this was the second time this morning.
"Well what?" he asked, and ran his tongue over his teeth to taste for blood.
Ichiro didn't look at him as he spoke, which Sagara found a little disconcerting. "Well, are you going to tell me what's going on or not?"
"It's just as I said. I have orders to march to Shimosuwa. The Government General wishes to meet with us."
"That's not what I'm talking about," Ichiro sighed. "Sagara, doesn't it seem odd to you?"
Sagara frowned. He had to admit, he didn't know what the older man was trying to get at. "I suppose we are to be given new directives. I don't see anything odd about it."
"Shimosuwa is in the middle of nowhere. If we are receiving new orders, why is it so important that we march there to accept them?" Ichiro's expression tightened, and Sagara found himself at a loss for what the man was thinking.
He laughed, hoping it would set him at ease. "Well, I didn't think to question them, but I'm sure there's a perfectly good explanation. If it has you so worried, I'll find out when we arrive. Satisfied?"
"I hope you're right, Captain."
Sagara paused; he couldn't laugh off the way Ichiro's voice had sounded just then. "What are you thinking?" he asked.
"I'm not sure," Ichiro admitted. "But I do know that the hold the new government has on this country is still fragile; they can be as dangerous as cornered animals if they feel threatened."
"I still don't see what that has to do with…"
"Nothing," Ichiro interrupted, his eyes falling away. "Just be careful. Sagara."
There had been something deeply unsettling in Ichiro's tone just then. But by the time Sagara had thought over his words and collected himself enough to respond, the man had slowed, fallen back into the ranks.
"What do you think?"
It was quiet, and the sound of another voice – even one Aoshi had come to know so well – sounded somehow strange.
"Something is going to happen," he said simply, tilting his chin back to the chilly night breeze; his lips parted a little, as though to taste the air. All the recent snow had made it feel dry and light, against Aoshi's bare jaw and throat. He felt a chill rising over his shoulders and the back of his neck.
There was something on the wind tonight. Over the past few years, Aoshi had learned to trust the whispers his intuition sometimes spoke. The sounds of battle, the odor of blood. They were imperceptible to the conscious mind, but they registered somewhere deep down. If he concentrated, he would know they were there.
Hannya shifted a little, a step closer to him. "You're going?"
Aoshi nodded. "Of course."
He knew even now that by the time he traced the disturbance back to its source it was likely that there would be little left for him to do, but he couldn't leave it alone. Not when there was fighting in his territory.
"It's most likely nothing, you know."
"Most likely," Aoshi echoed, but even now he couldn't help but feel excited. He knew it was an anxiousness that was already destined to burn itself out when he ventured out of these city walls and found that there was nothing left for him. His hand drifted back absently to the hilt of his blade.
In the next instant, he had decided, and he stepped once, gracefully, away from the steps of the Aoi-Ya. The ground was dusted with white, dry snow that adhered to each of his footsteps, perfect indentations in the shape of his boots.
He didn't like that. Didn't like knowing that he would leave evidence of his passing in his wake. "Stay on your guard."
"Always," Hannya said, and though the tone of his voice didn't seem to change, Aoshi could hear subtle indignation. Of course he was cautious. He didn't need to be reminded.
Aoshi nodded slightly, and ventured out a few more steps. A stray gust of wind caught some of the fallen snow, spiraling it up and out. In the midst of that flurry, Aoshi faded effortlessly into the night.
He slipped out of the city by way of the northern gate. The slight shift in the breeze a moment before had carried with it the distant sounds of gunfire, ugly in its gracelessness, and unmistakable. Away from Kyoto's bright streetlamps, Aoshi found his way by moonlight, amidst the strange shadows it cast through the bare tree branches.
He didn't want to admit how deeply this moved him. He felt alive at last, fully and completely realized for the first time in months.
And the promise of an impending battle only thrilled him more.
It was an odd way to feel, but Aoshi refused to be ashamed of what he had become. Cold steel and warm blood and all the shades of slaughter that ran between, they had not been thrust upon him; he had chosen them, the most important choice he had ever made.
As he came upon Shimosuwa pass, Aoshi's glanced upward. The trees were thinner here, allowing more silvery moonlight to penetrate to the forest floor. He scowled defiantly up at the heavens.
The ghostly sounds of gunfire had led him on for what proved to be a long time now, and he refused to be given away by something so common as a brightly lit night. Aoshi pressed on, more cautiously than before, not even disturbing the low hanging pine boughs.
Somewhere in the distance he could hear the sound of rushing water. Though the gunfire had stopped, the sounds of the forest had not yet returned, as though frightened into submission, or humbled in remorse. Abruptly, Aoshi drew to a halt, tilting his chin back a little.
There was a metallic odor in the air. Unmistakable for anything but blood.