"Winter's End"
Rurouni Kenshin
By Amos Whirly
An icy drop of water splashed on the crown of his head, but, like a statue, he sat still, unwavering. His legs were crossed. His hands were folded in his lap, occasionally shifting to rest palm-down on his knees.
A cold breath of air whispered thought the open temple chamber, lifting his thick black hair off of his neck and sending prickling chills up his scalp. Slowly, his ice-blue eyes fluttered open, gazing through thick lashes at the flickering candle on the table before him. He lifted his head and gazed at the idol in front of him.
He had spent so long in the temple, it felt more like a home to him than a place of prayer. Even as he sat, he began to realize how numb his legs felt.
What time is it, I wonder?
He turned his head and gazed at the dark world outside the sheltering temple walls. Another breath of chilly wind hissed through the shadows, snaking across the floor and disturbing the warmth of the candlelight.
The sun had long been asleep, and the moon had risen to rule in its stead, though a heavy blanket of clouds covered most of the sky.
Where is Misao? he thought. She usually has come by now.
Slowly, he stood to his feet and straightened his simple cotton yukata. He bowed toward the idol, extinguished his candle, and strode stealthily to the exit. He slipped into his sandals and started down the dirt roads of Kyoto toward the Aoiya.
The streets were practically deserted. The sky was threatening to spill and had convinced most residents to stay within their homes. The few people who remained outside were all older, less important members of the Oniwabanshu – those who had returned to ordinary life after the Revolution.
They bowed as they walked past him. He nodded his head as though he barely noticed them.
Some semblance of the old hierarchy still remained, showing respect to those who used to be in command and practically ignoring those inferior.
He walked in silence, thinking deeply about the events that had transpired to put him in his present circumstance.
He had been mad – insane – obsessed with becoming the best and the strongest fighter in the world. At first, it had started with those few "freakish" members of his Kyoto Oniwaban Group – those rejected few who had sworn loyalty to him and had never questioned him.
Hyotokko.
Shikijo.
Vashimi.
Hanya.
His allies. His friends.
The fame they should have been granted was stolen from the pages of the Revolution by Batousai the Manslayer. Thus, when the opportunity to fight him arose, they had to do so. They had to fight him and defeat him, and then they would be called the best in the world.
But it was not to be.
His four loyal comrades fell to Kanryu Takeda's Gatling gun, protecting their lord.
Protecting him.
He would have died had it not been for Batousai.
Even now, the shame and humiliation of being rescued by his opponent seared his soul.
He escaped, though, and buried his friends. From there he trained. He trained until his body was perfect, his skills were inscrutable, and his soul was so deeply buried within himself that he was no longer human.
He did the unthinkable. He joined forces with a demon – Makoto Shishio – all for the sake of defeating a peaceful wanderer who wanted nothing more than to live in peace. Ultimately, again, the pathetic wanderer – the once bloody manslayer, Hitokiri Batousai – was the one who saved him, who pounded the truth into him without even using his sword.
This was true strength.
His heart. His emotions. His feelings. And the ability to use them to help others.
Emotion, he thought. Feeling. If those are his strengths, than what are my own? Coldness? Cruelty? If we are measured by the strength of our hearts, then I am the weakest man in the world.
He pulled his yukata tighter around his muscled frame in an attempt to shield himself from the bitter wind.
Where is Misao? his mind asked again. I hope she is not outside in this weather.
He turned down the street heading for the Aoiya. He opened the back door and stepped inside. The smell of fried foods still hung heavily in the air from the cooking that had been done earlier in the day. The scent mixed with the sweet smell of fresh cherry blossoms Okon had hung from the ceiling in celebration of the coming spring. The warmth from the ovens still lingered in the air.
He inhaled the scent briefly before heading to the stairway.
A small light shone on the wall so of one of the rooms. Curious, Aoshi poked his head into the room.
His cold eyes softened for a moment.
Misao lay asleep against the table at the center of the room. Her long ebony hair was still in its usual braid, but most of it had come lose and was falling serenely against her peaceful face.
So young. So beautiful.
He had known her all her life – the daughter of his predecessor, the leader of the Oniwabanshu. He had sworn a solemn vow to protect her.
And he had almost destroyed her.
It was only her love for him that convinced Okina – and maybe even the Batousai – that he was worth saving.
Her love for him.
Yes, he knew that she loved him. In the beginning, it had been a crush – a little girl idolizing her handsome, older guardian and protector. And as the years passed, she grew in stature and maturity and coordination and skill. She became a determined young woman, a loyal friend, and an excellent fighter, but her feelings never changed. She was constant.
He allowed his stony expression to soften as he moved into the room and lifted her into his arms gently so as not to wake her. Her skin was soft and cool to the touch. She nestled deeper into his arms but did not wake.
He carried her down the hall to her room and laid her tenderly on her futon. For a moment, her little fingers twined in the hem of his yukata. He pulled her fingers away and covered her with a warm blanket. He touched her brow tenderly and stood, shutting the door behind him as he left.
"Aoshi."
The wizened voice pierced the silence of the hall. He turned to see an old man standing partially bathed in shadows.
"Okina," he answered with a bow. "You are awake still?"
"I'm standing here, aren't I?"
Aoshi did not answer.
"Come. We need to talk," the old man vanished into his room.
Aoshi followed obediently. Once inside, Okina lit more candles, filling the room with amber light. Aoshi knelt on the floor and stared pointedly at the old man.
"I have a question for you, Aoshi," Okina knelt across from him, "and I want you to answer me truthfully."
"I have only ever been truthful with you, Okina."
"Then, tell me this," Okina set down his candle. "When will winter come to an end?"
"Excuse me?"
"Answer me, Aoshi. When does winter end?"
"Winter ends when spring comes."
"Why does spring come then, Aoshi?"
"Okina, I do not see the purpose for you questions."
"Answer me, Aoshi."
"Spring must come because—" Aoshi stopped. "The earth cannot stay dead forever. It must live again."
"Why?"
"The earth cannot remain lifeless, which winter epitomizes. Ergo, spring must come because without the earth would be forever dead and never live again."
Okina nodded and stood.
"Winter is nearly done," he said aloud. "Spring will come soon, and life will return to the world. The grass will grow healthy and green. The flowers will bloom and sweeten the air. The birds will sing, the brooks will laugh, and the wind will no longer cut so sharply. The rain that falls will be warm and comforting, and the only snow will be the cherry blossoms that drift on the breeze."
Aoshi watched to the old man speak, listening to the joyous inflection in his voice.
"Okina, what are you trying to tell me?"
Okina turned to him.
"Has it not been a year, Aoshi? Has it not been a year since you returned to us?"
Aoshi looked down.
"You still spend more time at the temple than you do elsewhere. This is admirable in many perspectives, but too much of anything, no matter how good it might be, is not healthy."
"Please, Okina, state your purpose."
"Ever since the Revolution ended, Aoshi, you have lived in a season of winter, a period of time in your heart that has kept you from living."
Aoshi remained silent.
"When Hanya and the others died, the winter in your heart only grew stronger, strangling the last vestiges of life and prolonging the winter of your soul. Aoshi, when a country lives too long under a shroud of winter, the life seeps from it like the blood from a wound. Soon all the life is gone, if sprint does not come to give birth to the live swelling within it."
Aoshi remained silent.
"When Hanya and the others died, you became obsessed and you let your life diminish in your struggle to advance. When Himura brought you back to us, you found peace in your meditations at the temple. But meditation does not bring life. It increases it. If you life has already fled, you only submerge yourself deeper into despair."
"You speak in riddles, Okina," Aoshi suddenly stood and headed for the door.
"Aoshi, do you love Misao?"
Aoshi stopped and whirled around, shock obvious in his bright green eyes.
"Do you? You know she cares for you. Do you return her feelings? Do you love her?"
"I fail to see why this is important to you, Okina. My relationship with Misao is not your concern."
"You are incorrect, Aoshi. Misao is as much my charge as she is yours, and I desire her well-being as much as I hope you do."
"Of course, I desire her well-being. I swore to protect her."
"How can you say you protect her when you are the source of her pain?"
"What are you talking about, Okina?"
"Aoshi, she loves you, and you cause her great pain by rejecting her love."
"I swore to protect her, Okina," he repeated. "And I will. Even if I must protect her from myself."
"Aoshi."
"I have committed atrocious sins, Okina. Misao does not see this. She sees only the person she used to know, the Aoshi Shinomori she remembers. I am no longer that person. I do not have the right to accept her affections. I am unworthy of her love. I feel I no longer possess the capability to love, no matter how much Misao deserves it. Someone lives who is able to give her the love she deserves, but it is not I. I will only hurt her."
"Aoshi, you say you are incapable of love, yet you obviously care for her. You care for her too much to hurt her. But answer me this: Is it better to be with her and risk the possibility of hurting her or is it better to stay away from her and guarantee that you will hurt her."
Aoshi fell silent.
"If you go to her, Aoshi, you may hurt her. Every relationship has hurts, but they all end up all right if the love is true. You may hurt her, Aoshi, and she may hurt you. But we are all imperfect beings. She wounds are to be expected from any relationship. However, if you refuse to accept her and continue to shun her as you have been for the past year, I promise you that you will hurt her deeply. There is no may about it."
Aoshi did not respond.
"Think about this, Aoshi. You think you are protecting her by keeping your distance, but you're not. You are breaking her heart. Ask yourself. And if you truly value her, then cherish her. Go to her."
Okina stood, bowed, and walked out of the room, leaving Aoshi to think.
He stared out the window absently.
"Do I love her?" he muttered aloud to himself. "Not as a friend or a ward – but as a man loves a woman? I knew she loved me, but I knew that her affections for a wretch like me would lead to her destruction. That would be terrible. I could not abide such a thing. But why? Am I merely loyal to her?"
He stood and returned to Misao's room. He moved the shoji screen aside and peered into the darkened area.
She was still sleeping peacefully.
Am I protecting her? Or am I protecting myself? No. I'm protecting her from myself.
He knelt beside her.
But Okina is right. I have forgotten how to live. My soul is plunged beneath an interminable season of winter. It has utterly consumed me. And I know that it has.
He cocked his head as Misao shifted in her sleep.
A part of me has reveled in my coldness, my lifelessness, my loneliness. I have thrilled at being alone in this world.
He touched her face with the back of his hand.
But now in the presence of this little girl – no, this woman – at last I believe I truly realize what it means to be alone. That solitude is not something to be aspired toward. That loneliness leaves one bitter, cold, and unfeeling. In the presence of this bright flower, I feel. I feel life flowing through my limbs as I never felt in battle, not even with Himura the Batousai. I feel – hmph – I feel the ice in my heart giving way to the fervent desire to stay by her side.
He leaned back on his heels.
"Okina, you lecherous old goat," he muttered aloud. "I believe – I believe you were correct for once."
Aoshi started slightly as Misao groaned quietly. Her big eyes fluttered open, and she sat up like a shot.
"Lord Aoshi!" she yelped. "Oh! What time—How did you—How did I—I'm sorry, Lord Aoshi! You must be terribly hungry! I'm so stupid to fall asleep and leave you waiting at the temple without anything to eat! Please forgive—"
She would have continued, Aoshi knew, if he had not silenced her with a raised hand.
"Misao," he began, "there is reason neither for you to apologize nor to fret in this matter."
"But I fell asleep, Lord Aoshi!"
"This only means you required rest."
"But I wasn't in my room when I sat down. Did—Did you bring me here?"
"Yes."
"You needn't have done that, Lord Aoshi. I'm sure I would have been quite fine on the table."
"It was no trouble," he answered stoically. "Besides, the night is yet cold. I did not wish for you to become ill."
"You were worried about me?"
"Do not be ridiculous, Misao."
"Sorry, Lord Aoshi."
He closed his eyes. He had not intended to sound sharp.
I must learn how to speak to her.
Slowly, he stood, saying gently, "Go to sleep, Misao."
"Yes, Lord Aoshi."
Her voice was quiet, almost disappointed. He moved for the door, but he stopped in the frame.
"Misao?"
"Yes, Lord Aoshi?"
"I will not go to the temple tomorrow."
"Why not?"
"I wish – I wish to take a walk. Through Kyoto. Would you accompany me?"
Aoshi could almost feel the joy that radiated through Misao's wiry frame.
"Oh, yes, Lord Aoshi!" she exclaimed. "I would be honored to walk with you!"
"Good."
"How shall I dress?"
"What?"
"What do you want me to wear?" she asked
with a blush. "What would be appropriate?"
Slowly, he turned to her, the
barest hint of a smile on his lips.
"Something light," he said. "Spring is coming after all."