I do not own Samurai Champloo.
Thank you G-ka and don't breakme. You know seeing as how this story has 100+ hits, I feel I should have gotten more reviews. Or at least a good flame or two xD
Spoilers. But if you're reading this post-series fic, you know what happened anyway.
Chapter ThreeLet's meet up again. It's easier said than done. Overshadowing a shallow grave, Jin realizes this.
It has been quite a while since I have journeyed. I waited for Shino a good, long time, working numbly as a man for hire. I earned a reputation for myself as the silent avenger, even though I rarely did anything as constructive as avenge. Most people brought me useless, petty matters, but there are always idiots with more money than they have use for.
And then I had Shino, and there was no more reason for anything. Not money, not travel, nothing. And we were happy, which was an odd enough emotion for me. Happiness; it tasted tart on my tongue.
Even when I sired three irksome children—I say this in the most fatherly way possible—nothing became jaded in our relationship. They grew; we raised them. I tried to train them as I was, but Shino was too soft with them, and they were completely unused to the harsh realities of the world. Even I tried to the shield them from these truths as best I could.
I did not let them encounter death, nor pain—to some extent. I wanted these children happy, even if it meant they would be ignorant and ill prepared. I was foolish.
The eldest, which I named Enshirou in honor of that man, was a good fifteen years old when it happened. Shino thought it would be safe enough sending this near-man with his younger brother to buy a few things she needed. But it wasn't. By some mistake or another, a man was offended. It might have even been better if a finger of Enshirou had been cut off in payment, at least that way he would have realized what responsibility really meant.
But the man was cruel, and saw the weakness in Enshirou's face. Enshirou should have known that people take advantage of weakness, but in stupidity I had avoided that life lesson. The man cut down his little brother before his very eyes, and the blood pooled the street. Returning home, pale and not quite himself, the story finally came out. It became a shameful topic, and none of us were willing to talk about, but all felt they had a part in it. Shino, for pushing for the two of them to go in the first place; me, for allowing it; young Fuu for not having been there and Enshirou for obvious reasons.
When I came back home from my brief return to the role of the silent avenger, it was all different. The happiness we had once known had been eradicated and replaced with something weak and forced. Shino wasted away before our very eyes and Enshirou left home right after the funeral.
Fuu was always surprisingly like her namesake. She loved food and attention from men—even if she didn't indulge in it. So when she left to marriage an unorthodox samurai who bore an amazing resemblance to an old companion of mine—probably a child of one of his whores—I was not surprised.
But I was alone once again. So I left to wander, even though I was getting along in years. That's how I happened upon the grave. It was a small town, cozy and homely, and this made me an immediately outsider with my twin swords and stony exterior.
Asking around politely, I managed to gain a small bit of respect and answers in one try. "Well, old as hell, for one," a young boy answers lazily, sneaking what he obviously thought were subtle glances at my swords. He seemed rather impressed, if not a bit surprised that a man like me would own anything like them. "Eh, the little kids used ta go ta hear the most amazing stories," he continues, a bit subdued. I realize he was probably one of those children, but is reluctant to admit so.
Stories? Fuu had never been one for stories, neither had Mugen. "Most of 'em went without their parent's permission, though, 'cause she cursed wit' every other breath." She? So, if I am correct in my assumptions, Fuu is buried under about a foot of dirt. "Yeah, and we wouldn't have known she was dead if that guy hadn't come ta see her."
"This . . . guy. Who was he?"
"Eh, 'jus some guy. None of us had eva seen 'im before, but he knew her. Musta been from before, 'cause he seemed kinda hurt. A fuckbuddy, or sompthing?" His crude use of Japanese hurt my ears, but I plunged through, determined to find the answer.
"Did he carry a sword? Anything tattoos? Messy apparence? Geta?" The questions came out more urgently than I had planned for the to, and I take a deep breathe to calm my frazzled nerves.
The boy nods slowly. "Why? Didya know 'im?"
I don't know if I should answer. What does it matter, really? If Mugen really was here, there was no one he would have normally buried (unless he changed in a frightening amount) with such care and sentimentalism . . . except for Fuu. There had always been an underlining emotion between the two, well hidden inside the two of them. But I had traveled with them a good, long time and the veiled attraction is hard hide in a situation like that.
When Mugen let her go like that, years and years ago, I was surprised, but not very. Mugen had never obtained much intelligence and it probably had not even crossed his mind that he was letting something precious slip past him. Although I judged that Fuu had more intelligence than Mugen, she, too, had made the decision.
I wonder if Mugen saw Fuu before she died, or if his memories of her jumped from lithe fifteen-year-old to dead old woman.
"I knew them," I answer simply, and I end the conversation quickly.
Returning to the grave, I find it almost sad. We had all agreed, though silently, to not forget, to see each other again. We would have given our lives for each other, even Mugen, who had never felt ties to anyone or anything in his life, I think. But here we were, Fuu dead, Mugen dissolved once more into the crowds of Japan, and me. Standing in front of Fuu's grave, with Mugen's sword plunged above it.
I will probably never see Mugen again. It . . . would be nice, though, to remember times long past.
"Are you Jin?" Who would possibly recognize me in his small, semi-isolated village? I turn to face whoever spoke, only to be forced to look down. Her eyes are big, and her back hair is pulled up into a sloppy bun.
"Yes, I am." I am too old for pretenses; truth is so much easier than fiction.
"Then, her stories were true! Why . . . why didn't you come and see her?" Her small, youthful eyes are filling up with tears, but her words hit me harder. We agreed to meet again, but what had I done to make those words a reality? Nothing. Had Fuu looked for the two of us? I doubted Mugen would take the time for such an endeavor, but . . . I felt the bond we shared. It felt like family.
"I-I . . . "
There's no response that will make it better, that will bring back the years. I do not regret my family, the time spent with them, but . . . they were my first family. My parents dead before I could consider them anything, Mariya Enshiro betrayed me, the dojo discarded me, and even Yuki . . . who had been the one person I might have thought would not abandon me . . . tried to kill me. Fuu and Mugen were my first real family.
Was I just as bad, having forgotten about them?
"You still wear glasses? She said you didn't ever need them." That's just like Fuu, to announce that to all the world.
Eventually, the child wanders away, bored. I remain at the grave, silent and still. Just like before I met Fuu and Mugen, I am without master or companions. My daughter married, my son possibly following my own footsteps, my wife and Fuu dead, and Mugen . . .
I add my two swords on either side of Mugen's, and I walk away.
You know, I should have mentioned this before. I am the absolute worst at endings. I just never know what to put that will reasonably close the story. An ending has to be worthy of everything behind it. Goddamn it, and mine just never are. Even if the story is crap xD