Disclaimer: I don' own anything from Rurouni Kenshin. Sadly. Not even the anime, never even see the anime for that matter. Own the manga though. All of it :D
AN: I guess I have to give credit where credit is due. This is kinda dedicated to Benign Intent. She started writing a story along time ago, and it sparked this in me, actually she pointed out that it was almost a year ago that she started writing her fic, which makes it just as long since I wrote this. I'm sure she won't mind that I wrote this. Hope someone enjoys this. -.
Kasi.
A Night's Lodging.
By: SilverInches
The day was cold when I saw him, and I can't say that I'll ever forget the way the wind pulled at his clothes and twirled in his hair, tugging at the ends of a scarf he had wound around his neck. The setting sun shone on his tattered hakama and tired face. At that moment, with his scarred face and composed features I could have sworn that he was a ghost from the War. Or perhaps he was a memory of the essence of what the samurai were to be before human nature twisted it. He seemed a guardian; kind, benevolent, like a parent to his children; caring, gentle, keeping them from harm. But I knew that was impossible, he was real, standing before me and no dream.
Then the magic was gone and I was just an old woman again, an old woman who had lost too many of her sons to the upheaval of the Bakumatsu, in that graveyard they called Kyoto.
I raised my hand to him and he came forward, off the road and up towards my inn. He looked like a young thing now that the light and shadows weren't playing tricks on my mind, barely more than a child with the gentle eyes of youth. He stopped before my porch below me, not yet willing to step up on to it. He smiled then, and I returned the favor. He reminded me of my sons and I quickly trapped the pain deep within, I would deal with it later.
I commented on how the weather had turned quite cold lately, and that perhaps he should like a warm place to sleep for the night. He bowed with the utmost respect to me, and answered politely that it had indeed become rather chill in the last while. He then went on to tell me that he would enjoy staying under my roof but had no funds suitable to such an arrangement. However, he was willing to work for a place to rest his head, that he was.
Even as I thought over his words, I wondered briefly where one so young could have such a terrible scar. I put that from my mind also, questioning him would be unutterably rude, and mentioned that many of the older folks of the village would gather here speaking for hours about the golden years of the past. Thoughtfully I added that I often found it hard to clean up after they left at night. His face lit up with happiness, and I wished that more people could be so easily pleased. If it were so, I would not have had to watch my boys leave home, and one by one die in a far away city.
He then stepped onto the porch, bowing to me again, and offered his arm to help me as I struggled to force my body to unbend and my legs to bear my weight. He was such a nice youngster, with the kind of manners that reminded me of my own childhood so long ago. When you get old you will understand why old people like to see that not all those in the younger generations are incapable of manners. It reassures us of the future.
He stayed that night, and the night after. He was a quiet child, and hardworking. Never getting into trouble, and always willing to lend a hand to this old one, when the damp air made my bones ache and my joints tense. In fact he stayed and continued to help me for several weeks. But I knew that it was time for him to go when the first brilliant sunny days of spring struck, and the roads began to dry out from the rainy season.
He knew it too; and the next day he emerged from his room, with his sack over his shoulder and his eyes shadowed with sadness. In that moment he loomed as the specter of war once again, a shade of memory, one that would not rest until he had paid for his sins. My soul cried, for I longed to know what this youngster could have done that was so terrible, that he would think that he needed to atone for it.
The moment passed and he was laughing and smiling as he stepped onto the porch, joking that he would travel that day, and then run all the way back here to help an old woman clean up after the locals had finished reminiscing.
I smiled as I waved to his departing form, and tried to straighten my bent old back to the next set of chores. I would miss him, but he was young and had a full life ahead of him. I would remember him and wonder what a small youth with red hair and a cross shaped scar had been doing in this far distant part of our land.
After all, legends aren't supposed to walk up to you and ask to exchange work for a night's lodging.
Owari.