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Chapter 5 – Enoshima – Part I
Benzaiten, the Buddhist goddess of music, poetry, learning, art, and the goddess of the sea and protector of children, married a child-eating dragon and was thus able, through her good influence, to put an end to the slaughter of little children. Their union gave birth to Enoshima Island.

For some time now, his dreams have been exclusively of her. Sometimes they walk together from the cottage to the village, carrying their wares; in other dreams, they tend their garden, or just sit by the open shoji, gazing at the nighttime stars. Often, he watches—watches as she writes in her journal; marvels as she stands by the water's edge, the reflected sunlight dancing on her perfect, delicate face; sees her bend to meet the small upturned face of another mother's child. Her children never made it to this world.

She speaks to him, nurtures him with her soft voice. Her ocean of tenderness floods over him; the blessing of her unexpected love startles him anew. He can never remember exactly what she says, but now he wakes in peace, lying quietly as long as he can to savor the sweet fading images before rising to start the day.

The night's visitations: she is so real to him then. He escapes, briefly, that awful cavern carved by her death, by her murder.

The day: this, now, is the dreamworld. The day: denied the comfort of the night, every hour drags him further and further from their sundering. Again and again, as his mind idles, rises the thought: Surely we are not parted forever. Where is the path? It seems just out of reach …

His battered heart nearly fails under these memories. The years of emptiness, his future—a trackless desert—stretches infinitely before him. The very weight of it crushes him, extinguishing any hope of enduring life beyond this single moment.

Again he only sits and breathes. Why do I yet live? Is there no release? Yet, there is something… something in this pain that is important, that she would have him understand. What, beloved? Tell me, make it plain.

Gradually, tentatively, he allows himself to recall more and more of that dreadful morning, to re-live it without verging on collapse:

Again, he awakes to her puzzling absence; her neatly folded scarf resting on his breast. Again, Iizuka arrives with his appalling accusations. Denying the unbelievable, the unendurable, he re-opens her journal. Always at the same lines on the same page, his world, his nascent happiness, disintegrates. He feels his scar split and begin to seep; sees the drops from his cheek stain the pristine white of the page and liquefy the black ink, watches as the anguished amalgam overflows the edge and puddles on the floor.

Again, he dresses in an unthinking, hasty fog; picks up both his katana and her scarf in one hand. I must bring her back; they will discard her. He opens the shoji of their retreat onto a world they both yet inhabit. He slides it shut, unaware, then, that a part of their life together has just blinked out behind him. He trudges up the mountainside, unmindful that each step destroys that much more of their fledgling happiness.

He is hastening to their end.

He is stunned afresh by the ambushes—attacks that blind him, blow out his eardrums, disable his limbs, sap his strength. I must bring her back; they will discard her. He falls but rises, struggling stubbornly, desperately, against the fresh powder that pulls him down, against the mountainside that rises obstructively before him, against his mind's disorder that cripples his very core.

When he reaches the hideout, he is barely conscious. Again, he senses his enemy's presence and movement, but can only strike out blindly, wildly, futilely, blindsided by return blows that further weaken him. Still, he does not fall.

Again, he feels his cursed, obstinate strength quicken, summoning energy from his surroundings. If I had fallen then, and not risen, would she still…? Insensible of the quick, heedless approach, he prepares his body and his sword; every part of him, every nerve, every cell focuses to execute his powerful, deadly, inexorable swing. He feels the clean, sure connection, cleaving bone and muscle wide open; feels it stop only when its unspent force buries it deep, through the snow, in the ground at his feet.

It is finished.

At his feet, reddening and melting the immaculate new snow, lay two bodies, both felled with his single stroke. He sees but can't comprehend: a white kimono. Ebony tresses spread wide on the white crystals. The pale, precious face even paler.

He drops in disbelief and denial; gathers her into nerveless arms. He can feel her life ebbing. As he clasps her hemorrhaging form to himself in distraught desperation, willing the gaping rift repaired, she pours out love and forgiveness. As she traces the new, absolving cut with her tanto, severing and sealing the old, vengeful one, he pours out his soul.

These are the last acts they share.

The nightly dreams urge him to embrace this daily meditation, to indulge in it, to submerge himself. What can this mean? Why should I see it over and over again? However, when he obeys, he finds he feels lighter; feels her draw near, as though only there may they reunite. As though there, in that last wretched moment of wrenching, she yet stands to bestow what he most seeks: her essence, his heart, their future.

For long weeks, this is how his daily wheel turns—vivid, seductively soothing dreams; murky diurnal hours of work and remembrance. He moves slowly, not covering much ground, at least not along the dusty road.

His heart is another matter. His memories range wide over the span—the breadth, the width, the depth—of the brief life they shared. Images of her in their tiny home: moving gracefully with their modest meals; her nightly moments at her journal; her magical way of keeping their few things ordered. Images of her in their garden, on their walks through the forest or by the lake. Earlier images, from the time in the City—in the rain, working at the inn, her profile against the stars.

Images of her with the villagers—so attentive, so tender. Rare was the person who failed to leave her presence with a lighter step, an easier smile, a freer heart. Children especially flocked to her. Sometimes she seemed to be borne on a sea of them, each squeezing to be an inch closer, to be the one to hold her hand or to clutch the hem of her kimono. She hardly spoke, only listened and saw, but her solemn affirmation of each radiated subtly, drawing all to her; then released them on their way, blessed with a new peace.

He sees everything, recalls it all. Nothing is lost; nothing has faded.

Now he knows her better than he ever did while her form walked beside him. He is able to savor his growing understanding of the person who loved him, who saved him, who opened him to himself, as well as to her.

She, too, changed during those few months, didn't she? Re-living their time together, he understood that they both had arrived at Ōtsu in confused distress. He began to recognize the small signs of her own growth: she stood closer to him; she touched his arm, actually took it sometimes as they watched the sunset together; she spoke more freely, and gave him her smile when he turned his gaze toward her. These changes had matched his own: her touch no longer startled him; the sight of her soothed something deep within him. He found himself watching her, studying her, drinking in her graceful movements. His muscles relaxed at her nearness.

Now, comes sweetly back to him the little tune she had begun to hum sometimes to herself as she would prepare their meals or fold the futon for the day. Ah, yes—he had begun to track her more by that melody even than by his own keen senses, senses now curbed in the safety of their sanctuary.

He well remembers the first time they had shared that futon.

The late afternoon brought a gentle snowfall, the first of the season, softening the sunset with its drifting flakes. As the sun withdrew, the world hushed and stilled, seeming to shrink until they were its only inhabitants; Ōtsu, the only place; their fire, the only warmth.

In spite of the chill, they lingered unusually long on the engawa; it was full dark before he stirred and turned to face her. "Shall we go inside?" Her returned gaze was full and slow; her eyes seemed to glow darkly in the moonlight.

She didn't speak, but took his hand in hers and rose. His eyes still held by hers, he seemed to float up to stand beside her, then followed her into the dim room.

Once inside, she paused, and tilted her head to the side a little, her face slowly softening from its normal reserve, her eyes warming. With a tiny bow of her head, she released his hand, backed a step, and moved toward the screen that defined her private refuge.

He remained where he was a moment, not grasping what had just happened, then began to ready himself for the night.

Few times in his life had he ever experienced the luxury of meditation, of the emptying of the mind, the stilling of the spirit, the standing-down of alertness. Now, during their evenings, while she changed out of her day and into her night clothes, while she brushed and braided her silken hair, while she wrote in her journal, he simply let these small sounds carry him away. The rustle of silk being shed then folded, the crispness of cotton being donned and tied, the almost-inaudible whisper of hairbrush through black locks. She would settle in before her desk, open her journal and inkset, mix the ink. He never heard her write; the soft brush against the paper was as silent as cats' feet. By the time she was ready to put out the light and bank the fire, he would be in a delicious trance in his swordsman's crouch against the wall—not yet asleep, but unresponsive to any except the most dire claims on his attention.

This night, however, he did not reach his trance. Moments after he heard the quiet snap of the drawer now containing her hairbrush, she emerged from behind the screen. Curious, he opened and raised his eyes to find her standing before him, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes on him. "It is so cold. Won't you rest under the comforter tonight?"

At first, he didn't comprehend. The thought had never occurred to him—cold never bothered him. He always slept, always had slept, in this same position against a wall, against this wall, against so very many walls. He considered the idea. He doubted he could actually rest, much less sleep, lying down fully. But her face was so very intense, and she so rarely asked anything at all of him.

When he did not immediately respond, she lowered her gaze, and turned back to the futon. He watched, mesmerized, as she slipped under the comforter, holding up the edge long enough to arrange her yukata around her legs, then settled down under the fluffiness. A moment longer till he blinked and stirred. Hai, I will join her.

A single, fluid movement, and he stood by the futon. He lifted the comforter corner nearest him; he stopped at her small intake of breath, but the welcoming curve of her lips re-assured him. He laid his katana right at the edge of the bedding, and slipped in, his right hand only a hairsbreadth from his blade's hilt.

Their eyes locked for a long moment, gauging each other's anxiety, neither prepared to presume.

Then, with her own single, fluid movement, she was nestled against him, her head on his left shoulder, her entire warm, smooth body conformed to his side. Wonderingly, he found his arm, almost of its own accord, curved around her back and waist, his hand resting lightly, naturally, on her hip. Automatically, his face sought and buried itself in the cloud of her hair. Her scent—hers, not white plums—assailed his senses, made him giddy. Is this what it feels like to faint…

He could not remember when he'd been this close to another body. Not even in battle had he experienced this intensity of physical contact, much less this open vulnerability. And yet—he checked—he was not tense. His muscles remained loose, his ki, composed.

They lay together serenely, floating on this neap tide of intimacy. He felt her drift off, felt the small spasms that signaled her surrender to the arms of Morpheus. He smiled in the dark, pleased with himself, though he couldn't think why.

Finally, hours later, drunk on this healing elixir, he joined her in sleep.

Notes:

"neap tide" : a tide of minimum range. This tiny surge of intimacy is a tentative first step for these two damaged, bereft people.

Review responses: lolo popoki: I'm so glad that scene pleased you; I was really going for their burgeoning trust. Chibi Binasu-chan: This is the first "fluff" I've written, so I was really uncertain about it. Yes, I think there will be more Tomoe, but I'm not sure just exactly when/how. omasuoniwabanshi: "make you sigh in contentment"? "work of art"? Omigod, what a high bar you set for me! Marlingrl: Thanks for the praise! I hope his growth along that long road meets with your approval! Wistful-Eyes: I'm dancing myself over your words! By the way, what's "cyz"? Sailor-Earth13: Thanks for the kinds words about my OCs; I hoped they didn't detract from Kenshin at all, but people seem to like them. Did the italics thing get fixed for you? It doesn't come up that way for me, so I wasn't sure how to fix it. moeru himura: Well, it looks like you certainly don't need to apologize for the late review, since I forgot to include these responses in my first upload of this chapter! I'm glad you liked the forest fight; that was really a dramatic part of the OVA, and I hoped to do it justice. WolfDaughter: Thanks for your off-line review after I e-mailed you the chapter; your praise means a lot to me. : IKnowNot: Well, thanks for continuing to read, anyway! Shirou Shinjin: Vogonity? How dare you, sir? I'll have you know there is very little metaphysical imagery in this chapter, and no rhythmic devices whatsoever ! clears throat Now that's out of the way… arrgh! How did I manage to write that last flashback so ineptly that (almost) NO ONE gets that NOTHING (of that sort of thing, anyway) happened? That is The Whole Point: neither one of them is in any emotional condition to fall into futon like rabid minks—they are doing well to even sleep the entire night in the same room night after night!