glossary:
sumanu = sorry, sort of informal
Ojisan = uncle; also a respectful term for an older man
onmitsu = spy or secret agent; the general term for Aoshi and the Oniwabanshuu in the manga
geta = the high women's shoes that go cloppity-clop (okay, not like horses...)
Mune no Monogatari
by Mirune Keishiko
Five: Walk Home
Later that night, he would wonder how he had sensed her presence and recognized it as hers, from among all the other guests coming and going across the lawns and from the Sanada house in an indistinct crowd of nondescript ki. Such intuition had worked for few yet in his life—Misao of course, and Okina and the others in the Aoiya; Battousai and his Tokyo friends; his four comrades; and much longer ago, some of his more noteworthy men and the great rulers of Japan whom he had served. As for the rest... even Takeda, who had had the distinction at least of bringing Battousai to him, had just been a blur in his awareness, yet another walking fog among so many of oily sweat and the rusty, dirty smell of money.
But he had been standing idly in the gardens, watching the street from where he blended easily into the shadows in his dark suit, when he had immediately discerned someone—Megumi—walking out the front doors. Before he could wonder exactly how he had known, he turned and found her making her way slowly along the stone path, scanning the dimly lit grounds—no doubt for him.
Her cinnamon eyes fixed upon him as he emerged from his hiding place. There was a strange look on her face, he noted—relief and humor and exasperation all at the same time. Likely her aunt had been talking to her—a kindly enough middle-aged woman, but who undoubtedly possessed some kitsune-like traits herself which she had not let Megumi escape.
"You wish to go home now?"
Megumi nodded, wrapping her pale rose shawl around her bare shoulders against the night; though summer made it mild, the occasional breeze still likely felt chill against her uncovered skin. For a moment her weariness came to the fore: She lowered her gaze, her usually straight shoulders slumped, and she stepped very close, almost as if wanting to lean on him—but stopped just short of contact.
He held out his arm. She hesitated at first, glancing up at him with wide eyes, before laying her gloved hand on his sleeve.
"Sumanu. Alcohol always drains me."
"It is also quite late, Takani-san. Shall I ask for the carriage?"
She smiled and shook her head. "It's no use; Ojisan's already sent them to bring some of the other guests home."
"Then we should wait..."
She frowned. "I was thinking we—I could walk instead. I have clinic hours to keep early tomorrow and that carriage could take over an hour to get back."
"In those shoes, walking will take just as long as riding, probably longer. The doctors' lodgings are not that far."
"And how did you find that out, genius onmitsu?" Megumi's low tone was shot through with sarcasm. Then, apparently realizing too late what she had said, she flushed, averting her gaze. "I'm sorry. That slipped out. I haven't been thinking enough tonight," she murmured, briefly tightening her hold on his arm in silent apology.
He nodded briefly but made no response. Her statement had not angered him as she seemed to fear—on the contrary, it had merely made him think. And he preoccupied himself with his thoughts as they headed in mutual silence down to the gate, which had been kept ajar for guests to come and go freely. In the soft light of the lanterns over the gateway, Aoshi stopped once again.
"If you wish to clear your head, Takani-san, walking would indeed be a wise choice. However, your shoes may do you injury in the meantime."
She was blushing as she looked up at him; strange and fascinating, the color warming her smooth pale cheeks, and at the same time the clarity of her eyes that told him she had no idea she was blushing so fiercely. She had been blushing, too, on the balcony: beneath the tracks of drying tears a rosiness so stark against her white skin that he had allowed himself the indulgence of a brief touch of his fingertip. It had been his homage, perhaps, to a woman struggling with so many strong emotions, yet strong enough herself to permit them to show only in a dash of color across the purity of her face.
He had touched her in that way only once before—two years and the madness of a lifetime ago.
"I'm sorry to impose on you my foolish little wants. If you wish to wait, Aoshi-san, then we will wait. You are right—these stupid boots do risk ankle injury every minute I wear them."
Her voice was low and cool. Had Aoshi been more given to open shows of emotion, he would have laughed to express his amusement that she should unconsciously mirror his own way of speaking.
As it was, he felt the corners of his mouth curling very slightly, as of their own accord. A movement too tiny perhaps for the ordinary person to catch, but he was very much conscious of his body as all well-trained warriors are, and the involuntary, faint curve of his mouth felt like the flex of an entire limb.
She saw it.
Ah, the growing red in her cheeks.
Then she laughed.
It was very soft, rueful; this time he felt his almost-smile slip in his surprise. She shook her head, looking down at her feet encased in russet satin as she pulled off her gloves and stuffed them into her bag. She didn't seem to know that these actions brought her hair within smelling distance; and the scent of roses drifted pleasantly to Aoshi's senses.
"I'll have you know I don't believe in these silly foreign fashions in the first place. I feel like I'm ten years old and learning to wear geta all over again."
He barely heard her words; he was busy taking it all in—her subtly perfumed nearness, the light, quiet silk of her voice, the graceful laughter that had startled him, as things so rarely did these days, still echoing in his mind. He realized, at that instant, that he had kept too long at the Aoiya, shuttered himself away from the world too much. He had grown too used to the same old people, the same old things and events—and now this one woman was surprising him at every turn, her bright, unfamiliar fire warming him afresh where routine and repetition had numbed his spirit.
"What you need, Takani-san, is practice. A walk across town should help you master those shoes soon enough."
Fire was all right, but it still assuaged his personal pride to know that he, too, could surprise her.
Aizu at midnight was quietly asleep—it was still provincial that way, and Aoshi couldn't help contrasting it with Kyoto, where all was vibrantly alive even into the wee hours of morning. Only his and Megumi's footsteps broke the stillness as they made their way through the empty streets.
Megumi seemed unaffected by the silence that had lasted unbroken since leaving the Sanada estate. Despite her earlier comments about her shoes, she walked easily and gracefully as usual, with only the occasional misstep that she would deftly correct without missing a beat. Her head was bowed as she walked, as though she were lost in thought.
Then, as if suddenly remembering something, she stopped and turned. He glanced at her inquiringly.
"Aoshi-san, I'm surprised at you."
She was the picture of indignation: hands fisted on her waist, brows drawn together, eyes sharp and clear. Apparently she had already walked off the little alcohol she had drunk.
"I'm sure you know it's very bad manners to let the woman walk ahead. It makes me look like I'm the one with bad manners, walking ahead of her"—she faltered—"male companion. To a lesser man I would say nothing, but I trust you know better than to let this pass uncorrected. At the very least you should keep up with me," she finished more firmly, glaring at him as his long strides brought him at last to her side.
He found himself smiling.
Damn it, he was getting soft in his old age.
Megumi looked stunned.
"I'm very sorry, Takani-san. It was an egregious lack of courtesy on my part. I allowed myself to lose track of things, but I assure you it won't happen again."
And having hammered his mouth back into its customary stony set, he offered her his arm in his blandest manner—but in the long, slow moments before she thought to take it, she stayed rooted to the spot, staring at him in wide-eyed amazement.
And then her hand was feather-light on his arm, as though she were afraid he would crumble beneath her touch; and as they walked on again, she looked away, hiding her face from him.
Safe, then, from her gaze, he allowed himself to smile again. He could find no particular reason for it, save for an utterly unfamiliar sort of vibrant feeling surging deep inside him that he suddenly found it absurd to fight or ignore. It was something he could not remember ever feeling in his eventful life: Pressed for words, he might have likened it to the inner blossoming of ice-rimed pride he used to feel for every enemy slain—but he knew instinctively that this was far different, far greater, far stronger, far richer, and that it cost him a senseless amount of energy to fight its sly, solemn curving of his mouth. He found himself inexplicably looking down at Megumi's white, slender fingers splayed across his arm.
It was all decidedly strange.
"I see Misao-chan has managed to find your hidden smile at last," she said lightly.
So much for smiling, then.
She seemed to sense the sudden drop in his mood. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I assumed too much."
"Misao has nothing to do with this."
Hesitation, curiosity, doubt flickered across her face as she glanced up at him; while Megumi might have been able to deceive others as to her true feelings, Aoshi was too seasoned a fighter not to notice. Knowing prudence would restrain her from probing more deeply into his statements, he decided to answer the questions that shone unspoken in her eyes.
They went on walking; they had left behind the wide, shop-flanked downtown avenues for the narrower, greener ways in the residential areas. From the shadowed trees and bushes now bordering the street arose the placid, steady hum of crickets.
"It is not for lack of trying that Misao has failed. She simply has yet to understand that certain things are beyond coercion or imposition, beyond effort or will. She is hardly used to her own spirit being insufficient."
What was he referring to now? They were still talking about his smile, weren't they? But he was staring down again at the pale hand on his arm, shapely whiteness against the black of his suit, and knowing only that he had never before spoken about Misao to anyone in this way—not to Battousai, who otherwise knew so much about him, not even to old Okina.
The last time he had taken that tone of voice, reassuring, patient, calm—perhaps it had been many, many years ago, when the Oniwabanshuu was still complete, when he was still the Okashira they all depended on, when time and the choices of others and the shift of circumstances far outside his reach had not yet hardened him with care and responsibility borne absolutely alone. Since then he had felt acutely the burden of other lives weighing on his, and he had not been afforded the luxury of trusting others to understand his own thoughts—save only for those comrades who understood without requiring explanation.
He roused himself from his memories as Megumi's low, wistful tones stirred the evening hush.
"She is young, that's all. I'm being presumptuous, but I should prefer that she stay so naïve, rather than having to accept as she gets older that we sometimes simply aren't enough by ourselves, no matter how strong we might be."
He wondered if she had noticed her own shift in her speaking. And if she knew that she had just now amazed him, by giving quiet, impeccably self-assured voice to the thoughts shifting back and forth in his head.
"We're here."
As he raised his gaze to the archway of summer roses that marked the gate to her little house, he found himself silently cursing the way she had unsettled him so much that he was uncharacteristically aware of his own surroundings.
Perhaps that was why he chose to meditate at the safe, quiet, unchanging temple. The constant flurry of motion and energy inside his mind tended to blind him to everything else...
"I know I've troubled you greatly tonight, Aoshi-san. So if it will not encumber you further at this late hour, it would be the least I can do to repay you for your kindness... to give you some poor refreshments before you go on your way home."
She was bowing before him, hair sliding down her shawl-covered shoulders in slippery black strands; and again she was blushing, but a smile curved her mouth and brought rosy lips closer to rosy cheeks. When her hand left his arm, he suddenly felt unusually light and unsteady.
In sharp contrast, his voice as he spoke was impeccably controlled. "Thank you, Takani-san, but I will not keep you further from your sleep. As you said earlier, you have work awaiting you in the morning. Your devotion to your patients must not be compromised by my own inconsideration."
Words of duty. He knew them well.
"I have no intention of insulting your hospitality, but I would prefer now to leave you to your rest."
She too knew duty well. She would understand.
But her smile vanished, she straightened from the gentle posture of invitation she had unconsciously assumed toward him; a coldness seemed to settle on her features that had been so warm and bright mere moments before, and it too was familiar to Aoshi, and he wished then that he had said something entirely different—entirely selfish.
"You are right once again in correcting me, Aoshi-san. You remember my responsibilities for me. For that I thank you." She smiled again, but it was cool this time, purely polite and professional. "Permit me, then, at least as a physician, to offer you at least a cup of tea before you leave. I know your inn is a considerable walk away, and I would not wish you to arrive overly tired and dehydrated."
She served him fragrant tea with the same clipped, immaculate calm, made exceedingly polite conversation about the weather and the state of his lodgings that made him feel as though they were meeting for the first time in their lives. He was a strong, experienced warrior, but one look at her chill, imperturbable smile and mirrorlike eyes and he resigned himself to only the barest of niceties. In less than half an hour he had excused himself, had made some smooth, inane request to obtain cuttings of her night-blooming feverfew for the Aoiya to which she consented with equal grace and blandness, and was walking down the street, hearing her gate creak shut and locked behind him, her swift, precise steps disappear into her house.
Her smile was before his eyes in the darkness, cold and calm and utterly empty.
And a terribly familiar sorrow tightened around his heart.
~ tsuzuku ~
A/N. Oh dear. Somehow Megumi-chan is coming off as terribly off-kilter—all this (seemingly) unprovoked sniping and snapping at poor Aoshi-sama. She's just too beautiful a person to go on portraying as psychologically imbalanced, so... I should set about portraying Aoshi like that too. ^.^ Is that what they do to each other—he constantly pisses her off, she constantly throws him for a loop? Must... find... something... better... (sweatdrop)
Nitpicky note: Satin shoes: In "Little Women" (read: too lazy to really do research on turn-of-the-century women's fashion...) which is set in the mid-1800s, Jo mentions that Amy once painted a pair of old boots to "look exactly like satin." I suppose, therefore, that satin boots already exist by this time. They do sound very elegant, ne? (If anyone else finds something to nitpick, please just let me know. [crosses fingers behind back])
Argh, this chapter really took a bit of effort. Even then, it sort of petered out at just barely five pages. I'm thinking I shouldn't hold myself so strictly to such meaningless parameters as chapter length, but at the same time, I'd feel kind of bad making readers wait so long for just so many pages. At any rate, I hope this chapter goes over well with everyone. ^.^ To be fair, I do think just a few more hours of listening to Craig Armstrong, the Blue Nile, and Thomas Newman should get me back into the angst/drama/stormily brewing romance mood.
I must say I also found it difficult to write from an Aoshi perspective; I wanted to break from my continually female POV for once, but for good or ill, what's emerged in this male-perspective chapter is a style somewhat different from my usual one. Not totally different though, because I can see bits of my old style peeking through at times, and I'm not sure either if they work for the story. So I hope they still do. ~.~
Credits! ChiisaiLammy has perhaps, in some pseudo-telepathic way, picked up my subconscious longing for her to read and review this humble piece. Doumo arigatou~! I really appreciate your reviews—so substantial, your insights are really helping me discern where this fic can and should go. (Also thanks for reviewing Frost!) And do please continue Water in a Glass House! ^.^ mij, sorry, I only realized myself that I hadn't explained about Tokyo after I'd uploaded the chapter. I'll explain properly when the time is right, I promise. eriesalia, you're exactly right: "fun and scary" indeed. I'm quaking in my rubber slippers. @.@
Well, well! Must go on to the next installment then. I think if I didn't have this fic to muddle over, my two weeks of break (before summer classes) would really be absolutely unproductive. Thank goodness. ^.^