Author's Notes: Just a forewarning, this is a very angsty fic. It's a CD fic, meaning its based around lyrics to a CD. The CD in question is Fallen by Evanescence, which in itself is a very angsty CD. This fic studies Aoshi's fears and Misao's frustrations, but I promise, it will have a happy ending. ^.^ Please read and review, it helps me finish the chapters quicker.
Chapter One: Going Under
Fifty thousand tears I've cried
Screaming, deceiving, and bleeding for you
And you still won't hear me
Don't want your hand this time I'll save myself
Maybe I'll wake up for once
Not tormented daily defeated by youMakimachi Misao stared out the window of her room in the Aoiya, sighing wistfully. It was raining again. In fact, it was raining for the fourth day in a row. The ground was wet and soggy; no good for her to train, and she had the most difficult time judging the bursts of rain to bring Aoshi-sama his unspoiled cup of tea. She hated the rain. All it brought was despair. She would wake and rush to the window, praying the silver droplets were not cascading down its pane. Yet they had been, and her spirits dampened as if the rain had reached out and soaked them through. Even the sound of the rain – so soft and soothing – offered no consolation. When the beads of raindrops kissed the leaves and grass in their rhythmic fashion, all she could think of was being inside, nestled warmly inside his arms as he held her, safe and content.
Misao's brow furrowed. She had to get those thoughts out of her mind; they were far too frustrating otherwise. She was a woman now, young and beautiful, as many suitors had told her, yet the only one she wanted – the only one that mattered – still failed to see it. For such a revered man, Aoshi-sama was rather lacking for apparentness, she thought with a smirk. Or maybe she was just fooling herself again. He probably knew how she felt and was just being respectful by not bringing it up. Obviously, he didn't feel the same. Sometimes, as if his kodachi were stabbing through her heart, Misao wondered how he ever could.
Misao paced, debating between a choice of clothing. What was it Jiya had told her? "Aoshi spent the better part of his life with you as a girl, and now he's returned when you are a woman, but he is blind by his regret." Blind by his regret. Misao knew he still felt remorse and guilt for his four men, but everyone had forgiven him for that. Why couldn't he forgive himself?
Biting her lip, Misao peered suspiciously at the clothing before her. The onmitsu uniform lay ready, pressed and clean which she had accomplished herself, but beside it lay a beautiful spring kimono, dark blue with an ice blue floral pattern lining the obi and cuffs of the arms. Ice blue. Just like his eyes, thought Misao. They relented not even the faintest flicker of emotion, but whenever he locked his gaze with hers in such a strong manner, Misao felt a flush fill her neck and cheeks. The intensity of those ice blue eyes was fierce, and often-times, she found herself wondering how they would look enflamed with passion.
Misao blushed furiously, pushing the thought from her mind. Aoshi-sama betrayed nothing in his cold features, no matter how feverishly her mind conjured up its life-like images. Untying her night clothes, she studied herself in the mirror, frowning ever-so-slightly. She was a woman now, in form at least. But he would always see her as a child and nothing more. That self-defeating thought alone threatened to sting tears at Misao's eyes, yet she pushed them back, snatching up the kimono and slipping it over her shoulders, tying the obi with delicate precision.
The Aoiya was silent as Misao opened her door, padding across the wooden hallway and down the stairs. They gave a creak and she scolded herself for allowing a sound to be made, not willing to relent that the floorboards were old and tired, and even the most experienced and light step could make them cringe; an Okashira must be better than the most experienced, she thought with a stern face of resignation.
Jiya had pointed out her newfound determination to do her best, paralleling her maturity to that of Aoshi-sama's as he had started to grow. Misao found herself beaming with pride at being compared to the most skilled man she knew next to Himura, and certainly the one she revered most. But Jiya had added, with a regretful laugh, that Aoshi-sama had also grown frozen as he matured; he prayed Misao would not do the same.
In truth, she had matured past her usual level of exuberance and devil-may-care attitude, but the light of emotion still burned bright in her sea foam eyes, washing over her face in smiles, frowns, and even the bared teeth of a snarl; motions Aoshi-sama's face never practiced. In fact, when she deliberately attempted to don his trademark glare of neutrality, she found that the muscles in her face felt tired and spent, unaccustomed to such a cold expression.
Misao frowned as she heated water for tea. Aoshi-sama had never been the picture of emotion, but she seemed to recall pictures in her mind – pictures of him smiling, his ice blue eyes thawing just the slightest. Why couldn't he be the same? He was cold, emotionless, the stone amongst a meadow of vibrant activity and color. Was that what made him a good leader, or was it the result of one too many deaths witnessed? Misao assumed it was the latter, and dare not commit herself to the former, fearing she would never make a good leader if that were so.
As she mixed the tea, Misao's eyes betrayed a faint bit of nostalgia and a smile crept across her face. He had been her Aoshi-sama back then, caring for her and catering to her every need. She had loved him then, but not as she did now. He was a caretaker to her then, a fierce protector whose eyes would shine upon her when she smiled or laughed. But she had loved him as a woman loves a man for quite some time, and she failed to remember a time when she hadn't felt that way. Why couldn't he see that her love was just as real as anyone else's? She was nineteen now, very much a woman, and she had developed strong feelings for the man that had once been her guardian and savior – the man that now sat cross-legged upon the floor of a cold temple for hours at a time, bathed in silence as she brought him his tea. She didn't want him to change; she didn't really know what she would do if he ever did. But she wanted him to acknowledge the obvious fact that her love was more than a childish infatuation, and perhaps….
Misao shook her head. It was one thing to dream, but another entirely to plan your whole life around one person whose feelings might be so far away from your own. As she carried the tray to the temple, her mind was busy studying her own pathetic situation. It was not safe to dream so avidly. Misao knew this, but yet here she was, bringing this man that she loved with all of her heart his morning tea, hanging on his every breath, praying for him just to say something.
She reached the entrance to the temple and her eyes easily fixed upon his relaxed form, seated in the same spot as always. With his head bowed, his dark hair spilling over his forehead, he was the picture of spiritual beauty, and Misao merely stared for several moments before addressing him.
"Aoshi-sama, I've brought your tea." Her voice was light, friendly, welcoming. Pleading, thought Misao.
He looked up and his icy gaze caught hers, strangling her senses in a tight lock. Every day he made such eye contact a habit – a learned tactic from so many years spent on the battlefield – but this day, Misao found herself unable to continue her task. She felt her face grow heated, and only then did she disengage herself from the capture of his intense eyes.
She crossed the floor, carefully setting the tray before him. He had returned to his state of tranquility and she sat before him, imitating his cross-legged meditation pattern. The morning seemed to be just a series of mechanical motions now, as if it were not really her that attended the sessions, but someone else – someone whose sole purpose was this one, unchanging task. It gave her a sense of security, but above that, it deeply chilled her own heart.
"I tallied the profit for the Aoiya last night. We have a ten percent profit margin over last month."
It was idle conversation, and the numbers flowed rhythmically from Misao's lips as Aoshi-sama sipped his tea. Jiya had forced her to learn the accounts, and she found herself constantly tallying numbers and comparing them with other numbers. The task was daunting, but she felt a sense of pride at unmasking such sure figures. Obviously, Aoshi-sama was not as prideful in her task. He sat silent, looking at her again, yet managing to look through her, as always.
"A letter came from Himura this morning. Things are going well with the dojo and his own life. He sends his regards." Misao bit her tongue, not repeating the last part of his letter. Tell Shinomori-san to open his eyes a little further, before happiness escapes him as it almost did me. What had he meant by that? What would happiness be for her Aoshi-sama? She assumed Himura spoke of letting go of his past and his regrets and beginning anew.
Aoshi-sama remained silent, sipping his tea and staring at her. Her mechanical practice malfunctioned and she found herself with nothing to say. Her lips parted, searching for words, hoping she could breathe them in on the wind, but none surfaced. In the silence, she could hear the beating of her own heart, and she could feel his gaze going straight through her. She looked up, meeting him, accepting his challenge. She held her breath and prayed that maybe, if she kept staring long enough, she would see the slightest flicker of something… anything stir in his eyes.
He brought the cup of tea to his lips, his gaze unwavering, took a sip, and set it back down. Nothing. Not even a flash of question at her unusual silence. It seemed he had become worse over the years, and now his concern was swept away with the wind. Misao sighed, defeated, and broke the stare, gazing forlornly around the temple. Was it this place that stole the life from him? The cold statues, the firm walls, the distant drizzle of rain, distorted by the temple interior – did all of this strip away the emotion?
Suddenly Misao found herself growing angry. She had been so patient, and the temple with its melancholy memories had always defeated her, finding its way to Aoshi-sama's heart before she could ever begin to extend her warmth and love. She wouldn't allow herself to blame him for this cold mask and tormenting past. No, it wasn't his fault. Why couldn't he see…?
"Misao."
The word was almost foreign, as if it wasn't her name; wasn't even directed at her. But hope shown across her features candidly as she snapped her attention back to him.
"Yes, Aoshi-sama?"
"Your hand."
She looked down and the hope seeped out of her veins, her face discoloring as much as the hand she now stared at. Anger and frustration had caused her to clench her hand so hard that she was beginning to cut off the circulation. He knew something was bothering her, yet all he had commented on was her hand. Her hand. Misao felt like yelling and crying at the same time. Instead, she allowed her words to flow freely from her mouth.
"This is so… frustrating! Why can't you see? Why can't you say anything? No one cares about what you did in your past. The only one who won't forgive you is you, and you're so busy with your past that you can't see that all we want – all I want – is for you to be here, now. Not just a shadow, but you."
Misao clasped both hands over her mouth, instantly regretting her liberal behavior. Yet her gaze crept cautiously to his ice blue eyes which were focused upon her as if he had heard nothing. When he spoke, his deep voice, void of inflection, startled her gripping silence.
"Misao, you're acting like a child."
Misao gaped. That… that was it? She had practically confessed herself to him, letting him in on her heart's most precious desire – to have him near, unmasked from the past. Yet he seemed to look past that, completely disregarding her statement. Or maybe he had heard her perfectly well, and this was his way of telling her that to him, she was and would always be a child.
Tears stung at Misao's eyes as she gathered the tray, leaving the cup she had prepared for herself completely untouched. As she stood straight and tall, fighting back the tears, she looked at him one last time, pain shining earnestly in her vibrant eyes. Please… She willed him to flinch, to show something. Please, before I give up… I can't take this any longer, Aoshi-sama… Her eyes locked his, yet he remained stoic, unmoving, as if to defy the very pain that wrenched her heart. Finally the tears won as Misao allowed defeat. Choking on a sob she turned and ran from the temple, the cold rain mixing with her hot tears, tracing lines of betrayal along her face. All she wanted was to get away from him, and she ran as if she still wore her training uniform and was free to do so. She felt herself falling – felt her kimono snag on her legs and trip her – but she didn't care. Sobs wracked her small frame as she slumped into the mud, the rain blanketing her, pulling her into its icy embrace.
Nothing. Nothing in his eyes. Nothing in his face. There never was, and there never would be.