Standard disclaimer applies.

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The Sound of Jasmine

By: Luna

Part three: Do You Know What This Means?

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I held the broom firmly in my hands, and swept the smooth wooden floor with swift, hard strokes, focusing solely on removing every last speck of dirt off the floor.

Clean. Clean. Clean. I had told him I wanted to repair the house, and having it clean was a good way to help.

I frowned slightly at my blurry reflection on the newly polished floor. I didn't want to think of him at the moment.

He was always polite, sometimes a little bit too polite Never said or did anything that would even lead me to suspect anything bad about his character. And to my opinion at the moment, quiet the boring character. Even so, there was something about him that intrigued me. Something that warm and strong that had my eyes following him whenever he was around. And yet . . .

I couldn't help but shiver every time I looked into his eyes. There was something there . . . Something hidden beneath his icy mask and polite behavior. Something I had no knowledge of, but frightened me dearly. I felt guilty for feeling this way, but that reaction was always there. Always with me every time he entered the room for either breakfast or lunch.

I think he knows how I feel, because at every sitting for meals, he's always at tight as a coiled spring, and his expression is extra guarded. I didn't mind so much him not speaking to me during those times, because even if he did, I wouldn't have answered him anyway. I may have spoke what seemed like my first words to him, but I didn't like or know him enough to feel comfortable for conversation.

It wasn't as if I thought him a horrible person . . . it was just I felt . . . like . . .

Like he was trying to hold the water from a raging river without one drop falling over the mental wall he has built up. Like he has a secret that he is determined to keep hidden.

Perhaps that is why I fear him so.

The pain that I glimpsed in his eyes. . . the deluge of tears that had seemed to leak from his soul the first night I dreamt of him. . . or maybe it was just him that I truly feared. But if that were so, I don't think I would have been so willing for him to stay here.

There was regret, in my decision, but I made no move to deliberately tell him that he was no longer wanted in my home. For that would only be a half- truth . . .

Broom in hand, I walk slowly through the long halls listlessly. Suddenly, I didn't feel like cleaning . . .

I considered writing something in my journal, but nothing came to mind. I didn't want to write down my feelings; because I was so confused I knew I wouldn't be able to find any words that could describe them.

Mou . . . didn't I just say I didn't want to think about him? I sighed and made my way outside.

I had the thought to smile, but when I tried, my stiff lips didn't even twitch. I sighed.

Happiness came very rare these days, and the thought that I couldn't didn't bother me at all at the moment. A tiny bird flies into my sight, and I watch as it balances itself on a tree branch, and sing, uncaring to who might be listening.

"Kaoru . . ."

I close my eyes tightly when I heard the sweetest voice I'd never forget, whisper sweetly in my mind.

"Isn't that a pretty bird? I wish I could be one . . . I'd fly all day . . ."

I turn my head to the side, as if I could turn away from the memory the tiny bird had me reliving. "If I was a bird . . . I could fly all day . . . away from all this . . . pain."

I stare blankly into the sky, letting the final memory of his sweet voice filter through my soul. "Kaoru? Why are you crying?"

The gate squeaked open, and I forced the memory back into the hidden recesses of my mind as I looked to see who it was.

It was Kenshin, and, if possible, his face is even more chilling than usual. His eyes are hard and flat. His jaw is set tight. His movements stiff. In his hand he clutched a black envelope, and I wondered what it was for.

He looked up at me, his face as still as granite, and I wondered what was going on in his head that made him stare at me for so long.

He looked away, and it almost seemed as if he was relieved.

He walked past me and into the house without another glance. I stared at the door for a while, then did the only thing that came to mind.

I swept.

I awoke to the sounds of water sloshing around in a bucket. Curious, I pulled back the blanket and stood, tightening the sash of my yukata. Who could be making those sounds? Was it Kenshin?

I slid open my bedroom door and made my way towards the noise. The sound was coming from the outside in the bathhouse. Is it Kenshin? If so, why is he taking a bath so late?

I carefully made my way towards the bathhouse doors. Something inside me urged to open the door, despite the fact that he may be undressed, and before I knew what I was doing I had already reached out and was pulling the doors open.

He is standing there, his hands plunged up to his wrists in a bucket of water.

Washing his hands. He doesn't even acknowledge my presence at all.

What on earth was he doing . . .?

Washing, washing. Washing at the imaginary substance he seems to think is stained there.

How long has he been at this before I finally heard him? I can see that he has already emptied two buckets, but the water before him is clear, yet still he scrubs at his hands . . .

Why?

What was he doing?

"Kenshin . . ." My voice came out in its usual whisper of sound. He stopped, and again I found myself amazed that he had actually heard my voice. "You're wasting water . . ."

Why did I say such a stupid thing? He was obviously going through some emotional turmoil, and I clearly wasn't helping matters. He turned towards me slowly, and it was then I noticed the blood staining the front of his gi. My eyes widen. He was injured? How? And why didn't he tend to his wound instead of washing his hands?

Without thinking I rush forward and part his gi to inspect what must have been a deep cut from all the still wet blood.

My hands froze.

There was no wound on his body. Not even the slightest scratch. That could only mean . . .

The blood staining his clothes wasn't his.

I stared, my eyes still wide, up into his face, my fingers still on the spot I had thought his injury was. I was so close . . . and yet . . .

Why wasn't he saying anything?

I slowly retracted my hand and stared at where the other mans blood had brushed against it; it's a color a bright red compared to my porcelain skin.

He grasped both of my hands in his, and I look up at him in surprise. His lids were hooded as they stared at my hands. "This . . . this is what I see everyday."

My whispered breath seemed to scratch at my throat, its sound hollow. "Why?"

"Because . . . I am . . ." His voice faltered, and I knew I wasn't going to like what he said.

He looked up then, straight into my eyes, and spoke in a soft, but steady voice.

"Battousai."

I never considered myself a gentle woman, but when I heard his answer, I fainted dead away into his arms.

I am moving through my daily chores like a mindless wraith. My head was foggy and pounded as if I had drank many bottles of sake the night before. My movements are slow and sluggish, and I had more than once caught myself staring into space.

I shake my head as I head out to the porch.

I see Kenshin standing in the middle of the yard. His back is to me, and his posture is stiff. I look behind to see the back of a tall, but almost droopy man walking away. I look back at him just as he pivots on his heel and faces me. In his hand clutched another black envelope.

Its meaning was clear to me now, and I stared at the paper with dread.

Another name. Another man he is ordered to kill.

So soon . . . so soon . . . why?

I tear my gaze away and look back at him, and I wonder. Would I still have let him stay with me, even knowing who he was?

I closed my eyes when no answer came readily available.

That alone was disturbing enough to shake me to the core.

I opened my eyes, only to stare at the ground. "Why? Why do you . . . kill? Why must you kill?"

He doesn't answer, and I looked back to the tree the little bird seemed to favor, and watched as it skittered around the branches. Ano . . . the trees are already becoming bare.

I watched in muted interest as he sat on the porch a few yards away from me. I forced myself not to stiffen. I watched impassively as he started to speak, myself not bothering to sit down.

"Freedom and individuality . . . Can you even imagine what that would be like?" His voice was soft and flowing, and in it held such a note of what seemed like wistfulness.

I have wondered, but I did not say this.

"All this . . . all this is for the future. The future that holds more than a flicker of hope. We all fight so hard . . . but many others . . . don't crave the peace we do. The freedom we do. Do you . . . can you even begin to understand what we, the Ishin Shishi, are trying to accomplish? We all work hard to create this change, only . . . not all of us realized how much we had to sacrifice to achieve this ideal." He hadn't looked at me throughout his speech; instead he was staring down at his open hands.

"Did you?" For once, my voice was normal, not the whispering words I seldomly spoke.

He was silent for a moment before he answered. "No. But it no longer matters." He shook his head. "But . . . you understand, don't you? Why this must be so?"

I . . . don't know.

I did not answer him.