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Chapter Fourteen - Miwa

Rose hurried along the street, hoping to get home to her "brother" Duncan. Since the War ended she had taken Duncan's name. Someone at the hospital back in October had recognized her as Rose DeWitt Bukater, someone in her circle, a young man who had vaguely known her father. She had insisted she was Rose Dawson. All the same, once the War ended, Duncan and Rose headed to England as brother and sister so that could be allowed to room together without funny looks or the need to appear as a couple. With their years together, training and living, through a war, Rose felt as if Duncan was like her older brother. Besides, being born in the same little town, it almost felt right that they be clansmen, even though Rose was American.

Rose also decided it was time to let go of Jack Dawson. He was not dead and apparently wanted little to do with her, which made her hurt like crazy inside. How could he not want to see her, after all that? Rose decided to think no more on this and wiped his name from hers. She was again with a new name and new identity. Rose MacLeod. Rose, knowing she'd live for a very long time and might undoubtedly have to change it again (though Duncan hadn't dropped his in 300 hundred) thought this a good thing. Each knew name was like a fresh coat of paint. Such a new feeling, like the day she stepped off Titanic as Rose Dawson, she felt like she had shed an itchy old skin and grown a shiny new one. Now that Rose Dawson had been dragged through the mud it was time to come into her own as an immortal.

It was also time to let go of darling Fabrizio. She never threw away the ring but she stopped wearing it. He was gone and was never coming back. Time to bury the dead.

She decided to commit both men to the attic space of her memory, along with the faces of her childhood and the days when she was called Bukater. She felt lucky to have other kinds of love, other than the romantic kind, to keep her warm now.

But with this thought, she pulled her dark green shawl tighter to her body as she looked up at the gray winter sky. It was near dinner and Duncan would be home from the trial. (An immortal colonel by the name of Killian had sent his troops out after the Armistice for his own glory. Sick bastard, Rose thought.)

She up the steps of the little townhouse she owned with Duncan, carrying her heavy bag of books as Rose now worked in a little bookshop and she got free books every once and a while.

"Excuse me," said a voice behind. Rose turned around to see her neighbor, Mr. Carlisle.

"Dropped this, Miss MacLeod." He handed her a copy of Peter Pan.

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Carlisle."

"Is your brother home yet?"

"Oh, no sir, I don't know. I haven't gone in yet."

"Bloody bad business that trial."

"Yes, I know."

"Well, have a good evening, Miss MacLeod. Regards to your brother."

"I'll pass them on. Good night, sir." And she hurried up her front steps to her door.

"Duncan!"

Duncan was sitting by the fire reading. An odd scene, Rose mused. Not that MacLeod wasn't inclined to do exactly what he was doing now, but it felt so domestic. Only a few months ago they had been in war-torn France and Mac was training her to use a sword, to kill. She had gotten quite good.

MacLeod would have preferred to move his "sister" out to the country "for her health" he told others. A remote place to train unmolested he reminded Rose.

Rose was enjoying life in London, playing the part she was playing. She was a nice little virgin, parents dead–very sad, but living happily under the charge of her elder brother who had been over in Europe for many years.

This was an age, at 24, in which Rose might have seen herself getting older and still without a husband. Or being ahead of her time as she, wondering what kind of career she could secure, what kind of dent she could make in the universal fabric before she died or got too old.

And had others had there way (in a time that seemed an eternity ago to Rose) she would have popped out a few little Hockleys by now. But Rose knew better, even had she stayed with Cal the only the little Hockleys rearing their heads would belong to a mistress if he chose to take one (or a few for that matter.)

But something about the simple domestic, the normal scene before Rose struck her. She wasn't ready to be a normal person yet. There were greater forces out there in the world and a dark past in Rose's young life that she needed to reconcile first before she was ready to play the girl next door. She thought about for a week or so after, than informed her best friend and brother in a lie that she was ready to fly the immortal nest. He put up a bit of an argument but decided that Rose was an adult, even without the wisdom of three centuries, she knew what she wanted and there was nothing he could or should do to stop her.

"Japan, eh?" Mac looked at his young protege as they stood on the docks.

"Japan. I've never been East. Now I want to go. I've been all over America and Europe. Time to really leave home."

"See the world."

"See the world," Rose confirmed. "I'm also jealous of your sword. Thought maybe I'd trade the broadsword with something that agrees with me more." She smiled and her teacher smiled back.

"Anytime you need me..." Duncan began.

"I know where to go. I'll write you, too. You'll always know whether I've got my head." Rose let out a giggle while Duncan grimaced. They embraced in a goodbye and Rose pulled her head far to the side and stuck out her tongue as she boarded the ship.

Duncan smiled, a few years ago she had been near volatile, now she had developed quite a sense of humor about the whole thing, back to the way he remembered her as a girl but with a tougher skin. And lucky for Rose, a much tougher skin.

Three weeks later Rose MacLeod was in Tokyo, from there she made her way to Nara, to Todaiji, one of the country's oldest and largest Buddhist temples. Japan was a beautiful country and though Rose had been lost everyday the entire week she'd been there and no one understood a single thing she said and vice versa, she thought she might never leave. Such a pretty place, so different from the lands she knew. Her fiery curls were also a hit with the locals so she was never without a smiling face or little children to play with her hair.

Walking out of the great temple, it had not at that moment occurred to Rose that not once on her journey half way across the world had she run into anything very old or very unfriendly. She would, however, muse on that about an hour, because at that moment she felt the buzz.

And just a split second later was on the ground, face in the dirt with a foot pressed firmly on her back.

"Domo arigato!" Rose screeched. It was the only phrase she could both speak and understand in Japanese. She was so panicked she didn't stop to think that she had just thanked her attacker.

To the side of her Rose noticed a mass of long, black hair. The other immortal's head was right next to hers. Unfortunately, its foot was still pushing Rose into the ground. The head said something. It was another woman.

"Wha-what?" Rose stuttered as she felt for her sword. Her back was released and she was lifted gently to her feet. She dusted herself off while she was examined by what looked like a girl of sixteen or seventeen–holding Rose's sword as well as her own. "What the..."

"You're an English speaker..." said the girlish woman in perfect English though she was quite obviously Japanese, and Rose was also quite sure she was much older than herself.

"Yes, er, yes."

"And American. I like Americans."

"You have a funny way of showing it." Rose bent down to pick her bag but if she had been wiser she would have been desperately watching her attacker's every move and had she not been knocked a little silly she might have realized she was in front of a very old ninja judging from the way she was attacked. But Rose was naturally arrogant and swiped up her knapsack.

"You'd be wise to be careful being so young and inexperienced."

"How do you know I'm so young?"

"I can tell. What's your name, my little traveling friend?"

"Rose MacLeod."

"The MacLeods?"

"No, it's a fake. Duncan MacLeod taught me."

"I know Duncan," said the old little girl. Rose noticed she was rather thin and a head shorter than herself. "I like him." The old girl was very pretty, she folded her arms and examined Rose who was not small. She looked at the younger woman, tall and flame haired, solid with a sizable bosom, which was big enough to make an impression but not big enough to way her down. "What's your real name?"

"Bukater. I was born Rose DeWitt Bukater."

"The Bukaters." She had obviously been around.

"Yes."

"Didn't you die on the Titanic?"

"No, er...I was killed at Pompeii..."

"You're not that old," she said as though she believed Rose was pulling her leg.

"No, the ruins. I was a student, got shot by marauders."

"Titanic didn't kill you?" These details didn't seem to bother the woman. She was treating it like small talk.

"No."

"So you faked your death before you failed to die for the first time...?"

"Yes." Rose was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. Either this particular immortal was little weird or she was just slaking any curiosity before she beheaded her, or... Rose couldn't think of any more possibilities, though she was sure something was ticking in her head.

"My name is Miwa Soga," she said finally.

"The Sogas?" Rose asked meekly, vaguely recalling what she knew of Japanese history, though she could have just been an ordinary person with the name. But if this lady was immortal there was always a chance.

"Yes," answered Miwa. "The Sogas..." she waited. Rose thought, when they lost power, the Soga family had all lost their heads. Now she spoke in a whisper "My father was a cousin of the Emperor. He sent me away and I escaped. But it was being a commoner that killed me," she said. "You seem to be handling the simple life better than I."

P

"I was never royalty." The Sogas. Miwa wasn't old. She was ancient.

"Yes, you were. I was in America for seventy years on and off before I came home last year. I read the papers. The society section was great for gossip. But you're a strong girl, Rose Bukater," Rose flinched at her old name but decided to keep quiet, now getting her bearings back she was taking in just how expertly she was attacked and just how long her attacker had been perfecting it. Mac had taught Rose to be alert and quick with the counterattack, befuddling Rose was no easy task. "I was small and weak. I was barely seventeen. You are tall and strong. I was raped and left for dead on the roadside. I visited the very spot not a month ago. But we both know what it's like to lose our families young. To have nothing."

"Yes..." Rose wasn't sure whether to run or cry or...she couldn't decide. Miwa was turning out to be quite a creepy lady with her girl face full of little white teeth, grinning as she introduced herself with stories of rape and dead families.

"You can go but I promise you won't find another person that speaks English for miles and miles. And if you run into any more of us you might not find one that promises not to touch your pretty red head."

"Can I believe the latter promise?" Rose was no fool.

"You can believe the first one too. I cannot convince you but I'm no head hunter, no prize-hungry immortal. I only attacked you because you were a threat to me at first. How was I to know you weren't a thousand years old and looking for me. No offense but my Quickening's a right better catch than yours. Lots of people want it. Then I saw you try to get up and that look in your eyes and then I remembered how much I love children." She smiled with her gleaming baby pearls.

"Alright then...how do you know I won't take your head when you're not looking? Some kids are rather precocious that way."

"I don't. But we'll just have to trust each other. Your friends are the ones that could kill you in your sleep but you still let them hold the knife."

Rose thought of Duncan. Of Fabri. Of Jack. She could use another friend, even this crazy Miwa.

"I'll teach you too. No doubt you've learned a little bit of the samurai from MacLeod, but you could use some work."

That day Miwa took on a new student and Rose a new teacher. A former American princess and ancient Japanese royalty had joined forces and became friends. Abnormally large God damn knives and all.

Rose had often grumbled to herself about how sore she was when Duncan was let her go for the day. Miwa might have been insane. Brilliant but insane. Rose may have finally gotten to use a real Japanese katana but Miwa seemed to make her pay for it, even though she had gone to work making Rose her own.

"Ah!" Rose had screamed–or had tried to scream. Falling on her back left her out of breath.

"Silly Caucasian girl likes to play with samurai swords..." Miwa laughed morosely.

"Then stop playing with me, Miwa," Rose groaned, rolling over on her stomach when she caught her breath. Then she rolled back, remembered Miwa had kicked her there last time.

"Come on, I won't kick you again. How about tea? I'm tired."

Miwa hung her sword back up on the wall facing left in the passive stance as she always insisted, Rose followed suit a minute later when she got up from the floor.

"You sliced my back pretty good there," Rose commented.

"Well, you'll live, besides I'll get you new clothes. You know if you were shorter I could just lend you my old ones."

"Maybe if you were taller."

"Did I ask my next student to be some gigantic white girl? I never saw myself as a great pairing with an All American Highlander but I guess well have to see beyond sharing wardrobe."

"All American Highlander? Is that some sort of title?"

"I think it works for you. And it's true."

"I like it."

"Now you should get changed, the blood clashes with your hair and showing all that skin in the back gives you that look of ill repute."

Miwa went to make her tea before bed and got her new clothes the next day. They weren't even like the old robes that were ruined the day before, she just bought her new clothes, fussing over as she tried them on. Miwa Soga had become a sort of strange mother figure.

Rose often felt a pang for her own mother who was somewhere back at home in the Western World. She wondered what her mother would think of her now if she knew. A killer that would live forever. Though Rose was not a killer yet she knew the day would come and she thought of it almost every morning when she awoke.

Rose did have one advantage or two over Miwa Soga, at least an advantage when it came to escaping, well, being as off as Miwa could be. Miwa had never gotten to say goodbye to her family. Rose still had a chance. Her father had a servant sneak her out before her entire family had been killed. Rose lied about her identity to escape going back to Cal. Miwa lied about her identity to escape death. Rose had chosen to leave her world. Miwa had no choice. Once in New York, while she was living with Fabrizio, Rose had been almost been mugged but escaped with a black-eye and a torn dress. Miwa had been raped and killed fairly easily. She was right, Rose was big and strong. Miwa had been weak, which, Rose thought was the explanation as to why Miwa was the toughest, meanest bitch to live a thousand years, at least as far as Rose could tell. Miwa was no kitten for sure but she was a good woman.

Rose decided to take the chances others never had, the chance she'd already lost with her father, with the fiancé she had loved. She was going to find her mother.

At the end of the month, Miwa had given Rose her sword. It was red and black with a rose engraved just below the hilt.

"Don't be too critical. I've only been making them myself for about five hundred years...more or less."

"It's amazing, Miwa..." the sword was utterly perfect in every way Rose could tell. "You're amazing!" She hugged her tight. A touch of pride crossed Miwa face, whether it was for the student trying out her new weapon with the precision she had instilled or her material creation, it was hard to tell with Miwa. People with gruesome pasts are often hard to read.

Rose left Japan after nearly a year with her second mentor and left her in San Francisco. Miwa's love for Northern California got the best of her and Rose's desperation for her mother was growing. Rose tracked her mother down through MacLeod, being an old friend of her father's.

Ruth was in Paris.

So was MacLeod.

And unbeknownst to young Rose MacLeod, so were many others quite like her.