Mune no Monogatari

by Mirune Keishiko

Epilogue

Part Four: Kitsunegari (Foxhunt)

"Has she returned?"

Misao tried not to cower before Aoshi's abrupt question, his harsh tone. "Not yet," she said, worrying her lip between her teeth in nervousness; though his face remained impassive and his voice as cold as the rain that lashed at her umbrella, tension radiated off him in palpable waves. Lightning shot white into the stormcloud-shadowed courtyard for just a moment; then a grumbling boom cut off what Misao had been about to say.

She saw Aoshi would hardly have listened, anyway. The tall man, his large white coat no match for the tempest, was soaked to the skin underneath, looked more distressed than she could ever recall seeing him. A small voice inside her whined that he'd probably never been that upset whenever she had been the one gone missing; but she pushed that thought aside for the jealous half-lie it was.

"I'm sure she's okay," Misao tried again, catching hold of Aoshi's waterlogged sleeve to force the man to focus on her. "Megumi-san takes care of herself. I'm sure she'll be home soon... she's probably just waiting out the worst before she comes back—"

"The river is rising." Realizing how drenched he was only now that Misao had touched his clothing, Aoshi shrugged out of his dripping coat and handed it to her. She took it mutely. "Fortunately this dojo is on higher ground. But the wooden bridges have given way, and the stone bridge has been closed off; it will be underwater before long." Misao gasped. Aoshi met her suddenly fearful gaze with a grim one. "No one will be crossing anytime soon."

"Perhaps, at the embassy—" faltered Misao, trailing off in futility as Aoshi spun on his heel and stepped out the gate once again. "If the river's flooding, Aoshi-sama, there's nothing you can do..."

"I can make sure she's safe. Besides that, there is indeed nothing I can do."

Misao fell silent then, clutching her umbrella in one hand and Aoshi's heavy wet cloak in the other.

He turned to look back at her. "Go back into the house, Misao. You mustn't get sick in this weather."

"Nor you!" she cried; but he was gone.

He kept to the walls of the buildings he passed so that the wind would not batter him as much, though the overhanging eaves did little to shield him from the rain that drummed in fingers of ice against his skin. Most of the people of Tokyo had already sought shelter in the few hours since the typhoon had set in. The street was empty save for sundry pieces of roof and fence and tree that clattered by, dragged along by the gale.

The river he crossed by stepping swiftly along the railing of the stone bridge; but the surging mud-brown Arakawa threatened to engulf even this, and more than once he had to find a foothold on stone already beneath the water's roiling surface. As he finally landed on more solid ground on the other side, he knew there would be no more bridges for the night.

He passed a flurry of loinclothed men gathering at the riverside, beginning to pile sacks of sand in an effort to keep the river from overrunning its banks. They yelled to and fro among one another as they worked, running back and forth with buckets and shovels and other tools.

"...rain isn't likely to lighten till tomorrow..."

"The last wood bridge just collapsed!..."

"...best start moving the kids to the attic..."

"...tide's getting too high for the dike at the harbor..."

He went to the embassy first; it was too near the docks for comfort. The eerie groaning and creaking of sodden ships tossing at the pier added to the general din of rain and gusting wind and hissing trees.

He slipped past the guards with ease; they were more preoccupied with keeping warm in their damp uniforms and trying to light their cigarettes in the wind than with keeping vigil in the midst of a summer rainstorm.

The receptionist—enviably warm and dry in the yawning lobby of the stone and concrete building—said that Takani-sensei had left early that afternoon, some hours ago, back when the full force of the typhoon had yet to strike the city. She had been in the company of a few colleagues, both Japanese and foreign... Aoshi was out the door before the startled young man could say anything further.

The Genzai clinic was shuttered and locked. At his modest house, the old man said that he had not seen Megumi in days, and his two granddaughters peered up at Aoshi in consternation as he reluctantly took his leave.

Megumi had been to three different hospitals in the area since she and Aoshi had returned from Aizu. Not one of them reported having seen her that day. And he considered her a very noticeable woman indeed.

He was doggedly on his way to a fourth hospital—in another part of the city—and walking swiftly along another deserted street when he heard it. A short, strangled feminine shriek.

It might have drowned in the rain and wind, but Aoshi's keen hearing did not fail him—and by now, after searching for so long in vain, he was tensed for almost any disaster.

In an alley between gambling houses, conveniently shielded from the rain by a tower of crates and other junk, a woman feebly fought the sagging weight of a fat, drunken man as he bent over her, effectively obscuring her from view. But Aoshi saw long black hair caught in the man's fist, a pale hand weakly pushing against the slack, fleshy body that pressed obscenely against her.

He caught the sound of wet cloth ripping, and a mocking slur. "You shouldn't get your clothes wet like that, other people are going to see. What are you, a common whore?..."

He moved before he thought.

No one will ever call her that again and live so help me—

When the blood-red rage had cleared from his mind somewhat, he found the man sprawled unconscious in the mud, his arms and legs in unnatural angles, bleeding freely from an obliterated nose. The woman was whimpering incoherently as she shrank against the wall, clutching the shreds of her kimono to herself, tears running down her cheeks. Aoshi glanced at her. She was definitely not...

"Megumi," he breathed. The woman glanced up at him meekly. "He's not dead," Aoshi muttered, giving his victim a last, disgusted glance. Then again, at least it meant he could continue on without delay.

From the way the woman stared at him in shock, she seemed to fear him now more than she had her attacker; Aoshi did not doubt that he had looked like one possessed when he had lashed out. Not that he cared, really. He had already made to leave when a sudden thought made him turn back toward her.

"Get yourself home before someone else finds you," he said with a gentleness not even he had expected to have, as he draped his sodden shirt around her shoulders. She would at least have something with which to cover herself. The woman stared up at him without a word, and he found himself unable to keep her gaze. "Don't thank me," he spat when she opened her mouth at last. Please, don't thank me.

He left her—gaping somewhat like a landed fish, he thought with a humor he did not feel— in the alley with the injured man, and plunged back into the thick of the storm. The rush of adrenaline was over, and a sudden weariness overtook him; the old, dark remorse from unanticipated memories did not help.

He trudged for several more blocks, trying to ignore the persistent voice that told him Megumi was not to be found in any hospital—at least, none he knew of. He was trying to dismiss it as fatigue, mere discouragement, but...

He stopped short in his tracks. His jaw so firmly set it trembled, he stood motionless for a moment, seemingly oblivious to the rain streaming down his face, suddenly and resolutely weighing a new idea.

Then—with a heart suddenly much heavier than his rain-soaked coat could ever be—he changed direction, and set off for the Chuo district.

"I'm extremely sorry for all this trouble," said Megumi for what she felt was the fortieth time.

But James Wilkinson merely placed before her a plate of cake and a cup of steaming tea. "I will have none of that, Lady Megumi," he said, smiling, for the fortieth time. He pronounced her name with an odd, waltzlike cadence, a peculiar drawing out of the "u", but otherwise it rolled off his tongue quite comfortably. Or perhaps she had just grown used to him.

Megumi permitted herself a smile in response—she really was beginning to get fond of cake, after all—and sat back against the lush brocaded sofa. Picking up the cup with some apprehension, she was delighted to discover that the tea inside was green and unsweetened.

Wilkinson was standing at the window, looking out at the rain-battered city and shaking his head. "You certainly get some powerful weather in this part of the world."

"This time of year, these storms are common," agreed Megumi, helping herself to a bite of cake. "We adapt, of course, but I suppose Nature will always get the last word in."

"In my own humble country we hardly get this much wind, but the rain can go on for weeks on end. Drone, drone, drone, on and on and on," he said, rolling his eyes while Megumi tried not to laugh at his imitation of the sound of falling rain. "We try to adapt, of course"—he turned and grinned at her, drew the curtains over the window, and went over to where his own bit of cake stood in a dish on the table—"but the boredom usually wins out just the same."

Megumi nodded, chewing thoughtfully on her cake, glad for the excuse not to respond since her fledgling English had yet to keep up with the talkative Briton.

"Here, now"—and Wilkinson eyed her critically over his plate of confectionery—"are you sure, milady, that no one will be worried sick over you? It's getting on to suppertime and you've told no one you're here..."

With a pang, Megumi thought of Aoshi. You are not mine to claim, he had told her Damn that ice-cold voice of his—not even she could tell sometimes what he was truly thinking when he used those tones. He might have been angry; or had he been saddened? He might even have been admiring her—but which was it really? She had longed to know what exactly he had meant by his softly spoken words, but something had come over her that night, hearing him say such things, and she had been too caught up in her own sudden fear and uncertainty to dare to ask.

She wondered if he were at the dojo now. Was he waiting for her patiently, or was he rampaging in her unexplained absence like the storm itself? Was he even waiting for her at all?

"I really thought I would beat the storm going home," she muttered with a sigh, fidgeting with the elegantly sculpted handle of the European-style teacup. "Why, are you trying to make me leave already?" she asked more playfully, raising an eyebrow at her host.

"If only for propriety's sake, milady," and though the teasing nickname was borne on his voice as lightly as always, Megumi could hear the graver undertone. "It would not do for others to hear of you staying alone with a man, even for only an evening."

She smiled at him affectionately. Wilkinson was, for all his jokes and chatter and his formidably bulky beef-fed body, a good-hearted man to whom she had found it easy to warm up.

"I'd say you have much more to fear from me than I from you, James-san."

He joined her chuckling. "I would quite agree, milady."

They had settled into a companionable silence as they finished their tea when a hasty knocking came at the door.

"This must be the extra kimono we ordered, and then we can come to a proper dinner at last," said Wilkinson with a wink, standing up from the table.

As he made for the door, Megumi glanced around the spacious suite as discreetly as she could. Her kimono had gotten wet in the rain, in her insistence on attempting the risky crossing of the river earlier that afternoon; Wilkinson had insisted on obtaining new clothes from the hotel staff, and now she wondered where she might be able to change in some decency...

But instead of a maidservant's voice reaching her from the door, it was a man's—low, urgent with barely contained force, and instantly teasing her every nerve with its beloved familiarity.

"Aoshi!" she cried out gladly, hurrying toward the doorway and seeing the tall figure looming within it.

"So you are here," he said, turning haunted blue eyes to her—and his eyes and his voice hinted at far too much to fully understand in one glimpse, in those few clipped words. Relief, doubt, anger, exhaustion... With a sudden new uncertainty Megumi stopped in front of him, searching his pale, expressionless face for she knew not what.

Only dimly did she realize that he was dripping rainwater on the floor from his dark suit—rather, his pants, since his shirt was mysteriously missing; and her face flamed with embarrassment when she remembered she was wearing Wilkinson's suit jacket on top of her damp kimono.

"You know this person, Takani-sensei?" Wilkinson addressed her formally whenever others were in hearing.

Slowly, as though in a daze, Megumi tore her eyes away from the sodden onmitsu to the dapper Englishman and nodded. "Yes, yes I do, James-san. This is... Shinomori Aoshi."

What, indeed, to call him? My friend? My lover? She decided not to elaborate. Beside her she sensed Aoshi stiffening, though whether it was because of what she had just said, what she hadn't said, or to whom she had just said it, or all, or neither, she could not say.

"My apologies then, sir, though I'm afraid my rudeness is quite unforgivable." Wilkinson started to offer his hand, then caught himself and bowed awkwardly instead. "My name is James Wilkinson. I am pleased to make your acquaintance."

"The pleasure is all mine," said Aoshi coolly, returning the bow with an accustomed grace that defied his wretched apparance.

"You must come in and dry yourself." Placing a hand on Aoshi's bare shoulder, not daring to meet his gaze, Megumi quickly stifled the unease in her heart; for now there were more important things to do, and a sense of professional responsibility felt more comfortable than any of her shifting emotions. "James-san, if you would be so kind as to—"

"Of course, milady. Everything of mine is at your disposal."

Wilkinson was as cheery as ever, but he had slipped, there, with her nickname. And she knew—by the searing glance Aoshi gave her—that he had noticed.

Of course, she told herself miserably, it was Aoshi's business and his nature to be unfailingly observant.

"I shall trouble you no longer with my presence," he bit out, stepping away from her. He spoke in Japanese, so that their foreign host, now hastily building up the fire in the hearth, wouldn't understand. "I merely wished to ensure your wellbeing. You seem to be in excellent hands"—he bowed to her; such mockery in such a perfectly dispassionate tone! Megumi's hands curled into fists—"and I trust you will remain so until the danger has passed; so I will take my leave."

"Aoshi, don't be an idiot." She might have slapped him if they hadn't been guests in another's home. "There's nothing to see here. I was on my way home already when they closed the bridges, and James-san was kind enough to give me shelter—"

"—in which shelter you are free to stay however long you wish, of course. The storm gives no indication of stopping anytime soon." Aoshi bowed again. "I will go back to the dojo; the Himuras will appreciate word of your safety." He turned on his heel.

"Aoshi!" she hissed, trailing him to the door. Quickly she glanced behind them; but Wilkinson had disappeared, presumably to get some warm dry clothing. The two men were of similar build. Aoshi paid her no heed, but walked in swift, smooth strides toward the door and out into the empty hallway.

Megumi had had enough. She ran out to catch up with him and grabbed hold of his arm, forcing him to a stop. "What on earth is wrong with you? You're acting like—like a woman, for heaven's sake!"

"I apologize." At his response, Megumi flinched. He had his voice under control now—it was smooth and hard and impervious as ice. He gazed at her impassively. "After searching this city for so long, believe me when I say I am pleased to find you well and safe."

Megumi felt tears of frustration rise to her eyes despite herself. "I'm sorry, Aoshi," she said quietly; their voices carried in the empty corridor, and the door to Wilkinson's rooms still stood open. "I got to the river too late; they'd already closed most of the bridges. I tried to cross anyway, but it was already too dangerous..."

"So you ended up here?" Only he could ask a question so loaded and still sound as if he were merely asking about the weather.

Megumi glanced up at him, brows furrowed. "Aoshi, I told you—there's nothing going on here. James-san is a good friend and nothing more. Don't you trust me?"

He paused, meeting her gaze with a mirrorlike one of his own. "I cannot trust someone who comes and goes as she pleases, without a thought for others' concern or expectations."

She stepped back, stunned. He might as well have hit her.

"I shall therefore refrain from burdening you with such limitations on your personal freedom." He turned and strode swiftly down the hall toward the stairs at the other end. "I shall inform the rest that you are in no danger from the storm. I'm sure the English gentleman will see to you every need in the meantime."

For long minutes after he had gone, Megumi stood alone in the corridor, numbly clutching Wilkinson's jacket around herself, trying not to cry.

tsuzuku

A/N.There, I tried to make up for the previous short chapter with a fairly long one this time... Ü (HAH! Beat that smiley, overzealous FFnet harmless-smiley-killers!)

On behalf of a woman I very much love and admire, I'm sorry to everyone who's not thinking too highly of the Megumi I've written so far. Righting that balance between her and Aoshi (who is coming off as something of a saint, I think... perhaps too much, since I do like my characters human.Ü) will make up most of this epilogue.

Kisses of love and gratitude to readers and reviewers!