A/N: I've reposted every single chapter, in order to name them, and to include some corrections and a small bit of character development. Just in case you're interested...

Chapter 6 – Tempus Fugit: Carpe That Damn Diem

Why do thoughts of that boy, that Kenshin, trouble me? That was over a year ago. I hope this doesn't mean he's in difficulty…

The old man busies himself with the man's latest requests: a large store of bandages, sandals, a cloak. And, naturally, he would have asked for a blade of some kind. Gozaemon could tell he was planning to be on his way—really, he needs at least another two weeks before I should let him go!—and you couldn't expect someone in his condition to travel without some kind of weapon.

Where is that wakizashi Yoshi gave me…?

He has to remain calm, has to think clearly, has has has to take care of everything. Can't afford to leave any necessary arrangement untended to.

There are horses to rent; Kentaro has to get leave from his master—in the middle of the night, yet! And where can they get guns? They've got to have guns: neither one of them has any skill with a sword—much good it's done me, working with them day in and out—and they can't take the chance of arriving with only their fists as defense.

Thank the fortunes he doesn't have a sword—that would just about do us in!

He shudders at the thought. And, his old friend alone with that demon…! It stops him in his tracks, and his chest constricts sharply with dread. It takes all his self-control to keep his mind focused on the tasks at hand.

"I said, how long will you need them for?"

Yoshi snaps back to the present to find the stable master standing in front of him holding out the reins of the only two horses available at this hour and on such short notice.

"Oh… ah…" He hasn't thought about that, hasn't thought about the "after". Let's see, the trip home takes all day when it's light—it's after midnight now—if we push it, noon tomorrow—then a half-day to ride back—but how long until we can even think about bringing the horses back? His head whirls under the pressure of the unaccustomed calculations combined with the black hole of the task that lies ahead of them. Better play it safe…

"A week?"

Aghast, the stable master splutters, "A week? You want to keep these horses for a week! What if the owner needs them? What do I tell him?"

"I know! I'm sorry! Forgive me… I just… It's hard to say how long we'll need… But we really… Look, what do you want? Do you want more money?" He thrusts his money bag at the man, his head feeling like it will explode—they need to be on the road—this delay is killing him! Where is Kentaro? He said he wouldn't be long…

Summer is almost over; he feels autumn in the brisker morning air and in the chill of the now almost daily rain showers. The better part of most days now finds him outside the cave—though still in the shade of the trees surrounding the meadow's hot greenery—stretching his cramped muscles and loosening his frozen joints, endlessly running through his kata, obsessively evaluating and re-evaluating his future, still almost unable to really believe that he'd been rejected.

He knows where he is, and calculates he'll be able to make it to his father's complex in just over three days. He knows he won't be able to remain there for long—even Katsura's morons could figure that out!—but he'll be able to gather a few loyal men—Houji will be invaluable—and adequate supplies.

And I need to take counsel from chichi.

Uncertainty ripples through him at the thought of his father. It has been so long, and so much has happened since they last spoke. How much does his father know? Will he approve?

Surely he will help me…

The household is quiet these days, subdued, not yet quite grieving. Even though the master can no longer rise from his bed, the dim and quiet and stillness of his chamber seep through the house like an oppressive fog, shutting out light, dampening conversation. Staff speak in whispers, the windows are shuttered, visitors, even those bearing tokens of sympathy and condolence—after all, what if he were to recover?—are turned away at the gate. A rude gesture, it's true, but who would dare to raise an objection?

Mareo realizes how short his time is. Knew even when he'd first summoned his healer that it was too late, had felt for some time the hot rot gnawing at his gut, had managed to hide his diminishing appetite, his fading and shrinking body, the clouding of his mind.

Gradually—but not too gradually—he's ordered his affairs: catching up the records of debts owed to him, clearing a few social obligations with gifts of kimono and fine silks, reviewing and revising his written instructions for how his estate is to be entailed for his son.

His son.

Just two days ago, his man, the one known to no one but himself, hidden among the servants as just another food server, had returned. The news is disquieting, but neither of them believes the common explanation: that forest animals had ravaged the assassination site, dragging the burnt carcass deep into the hills. That the betrayal had been successful. His man had picked up rumors circulating in the bars, rumors that convinced him of the young master's survival, convince them both that, though perhaps injured, he is safely on the run.

He will return home. The trick now is to prepare to hide him from his pursuers, as surely there will be.

But that was two days ago…

Makoto. Where are you?

Can it be true? Is it possible that his long deprivation is over? Giddy with hope, hoping against hope, Houji opens the door he's avoided for nearly a year, begins to ready the neglected room for its occupant's return, hardly daring to believe he might be needed again by him, his true master, that the time of his—their!—ascendancy might be at hand.

For, surely, he is returning in triumph.

chichi : familiar for "father"—implies a strong, intimate bond