Warning: Rated T for instances of blood and gore and suggestion of adult themes. Please read at your own risk.

Three weeks ago – The day of The Attempt

Even after the strenuous bout of lovemaking, Misao couldn't sleep.

Her clothes were strewn against the wall and under the open window, tossed haphazardly practically the moment she had entered the room, courtesy of her husband's impatience. But that had been hours ago and as tired as she was, no matter how long she squeezed her eyes shut, she couldn't fall asleep.

Misao laid there in the futon, listening to Aoshi-sama breathing deeply as he slumbered, and watched the darkened sky. There was no moon tonight; the stars twinkled weakly as the evening shadows threatened to overcome their existence. Even the warm air was motionless as it lazily drifted into the room through the open pane. The Aoiya was so still she could hear a thump and someone turning in their sleep somewhere down the hall; it was probably Kuro. Shiro, who had to share a blanket with him one time during a mission when supplies were short, complained that Kuro moved around in his sleep and kicked. Hard. He swore he had bruises on his shin that wouldn't fade for a month.

Misao had to smile that memory. But worry and stress soon erased the humorous moment from her mind and she went back to brooding. The paperwork she had just completed left a heavy impression of duty on her. Omasu and Shiro leaving for a mission with unpredictable and possibly dangerous situations just plain worried her. Despite Jiya's concerns that she took her duties too lightly (not voiced to her directly but there nevertheless), Misao knew very well the responsibilities she carried as Okashira. There were times when she tried not to worry about it; after all, it didn't help her any. And then there were times when she couldn't help being so anxious.

Tonight definitely reflected the latter.

There were so many decisions to make and not enough time to consider every option available. Misao was fast realizing that being the leader meant making the best decision for your people in the least amount of time possible. But what if she made a mistake? It wasn't as if she would be the only one affected; it could very well take the life of one of her people. How could she live with herself if someone died because of a choice she made?

And who was she really, anyway, to make such decisions? Oh, she reminded Jiya often enough that she was a Makimachi, but that didn't mean she had inherited her blood grandfather's leadership skills. In fact, the pressure seemed twice as great; she had to live up to the legendary legacy of her surname.

Misao stifled a groan and flopped to her side so her back was to her sleeping husband. Luckily, she didn't really have to worry about waking him up; after months of sleeplessness from waking up every time she so much as twitched, Aoshi finally learned to ignore most movement within the futon.

Three years. It had been three years since she had declared herself Okashira in Aoshi-sama's absence. During those years, the most serious decision she had to make was whether or not to shut down the one-person Oniwabanshu branch on Mount Fuji (which she did since no one ever ventured up there anyway) or if they should build the Aoiya out to accommodate the increasing number of restaurant patrons (which they didn't because buying the additional land was far too expensive).

But with rogue shinobi increasing in startling numbers, and with constant correspondence with Saitoh over the future of the Oniwabanshu (not to mention some alarming and continuous nightmares about attacking mutant vegetables in the Aoiya kitchen), Misao was starting to feel she was getting in over her head.

Of course, Jiya and Aoshi advised her every step of the way, but ultimately the decision was hers. And Misao was terrified that she would choose the wrong option and someone else would suffer the consequences.

She would never, even under the threat of having her hair shorn off, admit to her fears to anyone, even to her husband. But that still didn't change the truth.

Misao had once asked Aoshi if he had ever felt that way. He had merely given her an odd look. He said that no one had ever questioned his decisions and his orders were carried out without delay. Any second-guessing the Okashira would result in instant death.

Not exactly what Misao wanted to hear, but she figured during war time, the rules were different. And he had said the same to her.

"Just remember that I was the Okashira during the Revolution. I will be remembered as the man who led the Oniwabanshu in times of war. But you, Misao, will be remembered as the leader who led us in times of peace."

That might be true, but even in peacetime, people could die. The life of a shinobi was one of uncertainty and one had to trust their leader completely.

As Jiya had pointed out earlier (though rather rudely, in Misao's opinion), she always had the option of resigning. Aoshi-sama could take over again. He had not challenged Misao for the role, even after he finally found whatever answers he was looking for during his post-Shishio meditation. Instead, especially after they had wed, he seemed content in his position as husband and advisor.

Misao had always wondered why he never demanded the role back. But she never found the courage to ask him. The past was almost taboo and not to be mentioned, not even from her.

Of course, there were times when she loved being Okashira. It gave her an excuse to travel around Japan and meet with the branch leaders. She could ultimately boss her elders around. People in Kyoto recognized and respected her. She had (sort of) earned Saitoh's respect as the Oniwabanshu had supplied to him endless amounts of intelligence on criminal activity.

But was it worth all the stress she had to endure? Misao wasn't so sure.

She glowered at the far wall she was facing. This was ridiculous. Her mind was running in circles and she didn't feel the least bit sleepy. How was she going to do her work if she was going to be drowsy all day?

With a huff, Misao rolled onto her back again to stare at the ceiling. Her eyes had long adjusted to the darkness and she could see the outlines of the room. Shadows writhed within the darkness, for a moment fleeting past the window to swallow the stars from view. She absently heard another light thump, this one much closer.

So close, in fact, it sounded like it came from her room.

The young Okashira frowned in confusion, studying the play of shadows intently as dark silhouettes seemed to draw closer. Next to her, Aoshi stirred as unease pushed him into waking consciousness. Years of experience and training had taught him to trust his instincts and now it was telling him that something wasn't right. "Misao?" he whispered, his voice a thread above being heard.

There was no warning except a shadow falling over him, blocking out the faint light from the window. Before he could even move, Aoshi heard the sharp whistle of air being displaced. He grunted from the impact as something sharp embedded itself in his chest with a sickening thud and squelch of tearing flesh. Shock first, then searing pain flared through his body like an overwhelming wave. The weapon was ripped out without ceremony and near unbearable agony replaced it. Aoshi lashed out with his hands and legs, hoping to catch his assailant with one of his limbs before he attacked again. Unfortunately, his legs tangled itself on the blanket and his arms felt heavier than normal. When he felt outpouring of hot, sticky liquid running down his side, he realized why.

When the kunai descended yet again, Aoshi tried to turn away from the attack but it was useless. No matter how many times he tried to force himself to move, he couldn't. The blade bit into his body again and again, causing continuous flashes of pain and white hot heat to flood his body. Sweat broke out on his forehead as he desperately tried to fight back, to breathe without torture. Amidst the struggle with his unknown foe, Aoshi thought of Misao. Who knew what was happening to her?

But he had no time to wonder for long. An insidious whisper, so full of hate and scorn reached his ears. "Die, Shinomori," it breathed, brushing against his heated skin, causing another curl of pain to ripple throughout his body. Die? He couldn't die, there was too much left to do. He had a family to protect, friends to look after. And yet Aoshi had never felt so tired in his life, not even after that second decisive battle with Battousai which had left his body aching for months but his mind clearer than a summer day in Kyoto. In this case, his head felt fuzzy and disconnected from his physical self and not at all refreshed. Was this how it felt to be dying?

Black spots began to swarm in his vision with alarming frequency. He tried to keep awake, tried to dispel the hazy fog clouding his mind, but for once his brain refused to obey the sharp command. The beckoning darkness, promising ease from the pain, called so strongly to him Aoshi could no longer resist. In the end, he finally succumbed to the shadows and slipped unconscious.

- - - - -

Misao felt a prickle of disquiet running down her back. She began to sit up when a rush of wind gushed past her. She only realized what was happening when she heard the unmistakable sound of a weapon hitting flesh and Aoshi grunting from the impact. The silhouette – which was actually the moving shadow of an attacker – slammed down again with its weapon. Warm liquid sprayed on her as Misao bolted upright and threw herself at the attacker to ward off the next strike.

Or she tried to. Hands caught her before could even move from the futon, squeezing her arms painfully. She cursed herself for not realizing there was someone else was there – where the hell did they come from anyway? She had been preoccupied, certainly, but not so much that she wouldn't notice two intruders enter the room! Shinobi …?

In the back of her mind, Misao made the absent mental note to rework the security of the Aoiya later. Satisfied at the reminder, she returned her attention to the battle at hand. Now, where was she? Oh, right, being restrained.

Misao struggled in her captor's grasp and tried to scream but a hand moved from her arm to her mouth as she was drawn against his chest, a vise-like grip pinning her arms down so hard she knew it would bruise. The free hand moved to fondle her obscenely – easily done since she was naked – but she barely felt it. Instead, she watched in horror as the sharp knife made a third (or perhaps fourth? she had lost count) trip downward into her still husband.

"Die, Shinomori," a voice whispered as the kunai descended yet again.

No! the voice in her head screamed. Her mind was jumbled and racing in all different directions and Misao felt numb all over. She didn't even realize she had stopped struggling. She had no idea how long she stayed that way, staring at the bloodied futon. Aoshi-sama was dead.

He was dead.

Dead, dead, dead.

Something, almost like a puzzle, snapped together in her mind as she repeated the litany to herself. It was as if the horrible realization caused the last piece to fall into place and her brain began calculated responses. Within herself, Misao found a stillness that enabled her to order her thoughts into a cohesive picture, fighting back the haze that threatened to consume her.

Her mind focused on the matter at hand. First order of things: revenge.

In order to achieve that goal, her brain reasoned she had to be free from her attacker. Analyzing the situation, Misao decided the fastest course of action and put the plan into motion. First, she fell in a heavy limp into her captor's grasp.

He was cautious. He didn't relax his guard even after her pretend faint. But he did slacken his grip the slightest bit. Almost as an instinct, to catch her in case she fell over.

Big mistake.

Misao leapt into action by surging upwards by springing from her feet. She opened her mouth as wide as possible to bite him. At the same time, she used her right leg to kick behind her. Her leg connected with something solid – she had been hoping to aim at his groin but with the awkward angle she was in, she only managed to hit her captor's thigh.

But her sudden movement did catch him off-guard. And her mouth managed to seize some skin between her teeth. He let go of her and stumbled back, yelping in surprise.

Triumph. Misao dove into a forward somersault and came up crouched on her legs. She lunged for her clothes where she always kept a spare kunai or two. Or twelve.

After all, one never knew when she would be attacked in the safety of her home.

Her hands closed on the familiar cotton gi and she searched through it. Once her fingers hit a familiar hilt, she whipped it out and twisted to throw it at her attacker. She followed up with two more after the first, just in case he was alert enough to block it. He did manage to dodge the first one with a sort of hop to his right, but Misao had been anticipating such a move and had adjusted her next two attacks accordingly. Even in the faint evening night, she could see the throwing knives connect at the man's neck and shoulder with unerring accuracy.

Either he wasn't that well trained or she had hurt him more than she thought. The latter idea didn't really displease Misao. The man crashed to the ground, gurgling and clawing at his throat as crimson liquid spilled down the front of his body in a flowing cascade.

Misao's battle senses didn't allow her to care for an enemy once he was down. So she turned her attention to the next target.

There was one attacker left, the one who had killed her beloved Aoshi-sama. Misao felt the surge of adrenaline course through her body, coupled with anger, hate, and calm. She stood, forgetting the fact that she was naked, forgetting everything but the last remaining man. She picked up three more kunais from her clothes that dangled from her fingers as she turned to face the murderer of her husband. She vaguely wondered why he didn't attack. Surely he realized what had happened to his partner.

But all he did was kneel there, staring at the dead body.

Unacceptable. He had no right to be even near Aoshi-sama.

Misao spoke, not even recognizing the cold tone as her own voice. "Stand up."

He didn't move for a long moment but he finally turned his body to look at her. The dim light only revealed dark eyes shining at her, empty and devoid of emotion. The blank stare would have unnerved Misao had she cared about anything but revenge. "Shinomori had to die," he said, as if that explained it all. From his position on the floor, their eyes were level, indicating he was taller than her when standing. He sounded young, definitely no older than she was.

Strength suffusing anger surged through her veins at his words – his stupid reasoning, as if she cared why he was doing this! – yet she kept a tight rein on her emotions. Now was not the time to fly off the handle. If she did, she would kill him too quickly. No, he had to suffer.

For a very, very long time.

So Misao spoke, needing him to attack. She wanted him to attack so she could retaliate. "I'm a Shinomori, too."

She felt more than saw him nod. "Yes. Shinomori must die." He stood up and regripped the bloody kunai in his hand. He was a head and a half taller than she was, and no doubt much stronger. "Die, Shinomori."

She would gladly do so. But first, she would extract revenge for Aoshi-sama.

He came at her with a straight thrust aimed for her chest. Misao dodged to the right and used one of her own kunai to slash at his side. With surprising dexterity, Dark Eyes spun towards her and caught the blade with his own weapon before it touched him. Without pausing, he reached out with his free hand to grab her throat but she backpedaled, nearly tripping over her clothes in her haste. He advanced until Misao hit the wall with her back. Immediately he lurched forward to slam his kunai into her. She jerked to the right again, almost too late, and winced as she felt the blade slide and cut her left arm. As his dagger hit the wall, Misao turned slightly and drove her own kunai into his wrist. She pushed it with all her might.

A strangled scream ripped from his throat, Dark Eyes' hand instantly loosening its grip on his weapon. Misao tore away from the wall and took advantage of the distraction, kicking him in the groin. A dirty move? She couldn't quite muster up the desire to care.

Dark Eyes crumbled to the ground on his knees, making a strange, wheezing sound. She gave him no chance to recover, instead whipping around to his back and holding another kunai underneath his chin.

She leaned forward to whisper in his ear, ignoring the harsh breathing sound he was making. "Don't even twitch or I'll cut your throat." She had to resist the impulse to run the sharp edge across his neck anyway, almost hoping he would move so she could feel the life flow from him.

Just as he watched Aoshi-sama die.

There was a muffled thump right outside her room and Misao only had a split second warning before the shoji was slammed open. The paper door nearly fell off from its place as a lantern was lit and held up. The sudden light caused spots in the Okashira's vision but she all she did was blink, holding her dagger steady. More attackers?

No, it was Okina who was surveying the room. The others peered over his shoulders and gasped. Someone – the silhouette looked like Okon – broke apart and disappeared, yelling something about a doctor.

Misao wanted to tell her that it was too late, Aoshi-sama was already dead. But she couldn't speak. She merely clutched the shoulder of the man in front of her, the kunai still unwavering in her grip.

Kuro approached her cautiously, eying the wild look in Misao's eyes with unease. "I'll take custody of him, Okashira," he said far more respectably than he usually did. Carefully, slowly, he forcefully removed the dagger from Dark Eyes' throat before dragging him out of the room. The intruder did not attempt to struggle or make any sound, instead staring at Misao with his unnerving gaze even as he left.

Okina picked up Misao's discarded yukata and helped her put it on while tactfully avoiding looking at her until she was somewhat decently covered. As she tied the sash around her hips with wooden movements, he went to Aoshi's side, looking him over silently. Then,

"Misao. Come over here."

The young woman snapped her head to Okina, who had knelt beside Aoshi. The lantern illuminated the large puddle of blood that spread from the deathly still figure, crimson fingers seeping into the futon. With the battle over, her emotions were once again stealing back into place, attacking in full force. Misao could already feel her heart literally sundering as she saw the broken body of her husband.

"Misao, I said come here."

That tone of voice Okina used was quite rare, rare enough for Misao to slowly crawl over to her grandfather. It was the same tone he used when discussing serious Oniwaban business that she didn't want to talk about. Was he going to make her do some sort of stupid I-have-no-emotions-because-I'm-the-Okashira test by looking at Aoshi-sama in his death? Because if so, she was going to slam her last kunai into the old man.

But to her surprise, Okina merely seized her fingers and plunged them down directly on a stab wound. "There. Press and hold firmly. Don't let up on the pressure." Moving around to the other side, he studied the bloodied body for another moment before putting his hands on Aoshi's right shoulder. Without looking up, he said more gently, "Wipe away your tears, Misao. Aoshi isn't dead. He's alive."

Her brain had all but shut down, unable to assimilate the truth. So of course his words didn't register at first. "Alive?" she repeated dumbly, following Jiya's orders without even thinking about it.

"Alive," he confirmed. "There now, did you think Aoshi would die that easily?" Of course, he didn't add that the stab wounds – four altogether – would have killed a lesser man instantly.

As if to prove the old man's words, a voice spoke just a hair above a whisper. "Misao …"

"Aoshi-sama!" Misao leaned over him. She had to fight back a gasp from his seeing wan face. His lack of coloring was in stark contrast to the splashes of crimson that pooled around his body. "Aoshi-sama," she whispered again, tears filling her eyes.

"Don't … cry, Misao," he rasped. "Can hear tears … in … voice."

"Stop talking, Aoshi, you're making things worse," Okina commanded. "The kunai punctured a lung and you talking will make it fill with blood even faster. Just lie there and take shallow breaths but don't move. Misao, make sure he doesn't even so much as move a finger."

"Please stay still, Aoshi-sama," she said softly. "Let me breathe with you." As she spoke, a flicker of hope rose in her wrangled heart. Jiya was right; as long as he was alive, Aoshi-sama wouldn't give in to death so easily.

They stayed that way until the doctor burst into the room with Okon at his heels. He dropped down next to Misao and murmured a word of approval at Okina's actions. "Here now, let me see him, pretty Misao."

Doctor Harabi, whom the Okashira realized was one of Jiya's sake swilling friends, gently but firmly pushed her aside and studied the wounds intently despite the profuse amount of blood. He nodded once to himself and glanced at Misao. His dark eyes assessed her briefly before he nodded to himself. "I'm going to need warm water. And hot water. Lots of it. Keep it coming."

Misao blinked at him, apparently not getting the hint, but Okon tugged on the younger woman's shoulder. "Come on, I'm going to need your help in the kitchen."

"I'll send for you the moment anything happens," Harabi promised. "But all I'm going to do now is to wipe the blood away and start on the sutures. It's going to take a long time and I need everything to be as sterile as possible. With wounds such as these, infection is a very real possibility."

Misao allowed Okon to drag her downstairs. There, the older shinobi started a fire and put a large kettle on to boil some water. She then got a basin of lukewarm water and sat Misao down on a stool. "Let's see where you're hurt," she said.

"It's just a scratch on my arm," Misao said woodenly. Panic suddenly rose to her throat, nearly choking the breath from her body. What if Aoshi-sama called for her and she wasn't there and he thought she left him? What if he died before Dr. Harabi could call to her? Then she'd never be able to speak to him again. With these thoughts, Misao stood up, intending to go back to her husband's side.

But Okon forced her back down, giving the younger girl she had always thought of as a sister a firm look. "Stop worrying so much. Dr. Harabi is very good and he'll take care of Aoshi. The best thing for you to do is to let me tend to your wounds so you'll be strong enough to take care of your husband in the coming weeks."

Misao wavered between Okon's logic and her panicked feelings before acknowledging the truth of her words. She finally slumped back on the stool, eyes fixated on the entrance to the kitchen. As if that would somehow help her see what was going on upstairs. "Okon, is he really going to be okay?" she whispered brokenly. She had to know what the other woman thought of Aoshi-sama's wounds, as if to validate her hope.

The older kunoichi sighed softly as she examined Misao for other wounds before going to work on the cut on Misao's left arm. "I can't say for sure, Misao, but I believe in him. And you should, too. If Aoshi thinks he needs to live on, then I know he'll do his best to come back to us." She just couldn't say in what condition. From the glimpse she had caught earlier, the blood loss was copious and the wounds were quite deep, if not yet fatal. Shaking her head away from the disquieting thoughts, Okon focused on her task and quickly wrapped the bandage around Misao's arm. The ends were tied into a tight knot. "There, you're all set. From what I can tell, the rest of the blood isn't yours."

Misao shook her head slowly. "It's not." Panic threatened to overwhelm her again but she fought the unreasonable fear back; now was not the time to break down. She had to be strong for Aoshi-sama. That's what he would have wanted her to do.

With that thought fueling her, Misao took a deep breath to steady herself. Hopping off the stool, the younger woman leaned over and gave Okon an unexpected hug. "Thanks, Okon. I'll bring up the boiling water to Doctor Harabi. Can you get started on another pot?" Misao pulled the kettle from the fireplace and poured the steaming water in an empty basin. Picking up the water, she hurried out of the kitchen, carrying it upstairs.

Okon looked down at herself and grimaced. Misao's hug had left bloodstains on the previously immaculate garment. She had taken a spare moment to pull on one of Shiro's yukata before running out to fetch the doctor. The large size nearly engulfed her body so she was at least somewhat decently covered, even if it did cause her to trip a few times over the length. She made a mental note to wash it for Shiro with a note of apology. But that would have to wait. For now, Okon silently filled another kettle to boil as she fervently prayed for Aoshi's recovery.

AN: Thanks to my beta Kageharu Kaco for her patience and time in beta-reading in the midst of school and a broken bone (feel better soon, Kaco!). Any mistakes are entirely my own, including the cruddiness of this chapter. It was extremely hard to write (and rewrite) so any suggestions are welcome to make it better (I doubt it could get any worse). Please see my profile for future updates for this story and others.