Disclaimer: I obviously don't own Rurouni Kenshin. Although I would like to own him. Aiyeee, watch out for the angry Kaoru!
The pairings are as stated. They are not subject to change. This fic was inspired by Julie Otsuka's "When The Emperor Was Divine", World War Two, the events at Pearl Harbor, and by Shimizu Hitomi. Thanks to all for their inspiration.
Chapter 1
August 1942*, somewhere in Nevada
The sand hills and spiny cacti passed the train window like frames of a Western movie. The woman took one last look at them before pulling down the shade. Shades down, shades down! The soldier had said a moment ago. He had a brisk walk and a sort of pinched face, as though the nose and the lower lip had been drawn closer with a string. He did not fancy the heat.
The last movie she had seen was Gone with the Wind. It was right before her husband had left for the war. He had saved up his money for a month. The tickets had been underneath a pair of real pearl earrings on a layer of thin scratchy cotton. It had been a tempting present: shiny red wrapping, thin and flat and covered with his sprawling handwriting: "To Megumi. Love, me."
When she opened the box, he had asked her if she was surprised.
Her heart had pounded upon seeing his writing. The blood had rushed to her face. Her eyes had lowered, like a shy schoolgirl's. But she would not have told him this.
"Surprised? Yes surprised, Sagara Sanosuke," she had said, tapping his nose, "that you actually saved up the money instead of gambling it all away."
His eyes had dimmed, and his face had fallen. Then when she kissed him and laughed, they brightened again and his lips found hers again and again.
After the movie, they had walked in the cold. His arm was around her; she did not mind the cold. She had brought her lips close to his ear. "Did you like the movie?"
He had shrugged, lazily and catlike as always. He tried to swagger, lean, long torso leaning back. His smile was cocky. "I don't go for those kinda movies, ya know. Too mushy."
"Then why'd you buy the tickets?" she had demanded. Her shoulders twisted out of his hold; her ruby lips pulled into a fake pout. At that, his shoulders dropped down, his feet planted in the snow. His warm arms circled her, pulled her in.
"Because," his breath fell like snowflakes on her face, "I wanted to make you happy."
The next day, the telegraph came. The next day, he left for Europe.
She had not laughed for a long time. She had not been happy for a long time.
"Okaasan," the small head on her lap shifted. The small voice was full of sleep, "it's hot."
The woman leant down to kiss the round cheek. Then, she calmly removed the little boy's jacket. She folded it carefully, along the creases. Then she set it down on the bench. She brushed back her son's unruly hair. Her hand could have been running through her husband's hair, the way both their hair was dark and spiky and uncontrollable. She closed her eyes for a second.
She whispered quietly into his ear, "Remember, don't say okaasan."
The little head nodded drowsily once, "Yes, Mama," then bobbed back into sleep.
There was clicking of patent leather shoes, then the sound of cotton sliding against wood. The woman looked beside her. The girl had returned and now sat on the bench, swinging her legs. In her hands she held a red glossy apple.
"Where have you been?" the woman asked, "Going to the restroom does not take that long."
The girl shrugged. "I met a man and his son back there. We talked for a while. His son's my age, and he showed me a magic trick. He said that they had too many apples, and the man told me to take one. So I did."
"Did you remember to say thank you?" she asked, gracefully tilting her head back as far as she could. She searched the crowded railroad car for this man and his son. She could not tell; everywhere, men and boys, girls and women, old men and old women were stuffed into the small seats.
The girl rolled her eyes. "Ye-es." She pushed the air from her mouth in one huff. Then she took a big bite out of the luscious apple. The bare legs swung back and forth, in time with train wheels.
The woman tucked a loose piece of hair behind the girl's ear. The girl was born American, lived American, breathed American. The girl thought herself an old eight-and-a-half year old. She walked fences with a skirt on and played ball with the boys. She always braided her hair and wore her clothes frilly and pink. She went to tea parties and giggled about boys with her friends. She had pasted a poster of Rosie the Riveter on her door at home; she had carefully rolled it up for the journey. Her favorite song was "Don't Fence Me In." She would never say forget not to say okaasan; she had been saying "Mama" for years anyway.
The woman's lips curved upwards slightly. The girl was so much like her. All that fire and passion. She had been like that once, tilting her nose upward at Japanese traditions. She too had secretly played ball with the boys; she too had flaunted the rules, but more quietly. She too had loved the American ways, but inwardly. She had rebelled against the husband her parents had chosen for her; she ran away only to meet Sanosuke, who was running away from the same arrangement. So in that, she did not rebel. It was then that she had grown up. She had found the beauty of the Japanese ways, the ways that had brought her to her husband.
In America, her daughter had had much more freedom, to rebel, to live, to marry. In time, she might learn of the freedom in the way of the Japanese too.
A soldier marched by loudly, stomping and wheezing importantly. The gun gleamed brightly by his side. The soldier talked in low angry tones to a tall man in the back.
Her hand reached for the girl's, and the girl did not pull away when the woman clasped her hand too tightly.
Tsuzuku
*This fic takes place in America in 1942, after Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066, which authorized the removal of Japanese-Americans to internment camps across the Mid-west. This story will focus mainly on the internment camp in Topaz, Utah.
I hope you liked this so far. Right now, Megumi is married to Sanosuke, and she has two children. She's 28 years old and fully Japanese. You'll learn more about her history later. I'll let you guess what her children's names are; let's just say I don't like original characters. Be assured, this will become Megumi/Aoshi, and it will not involve Megumi being unfaithful to anyone. Goodness knows some people out there say without reasoning that Megumi is a slut. Ugh. Anyway, next chapter introduces our favorite Iceman, Aoshi Shinomori.
If the style seems strange, especially for lengthy, wordy, verbose me, it's because I'm following Julie Otsuka's style in her book "When The Emperor Was Divine." Go read it. It's excellent.
Until we meet again.
~Tru