Witness Tree ~ Chapter 1

It felt like days had passed, but Aoshi knew that surely it couldn't have been more than a few hours. Or perhaps that was too optimistic. All this blood wasn't his, but as Hannya's dried in a comet tail arc across his chest, it was starting to become easier to determine how much was.

Somehow, he was still on his feet. Escaping Takeda's compound hadn't been the hard part. He had been riding a warm red fog of adrenaline and he had felt no pain as he had slipped out a window and into the safety of Tokyo's back alleys. His only discomfort had been the heaviness of his boots as they slowly filled with blood. Now, however, his body's last reserves were depleted, and the bright clear vision that suggested he was in shock had begun to fade.

He had thought he was escaping, but he knew now that he had only come out here to die. His legs were about to collapse beneath him, but Aoshi hardly cared. For now, he was still moving, and as long he kept moving he didn't have any strength left over to scream. If he started screaming, he knew, he wouldn't be able to stop.

Dusk bled down richer red than he had ever seen before - or was that only the final curtain falling over his eyes? - and somewhere off to the east he thought he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a flash of something bright. A field. The dark silhouette of a house against the graying sky. His lips parted around a word. Not the one he had expected.

"Please…"

Aoshi's knees buckled, dumping him to the ground. He yelped sharply as a jolt of pain shot up his left leg. He had honestly not expected it to hurt, and he lay shuddering in surprised for a moment, trying to wrap his mind around it. It was hard to piece his thoughts together, especially with that voice whispering in the back of his mind. Just the same thing, over and over.

I cannot die this way.

Whimpering softly in frustration, Aoshi tried to force himself to his feet. Darkness washed over him, wet and sticky like tar, and though he lost only a few moments to it, the next thing he was aware of was a gentle hand on his back, and a voice murmuring soft, confused words in his ear. They came as a great comfort to Aoshi, even if he couldn't make them out through the thundering of blood at his temples. Couldn't make out what he said in response, either.

It wasn't until he felt a hand close around his shoulder, turning him onto his back and drawing a voiceless cry from his throat that the world rushed back to him, struck him between the eyes like a fist.

He heard his name spoken, very clearly, and for a moment deep gray eyes flashed before him in perfect clarity. Aoshi's lips parted to speak, the reply never made it to his lips.

With an insensate murmur, he went limp in Sagara's arms.

For a long moment, Sagara could do nothing but stare down at him. Aoshi wore the same calm expression he always had - the one Sagara dreamed about sometimes - though his skin was pale as milk, his lips pressed tight. Like a mask of his old lover, a death's head hollowed of everything that had been Shinomori Aoshi.

And it was then that Sagara realized his lungs were aching, that he had forgotten to breathe. Gasping, he stumbled to his feet, catching Aoshi under the shoulders and dragging him along. "You don't want my help…" he muttered as he pulled one of Aoshi's arms over his shoulders.

Aoshi's eyes were nearly closed; nothing but whites visible beneath fluttering lids. Sagara doubted he could hear him, but he was talking anyway, his voice thin and wavering as he wrapped an arm around Aoshi's waist and began to lead him up the slope to his small farmhouse.

"Don't be so stubborn. You don't have a choice." He stumbled a little, drawing a sharp cry from the man at his side. Sagara bit his lip, and blinked against tears. "Sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Aoshi didn't reply, and maybe that was good. Maybe by now he was far away, somewhere pain couldn't touch him. "Walk," Sagara said. "Please."

Though he still did not respond, Aoshi seemed to understand, at least long enough for Sagara to tug him up the steps onto the porch of the farmhouse. He toed the door open, dragged Aoshi inside, and managed to kick a futon onto the floor without jarring him too much.

As he lowered him to the mattress, Aoshi's eyes fluttered open, fixing Sagara with a penetrating stare. Almost as suddenly, his gaze slipped out of focus again, and he held a trembling hand over one of the steaming wounds in his left leg. He swore softly.

Swallowing hard, Sagara sank slowly to his knees at Aoshi's side, brushed a few locks of black bloodstained hair out of his eyes.

"Aoshi… Listen to me, Aoshi," he murmured, moving his attention lower to the man's injured legs. It looked bad. "You're going to be all right," he assured him. "I'll make sure you are."

He stood up again, and moved briskly about the house, gathering the things he would need to tend to Aoshi's wounds.

Aoshi's voice followed him as he grabbed the basin of water and all the clean cloths he had from the other room. "Sagara…?" He paused, gathering his strength. "Sagara Souzou? It's you, isn't it?"

Sagara's hands stumbled briefly over the tools he was collecting. "Yes," he said quietly, forcing his fingers to stop trembling. "It's me." He sank again to his knees at Aoshi's side, took up a short knife and began to carefully cut away Aoshi's stained clothing. "And you don't have to worry. I'm going to take care of you."

"I…" Aoshi gritted his teeth, but still a pained intake of breath escaped them as Sagara's hand drifted close to one of the bullet wounds. "I knew it would be you. I knew… You're a ghost. Just like they are."

Sagara managed to keep himself from flinching, but he couldn't look at Aoshi's face. "Not quite." He shredded the last of the fabric in his way, and tossed the torn remains of Aoshi's coat and gi aside. "The closest doctor is half a day from here, but… if I can stop the bleeding you'll have a chance."

He selected a strong needle, threaded it with his teeth and bent over Aoshi's wounds once more.

Aoshi's eyes widened when he saw the needle and then he abruptly looked away. Sagara bit his lip. This wouldn't be pretty, but his hands were steady as he began.

Half an hour later, Aoshi was shivering, drenched in sweat, retching dryly. But Sagara had cut the last thread and he could finally afford to shiver a little as he wrapped clean bandages around Aoshi's legs. "Be still," he whispered absently, touching Aoshi's cheek with fingers that must have been cold. "I'm almost done now."

Aoshi's eyes fluttered a little. He was losing consciousness. If he slept now, Sagara realized, he might not wake up. There was nothing he could do about it. Nothing, except hope…

"Sagara…"

He started a little at the sound of his name. "Don't try to talk. You must have hurt your throat with all that screaming."

Aoshi nodded weakly. "Hurts." He turned his face into Sagara's palm. "Sagara, you're really…"

"Old?" Sagara whispered, trying to force some humor into his voice. "Yes, I know." He tied off the bandages, and reached down to tug a sheet over Aoshi's body.

"That's not..." Aoshi's voice became serious suddenly, and his eyes were cloudy and dark. "You're really here. I never thought... Not like this."

Sagara sighed. "Yes. I'm still here. Right where you left me. But… look at you. All grown up now." He smoothed the blanket over Aoshi's chest, and leaned back to survey his work. "There, it's done. How do you feel?"

"Dead," came the hissed reply. "Sagara, it shouldn't have been you. You shouldn't have to…" He swallowed hard, lucidity flickering out of his eyes like a candle before a stiff breeze. "I'm so tired."

"Then rest," Sagara whispered, sinking back a bit on his knees. He pressed his hands against the floor as if to assure himself that it was still there. "You'll feel better after you get some sleep… I guess we'll have some catching up to do when you're awake."

"Sagara, I…" For a moment, Aoshi seemed to be grasping for something. His lips even continued to move for a moment after his voice had stopped working. It didn't occur to Sagara until a moment too late that if these were to be Aoshi's last words, perhaps he could at least do him the courtesy of hearing them. But by then the man had fallen still, his breath, like quiet sobs, becoming even as he slipped into unconsciousness.

Sagara watched him a moment, transfixed by the movement of Aoshi's chest beneath the thin blanket. This was real. This was not a ghost, not a phantom spun of this time of the day, of the year, and all the memories it had.

It wasn't until he tasted the first of his tears on his lips that Sagara started awake. Ashamed, he swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. Tears were for the dead. "Oh, Aoshi…" he whispered. "You have to wake up. Just one more time."