For War is Kind ~ Chapter 6
The only thing he missed was the passage of time. Shut up in this interior room, seeing the sky only second-hand; sleeping when he grew lightheaded, barely half conscious the rest of the time… It was no way to live, not even for a month, a week. But Sagara could not say how long he had been confined here.
He wasn't sure of his place anymore; he had no way to find his balance, no landmark by which to right himself into equilibrium. If only he could see the sun he felt certain it would put everything in context again.
Even as he assured himself of that, he knew it wasn't true. The truth was too vast for him, to hard too look at save in small indirect glimpses. He knew only that there was a hole in his heart. It was not a great chasm, but rather a small hollow place where it felt as though sinew and bone had peeled back slightly. Aching faintly, hungrily, whenever he breathed.
They left him alone most of the time, his only constant company was distant pain and nearby memories. It was the woman, Omasu, he saw the most, with her hair neatly arranged by day, loose and careless in the evenings. He had not recognized her until he saw her once more with her hair down. Misao came by sometimes too, slipping around the edge of the screen with all the clumsy stealth she could manage. She perched at his bedside and told him a thousand trivial things, and he was so grateful for her presence that he would never admit that none of them were what he really wanted to hear.
A long time passed before he saw Aoshi again. So long that he had nearly forgotten what it felt like to not miss him.
Then, one morning, the screen slid back with a different sound then Sagara was used to, and a different silhouette stood framed by the hallway lamp.
"Good morning," Sagara greeted him. He had been hesitant to speak. He hadn't known how his voice would sound; it seemed as though all the breathable air had been sucked out of the room.
"It's evening," Aoshi informed him shortly, dragging the panel closed once more behind him.
Sagara looked away. "So it is."
For a moment, there were sharp eyes on him, searching his profile as though expecting to find something profound and significant hidden there. Then Aoshi came inside, and he knelt at Sagara's bedside.
"They think you're dead, you know," he said, after a moment's silence.
Sagara closed his eyes. Maybe that was closer to the truth then Aoshi knew. It had been a long time since he had felt alive, long enough that he worried nothing would ever get his blood moving again.
"What about it?" he said quietly.
Aoshi seemed unsurprised by his response. "It's not unfortunate, you know. For a man in your position to be dead for a while."
Sagara could have laughed, would have laughed if he thought Aoshi might let him get away from it. He turned his attention to the ceiling, to the 204 watermarks and 167 knotholes in the wood. He knew exactly how many there were because he had counted them nine times in the last seven days.
"Perfect," he said at last.
Aoshi's eyes were cold, though not exactly confrontational. It was as if he wanted nothing but to close everything else out. "I'm sorry," he said at last, "for the loss of your men. But remember that you yet live, Sagara Souzou."
That wasn't good enough. Sagara sighed and closed his eyes, his hands curling at his sides. He swallowed hard.
"Thank you," he said at last, in a voice that barely even trembled. "I haven't gotten a chance to tell you yet, but I'm very grateful for all you've done."
"You shouldn't thank me. I didn't do it for your gratitude."
"All the same…" Sagara trailed off as their eyes met. "I'm sorry. Give me your hand a moment."
The boy moved slowly, almost without motion at all, like in a dream. Using his arm for support, Sagara pushed himself upright. His ribs ached in protest, but he brushed the sensation aside like snowflakes or ashes from the shoulder of a coat.
Aoshi watched him curiously. "Take care," he said.
"I'm all right," Sagara assured. "It's just as I suspected. You look a little different when I don't have to stare up at you."
"Pardon me?"
All at once, it seemed that a bridge which had spanned the space between them crumbed away. Sagara sighed. "Forget it. I have to wonder about something all day."
"I suppose," Aoshi said, but Sagara knew by his tone that the boy did not approve of what occupied his thoughts.
"You don't like it much, do you?"
Aoshi shrank from him, as if he had been touched. "That's not it. I just don't see what I have to do with all of this."
"Nothing. Or everything. I can't even begin to set it all straight yet."
He regretted almost immediately that he had spoken in such a way to a complete stranger. It wasn't like him, and he didn't expect Aoshi to understand. He certainly wasn't holding out for sympathy. He waited, shoulders bowed, as though for judgment.
But condemnation never came, or if it did it was only in the form of a hesitant touch. Aoshi laid his hand on the bend of Sagara's elbow. "Did you believe them?" Aoshi asked quietly, sounding all at once very serious. "All the lies they made you spread?"
Sagara twisted his arm slightly, as if seeking further contact. But it never came. Aoshi had already pulled away, out of reach, and all that remained was his question.
He should have known better than to ask something like that. Sagara should have known better than to answer, but all he'd wanted these past few days was someone to talk to. He couldn't afford to be picky now.
"I wanted to believe them," he said. "I suppose that makes me the biggest fool of all."
"No." Aoshi shook his head. "No, you're just like everyone else. Making a world for yourself where you can believe that the way things turned out might actually be better than any other possible outcome."
"Aoshi…" There was a brief, terrifying instant of uncertainty. The moment after the boy spoke when he had no arguments to offer, nothing to refute his words. The sensation of standing at the apex of a high mountain, and just letting himself fall. He had never fallen before, had always pulled away at the last moment.
Sagara shook his head. If he let himself fall, he knew he would only end up getting hurt. "I can't accept that."
"You of all people should be able to, now."
"But do you really believe it yourself?" Sagara heard the pitch of his voice beginning to rise. He took a breath to dispel his mounting panic. "Do you really believe things can never be any better than they are right now? That can't be right."
"Come now," Aoshi said. His hand stretched out once more, as though he were calming a nervous animal, and Sagara flinched away. "How can you say that after what you've been through? I thought you would have learned the futility of change."
"Things are going to get better." Sagara closed his eyes, bowing his head slightly as though to assure himself that those words were true. "They're going to get better. It doesn't matter what you say. As long as people have faith, you'll always be wrong."
"You sound like a child."
"Stop it!" He jerked his head up, eyes flashing, so sudden a moment that Aoshi actually flinched away from him. It had been a long time, Sagara thought, since he had lost his temper. Even when bullets had blackened the air around him, and when the woods had been pervaded by the smell of spilt blood, he remembered that he had been remarkably calm. But it had been a long time since he'd had a conversation like this.
"My men are dead," he said, quietly, carefully, as though testing the words for some truth beyond the literal that they might secretly hold. "My friends. They were all I had, except for the things I fought for. And maybe they weren't real things, but they felt real. I can't just sit here and listen to you tell me it was all a waste. Not when it still hurts so much."
Aoshi was silent for a moment, and he tilted his head curiously to the side. "Very well, then. I won't say anymore."
"Aoshi, I…" Sagara sighed. His shoulder had begun to throb again, and his hand drifted slowly to rest over the bandages that crossed his left shoulder. He was not surprised to feel fresh blood there. It seemed appropriate, in a way. But, no, he wasn't dead yet. And Aoshi wasn't to blame for where he was now. "I wish you understood. I wish you'd try."
"Calm down." Careful hands unwound the bandages from his shoulder and wiped the blood off. "Why don't you explain it so I understand?"
Sagara arched his back a little, to make it easier for Aoshi to rebind his wound.
"I don't know if I know how to anymore." His breath caught in a quiet hiss as the boy cinched the bandages tight. "Ouch."
"I'm nearly done," Aoshi assured. He settled back on his knees, swiping his hands on the edge of the futon to clean his stained palms. "It's not bad. You'll be all right."
"Thank you." All the strength seemed to rush out of him abruptly, and Sagara sank back to the mattress. There was a knot in his throat, and his body ached. He knew that they had argued, but suddenly he could not remember the cause. Any anger, any resentment seemed so far distant from where he was right now that Sagara couldn't even conceive it any more.
He knew before he tried to speak how dull and unconvincing his voice would sound, how completely exhausted. "Aoshi, I just…"
"Save it." The boy shook his head. "For later."
Sagara watched him a long moment, as though gauging his sincerity. "All right," he said at last. He wasn't giving up yet. His faith was battered – he was just beginning to realize how bruised it had become – but he was not broken. "But it still matters."
"Yes, I know." Aoshi climbed to his feet. "But for now, rest. You need it.
He said nothing, didn't even look up as Aoshi turned to go. He watched him into the hallway out of the corner of his eye; not daring to turn his head until the rattle of a screen dragged shut announced his passing.