AN: This chapter has not been beta-read, so be prepared for grammar issues and typos.
Chapter 40 – Mad Dog
On the 27th of the first month, nearly thirteen thousand Tokugawa troops marched from Osaka castle towards Kyoto, intent to overtake it from the rebels. Instead of facing them head-on in one massive battle, Satcho alliance spread out their hastily gathered some four thousand men and defended against the attacking army on several smaller skirmishes around Toba and Fushimi area.
Kenshin and his unit were ordered to defend the Bungobashi bridge in Fushimi. It was the first time Kenshin had been asked to defend a location and it had surprised him, how brutal and bloody such a battle could turn. He had killed and killed, trying to keep the enemy from advancing over the bridge and the dead had fallen on top of each other, creating walls and floors of corpses.
Worse, on both sides, there had been artillery and troops carrying the western rifles.
Satcho had special units who had been trained to use the new weapons, but everyone else – the ordinary samurai who had been skirmishing in Kyoto during these years were forced for the first time to meet Tokugawa's gunfire and cannons armed with only their swords and bows.
Never before had Kenshin seen good men die so quickly, without ever getting to a striking distance of to their enemies.
After the tide had turned against the Tokugawa troops and they had started to retreat, Kenshin had found himself clashing blades with a huge samurai in the traditional samurai armor, carrying Tokugawa's colors to declare his alliance. He looked like he had stepped from pages of history.
The samurai was a strong foe. A real swordsman, but on a day like this, when Kenshin had witnessed their own men gunned down from a distance like bugs, facing that stubborn will made him feel tired and hollow.
He wanted to be angry. But he just couldn't feel anything.
For all his skill, the swordsman had relied too much on his physical strength. And Kenshin was fast. Even without ki-enhancement, it was easy to step inside his target's guard and cut through his sword arm.
His target dropped to his knees, clutching his badly bleeding stump. He shouted at Kenshin, begging for a death – a warrior's death.
But Kenshin, he was tired. So tired. He didn't want to kill any more than what was necessary. His target was not a threat. Not anymore. So Kenshin turned his back and walked away.
At the campfire that night, Makoto found him and asked why Kenshin hadn't given that proud samurai an honorable end, a warrior's death that he had been begging for.
Kenshin sighed softly, and said, "Why should have this unworthy one killed a man when the battle was already won? It wasn't necessary, so it wasn't."
Makoto looked at him strangely, like had suddenly grown a second head. "But, that…"
Thankfully Hideyoshi dragged Makoto away before the Chirpy could protest any more. For that, Kenshin was thankful. Maybe he was strange. Maybe his way of thinking was too odd, too cruel, but the thing was… the older he became, the less he understood samurai honor code and the idea of the glorious death. To him, all death was the same: ugly and cruel. There was nothing honorable, nothing good in death. Death was just death.
The second day of the battle, the Satcho alliance pursued the retreating Tokugawa troops. As they had marched south, Kenshin had seen a boy with a white hair among the civilian refugees that had taken the road. The boy had looked just like Enishi. Well, except for the white hair. Kenshin had rubbed his eyes tiredly, and the boy had disappeared like he had never been there. A mirage? Or a walking nightmare? After all, why would Tomoe's brother be here after all these years? No, the boy would have escaped back to Edo, back to his household. That was the only sensible thing a young boy could have done after that day in the Forest of Barriers.
So Kenshin had just slapped himself, to try to clear his head and continued walking. Daytime nightmares! God, what would his fraying sanity push him to endure the next?
After a long march, the Satcho alliance had finally reached the Tokugawa troops on the afternoon, and they had clashed against them all evening, fighting until it was too dark to make out their enemies from their own allies. The darkness had broken off the fighting and both troops had retreated far enough from each other to camp for the night.
Kenshin had wrapped her shawl around his neck to protect his throat against the biting cold of the winter night, hoping that her memento could protect him against the ghosts and mirages his mind decided to torture him with.
A few hours later, it began to snow.
It was just an inch of powder snow, a mourning shroud that was suddenly swept across the grounds of the battlefield. His mind didn't waste a moment painting visions of blood on the white canvas it provided.
Needless to say, Kenshin didn't sleep that night.
Instead, he sat by the campfire, staring at the flames. When his eyes started drooping, he dug up the letters and parcel Katsura-san had given him from his kimono folds.
The paper was damp, soaked in sweat and general wetness in the air. However, the beautiful calligraphy in the first letter was unmistakable: cultured and precise. These brush strokes could be only from Lady Ikumatsu.
Her words were kind and encouraging. She reminded him that when this all would be over, he should think about her lessons to avoid the problems his unfortunate fame would bring him. The letter ended with uncomfortably sweet words: "We owe you a debt we can never repay you. I know that you need to leave to find your own path, but one day I would like to see you again."
He frowned and opened the parcel Katsura-san had given him, Lady Ikumatsu's last gift. It contained seeds. He blinked, surprised. What the hell? He rummaged through the bag, finally finding a slip of paper with few words on it: "Boil these. Then use the water to wash your hair and eyebrows."
Ah, so that meant that these seeds were... for dying? Kenshin blinked slowly. He had discussed the possibility of dying his hair with Lady Ikumatsu, but he had never quite liked the idea. It was too permanent a disguise. After all, he needed to look like Battousai regularly. But now, after this war, that would change. No one would need him to be Battousai, or anyone else. He could be no one.
And with these, it could be far easier to become a no one.
That is, if he wanted to use them. Kenshin frowned, biting the inside of his cheek. Well, now wasn't the time to make a decision. He wrapped the parcel tight and pushed it back to his kimono folds.
The last letter that Katsura-san had given him was even more perplexing than the first two gifts combined. It wasn't even addressed to him in the first place but to Katsura-san. It was short, with no courtesy or needless words. It jumped straight to the point: "Kido-san. When it happens, send your redhead to me. I want to meet him one more time." The letter was signed simply with a name: "Arai."
Kenshin knew only one Arai-san, the grumpy swordsmith that had always admonished him for how badly he treated his sword. But why would Choshuu's prized swordsmith want to see him? And what did those words mean: "when that happens?" And why had Katsura-san even decided to give this letter to him? These words hadn't been addressed to him! To get a letter intended for another, it felt wrong.
But then again, no matter how odd the letter was… he did owe something to the swordsmith, for the man's work for refitting his katana with the new handle. So perhaps he should take a detour to the smithy when the war was over? Just so he could find out why the swordsmith wanted to see him once more?
The next day, the third day of the war, Satcho alliance clashed against the largest Tokugawa troop in Tominomori forest. From the numbers point of view, it was a hopeless fight: the Shogun's forces had regrouped and pulled together their best-armed troops. They had nearly ten thousand men, all hardened for war.
Satcho alliance had a bit over three thousand men left.
Desperately outnumbered, held back by the terrible weather and tiredness of hard battles already fought, the Satcho troops were ordered to keep their position and fight to the last. There would be no back-up for this fight. No more weapons. No more changes. They had to hold the line on the fields of Toba and Fushimi or watch the Tokugawa troops take Kyoto.
The cannons and guns fired a constant drumming of death, sweeping down men from distance. Like it was easy. Men died in droves around Kenshin and he couldn't do anything for them.
How could a sword be of use in a war like this?
The only reason why Satcho had not lost already was that they too had such weapons and for every man they lost, they nailed a careless soul from Tokugawa lines. But still, it was a bitter struggle, with no achievement or victory in sight.
On this day, Kenshin had already clashed blades with Shinsengumi men, Aizu men, Kuwama men, Mimawarigumi men… all the warriors he had fought against in countless skirmishes in Kyoto's streets during these past few years. But in this madness, the war had found a new level of horror. Honorable enemies were blown to pieces right in front of his eyes. His peers and the men he had defended with his sword time and time again were shot dead from distance.
It was a surreal experience to fight such a war with only a sword in hand… when these new western weapons made the battle soulless. Like there was no meaning to their death, to their suffering. Like they all were just tool to be used, resources to be spent.
Then on the afternoon of the third day, a new flag was raised among the Satcho alliance lines. It was an odd flag: red brocade with a single golden circle. No one had seen it before. It was not any existing domains' or troops' banner.
A messenger raced across the hill, shouting to everyone with ears: "An imperial flag! An imperial flag has been raised!"
And it finally dawned on them. The Satcho men were not rebels anymore. They were now an official imperial army fighting against Tokugawa's usurpers. Suddenly seeing that new flag among their lines, knowing what it meant, it bolstered their tired morale.
The cold winter afternoon, the slippery forest road covered in snow, mud, and sleet, the constant thundering of cannons… it had sipped their strength to the last.
And still, they fought.
Kenshin was filthy with mud and sweat from three days of fighting. His muscles burned with ki-overuse. He was tired, aching and he had the most persistent headache pressing on his temples, behind his eyes. It had been annoying him since the early morning. With every step he took, he felt more disoriented, felt like he could fall over any moment now.
A color show had taken over his field of vision, making it difficult to make sense who to strike. He didn't dare to attack himself, but if a dark shadow charged at him, he cut it down, almost like he had done in the forest of barriers. No. No, not like that. He was not that far gone yet, he kept telling himself. He gnawed on the inside of his cheek, taking one step after another. His balance was off, everything hurt and the guns and cannons kept thundering around him.
He couldn't concentrate.
Kenshin grunted in frustration.
Gods, he needed to find a way to focus. Something, anything to break this haze he had fallen in. Perhaps it was the constant pain he was in, a moment of mad brilliance, or simply desperate need, but he clenched his left hand to a fist, extended his arm and hit himself to the forehead with all his remaining strength.
Oh, fuck! The pain! The pain!
But as insane as it was, it worked.
The pain was the focusing point he had needed, and he blinked to clear his vision. The hazy shadows sharpened to Aizu and Shinsengumi men charging at him. So he gripped the hilt of his katana, concentrated his ki, feeling his veins burning with it, and charged in the middle of the group running towards him. He cut and dodged, twisting, pushing, making enough space for him to cut freely and then, he killed.
The one rifleman among the pack he took first, cutting through both the man and his rifle with a well-placed ryutsuisen. He jumped over another target, slashing through his leg, and the man standing behind his first target, never stopping, keeping the lines of his movements clean and efficient in order to save his strength. He didn't care about the pain he caused. He wasn't trying to make his kills elegant or quick. He just cut where it was most efficient to disable or kill, and kept going. This wasn't an honorable fight. This wasn't swordsmanship.
This was simply killing and surviving to kill one more target.
Any easy spots that weren't covered by armor: throats, armpits, knees, those become his targets. When that wasn't possible, he just enforced his blade with a trickle of ki, and cut through three to five men in the same strike, turning the enemy squads into a pile of flesh and blood that screamed and wept, before growing silent and dying one by one.
He cut and cut. And cut.
He was panting heavily when he finally let go of ki, kneeling on the muddy ground in the middle of slaughtered corpses and still warm, severed body parts. No more immediate threats nearby him. But the constant sounds of war hadn't stopped.
He didn't know how long he could keep this up.
He inhaled deeply, then exhaled, before inhaling again, struggling to keep breathing, to calm his racing heart.
A familiar cool and defined ki presence neared him.
Kenshin rose to his feet slowly, trying to keep his knees from buckling. He lifted his gaze.
It was Saito.
Just like him, the Shinsengumi commander was drenched in blood. His blade was drawn, held lazily in his left hand. On his lips, Saito had a lit cigarette, hints of smoke rising from it. He took the cigarette to his right hand, inhaled a lungful of smoke and let it out – a slow, relaxed motion, one that didn't belong to this hell.
Saito was standing some thirty feet from Kenshin, smoking lazily and staring him with eyes filled with hate.
Kenshin was weary, tired and aching. If there ever had been a day or a moment in a day when he didn't want to resume his fight with Saito, it would be right about now.
He didn't know how long they just stood there, staring at each other in the middle of the war zone, when suddenly Kenshin realized that it was quiet. Too quiet. The cannons had stopped firing.
A shout ran pierced the eerie silence. "We won! Raise our flag! Raise the Emperor's flag!"
We won?
Kenshin blinked and turned to look over his shoulder.
The ugly brocade flag with the Emperor's sun was being lifted up the hill so that it was easy to see even from a distance.
"Satcho has won! The rebels have won!"
…we won?
Kenshin forced his feet to move, to make sure… Step by step, he made his way up the road bank. The imperial flag stood there, uncontested. The men of both colors had stopped to stare at it. Enemies and allies alike, everyone was just staring at the flag like they couldn't believe their eyes.
Finally, a cheer echoed in the winter forest. "It's Satcho victory!" The men raised their swords, fist, and guns to air, cheering with all they had.
It was… over?
Kenshin just stood there, the hollow words bubbling past his lips. "So… it's begun. A new era… finally."
It felt like a huge weight was being lifted from his shoulders, from his heart. It was over.
He took a deep breath, relishing the bone-deep relief pooling inside him.
This was it.
He limped back down the road bank, slowly, carefully. Every step hurt, but it didn't matter. It was over. All the pain, all his suffering… It was finally over. He was walking down the road, heading back to the direction where his camp should be when Saito's voice called after him. "Himura Battousai!"
Kenshin stopped. Slowly, he turned to look over his shoulder.
Saito spat to the ground, then raised his sword at him. "Don't you think this is over! Even the world might change… but there is no other path for us, but live and die by the sword!"
Kenshin looked at his longest-standing enemy in silence. Live and die by the sword? That was a samurai ideal… and he wasn't a samurai. He had never been one, no matter what Katsura-san had arranged with the clans in Hagi in order to bring Kenshin with him to Capital. True, once Kenshin had admired samurai ideals and principles. He had believed that killing could be right and just.
Now, he knew that it was a terrible lie. There was no justice in the killing.
There could be only one response to Saito. Kenshin stepped forward, adjusted his hold of his katana and struck his blade to the ground.
He had loved that katana.
Once.
Now, it was a tool that showcased everything that was wrong in those twisted ideals. Live and die by the sword, indeed! He would never, ever again touch a killing blade.
He would never kill again.
It was wrong.
He had known it once, as a child. He had been drawn away from that path by the thought that there could be something right in killing, a justice in murder.
But she, she had shown him the truth again.
Kenshin turned his back to his katana and to the enemy he had been clashing swords with for the last three years, the man who had survived countless encounters with him at his worst… and walked away.
His steps were like an old man's. Short, hesitant and limping. Everything in him hurt. But slowly, bit by bit, he began to realize that he was wrong in this too: his steps were not of a dying man, but rather like a child's first ones. Every step he took was new and wondrous because he had just been born anew.
It was the dawn of the new world and he was finally free.
For the first time in five years, he was free – to make his choices again, to find a new path.
It hurt.
Oh god, how it hurt.
But maybe that was alright. He had to atone for his sins, learn how to live again. It wasn't an easy road ahead of him, but finally, he had the ability to choose again. He didn't know what he would be facing. It was terrifying. It was exciting. He couldn't wait to see what was to come.
He was smiling as he made his way back to the Choshuu encampment. He had to pick up his bedroll and travel supplies before he could head back to Kyoto. There, he would need to pick up his few personal possessions before he would leave the rebellion for good.
Their camp was only a couple miles to the north, in a pass between two forest hills. Their men were trickling back to the camp from the forest, from the fields, all across the area where the fight had spread during the long morning and afternoon. The roads were full. Satsuma men, Tosa men, Choshuu men, all hauling along their flags and emblems, and yes, some had even that new imperial flag with them. Some had rifles on their shoulder; some carried only their swords or spears. Every single one of them was filthy and tired, yet they were smiling and the tone of their conversations was elated, few even cheering about their victory.
Kenshin fell to the crow with ease, making his way to the right side of the pass where his unit had been staying for the night. Most men of his unit were already there, few offering him hesitant greetings. Some noted his empty scabbard.
Kenshin smiled at them. Yes, here I am – unarmed.
It felt good.
He wouldn't have to kill anyone ever again. He had his release papers, signed by Katsura-san. He could just pick up his stuff and leave and no one could say or do anything about it. Kenshin found his bedroll and knelt by it, sorting through his stuff and taking a moment to drink from his travel flask. The iced, sluggish water felt like nectar from gods to his parched throat.
It had been such a long day. The sun would be setting soon, but he wanted to get back to the road as soon as possible. He could travel through the night or make camp when he felt like it. Now, he had the freedom to choose when to stop.
He was just finishing packing up when he felt an organized group of ki-presences nearing him. With them was Nakamura's murky ki. What was his former superior coming here for? The weasel hadn't spent even one of these three nights with his unit so far, choosing instead to camp near the Satcho alliance command. Like Nakamura didn't want to be associated with the ordinary samurai and ronin his unit consisted of.
Kenshin turned to look over his shoulder.
"Himura!" Nakamura shouted, looking unusually pleased. Well, they had just won a tough battle. Even the weasel would be happy about that. But why was he accompanied by a squad of Choshuu riflemen?
Kenshin had never seen those guys. They must have been new recruits, or recently imported from the province. Slowly, he rose to his feet and nodded in greeting at Nakamura, as was proper.
Everyone around him seemed wary as they gathered to watch the spectacle.
Nakamura grinned and lifted his hand, and as one, the new riflemen took a firing stance, their guns pointed at Kenshin.
"Mad dogs should be put down by their masters, shouldn't they?" Nakamura declared.
It was like all Kenshin's fears came alive at that moment. He closed his eyes and sighed. So, this was it. This was how he would die.
What a miserable end.
After three days of hard battle, after giving his all to ensure that they could win this one last battle and finally letting go of his sword, his worst fears had come to true. Now he was surrounded by Choshuu troops, a squad of men armed with the very same western rifles Kenshin had escorted to Kyoto. All those shining barrels pointed at him, promising a certain death.
At least it would be fast.
Nakamura's gloating voice echoed in the winter air. "You know too much, Himura. And now that Kido doesn't protect you anymore… we can't let you go. You are a threat to the new government. So now, now… you are finally mine. You should know that it was easy to get the consensus from the leadership for your execution. After all those insults you gave me… I'll have my revenge. At long last, Himura Battousai will meet his end. Oh, how I have waited for this moment – finally, your legend will die."
Kenshin let his head fall down, staring at the muddy ground with unseeing eyes. At least it wasn't snowing anymore. He let his hands fall lax to his sides, feeling calm and ready.
The war was over.
They had won.
The revolution would succeed. There would be no doubt about it. He had achieved everything he had fought for.
It was alright.
He was a murderer, a mad shadow from the darkest pits of the revolution. A remnant, who had seen most of the terrible crimes Ishin Shishi had committed during the past five years to achieve their victory. And more than all that, maybe he was simply unworthy to live in the new era that was dawning.
It wasn't like he knew how to live without a sword.
"You are not even willing to fight? To give me a satisfaction to see you struggle before you die? You just… give up? Hah! That's perfect! I knew you were a coward! Just like all the assassins are at the end!"
Nakamura threw his head back and laughed a deep, mocking laugh. Then, he spat to the ground. A mortal insult.
A tiny spark of anger rose in Kenshin. Was he really just going to give up? Give Nakamura this satisfaction?
"Men, prepare – and on my mark!" Nakamura shouted.
True, it would be hopeless to fight exhausted as he was, but damned if listening to that gloating didn't make him want to punch that weasel in the face. Kenshin hid his eyes behind his sweaty bangs and clenched his fists tight inside his sleeves.
"Three, two, one," Nakamura counted, "and—"
"STOP!"
Kenshin looked up. That voice…
"Stop it! You can't do that! You don't have any right! Stop it, you fucking idiots!
Behind Nakamura, Makoto and Hideyoshi were making their way through the crowd. Kenshin couldn't help it, a baffled: "Oro," just slipped past his lips.
The idiot duo, Chirpy and Steady wheedled their way to stand between him and Nakamura's execution squad, their broad backs making sure that Kenshin couldn't see a thing that was happening.
In the crowd around them, sounds of movement and shuffling of feet became more intense, along with murmuring voices: "It's Battousai." "An Execution? But why?" "That's not right." "Are they going to execute Hitokiri Battousai?" "They said they are putting down a mad dog." "Which one of them is Battousai?" "That small redhead with no weapons." "What redhead? But they are all muddy from head to toe."
"Move aside!" Nakamura's shout cut through the mutters. "You are interrupting a sanctioned execution of an insane murderer, a man that is a threat to us all!"
"A murderer, huh?" Hideyoshi replied, his voice dry and humorless.
"Yes," Nakamura stated, notably annoyed. "This all has been approved by the Satcho leadership. Move aside, or I'm going to assume you are complicit with Himura and I will execute you too."
Makoto snorted, and declared in a voice that carried far, "So you are going to execute three of your own men? What sort of commander are you? I am not going to move aside. If you want to get to Pretty, you will have to go through me first."
Kenshin blinked, too shocked to say or do anything. Makoto and Hideyoshi, they really meant that? But, but… how could he ever forgive himself if he got these two idiots killed? He swallowed weakly and found his words at last. "Makoto, Hideyoshi… don't, please don't sacrifice yourself for this unworthy one. It's alright. This one is not worth it."
"Pretty, shut up." Makoto snarled at him, then turned back to Nakamura, lifting his hands up in the universal gesture of surrender and raised his voice to carry as far as he could, "Nakamura, all this time I have been deployed in your unit, you have been a shitty commander. But this time, this is too much. This is wrong. From the day one, you always gave the worst jobs to Himura. You have insulted him. You have held back his pay money on purpose and I have personally seen you try to get him killed in all the ways you could think off! But now that Himura finally got the permission to leave from Choshuu ranks from Kido-san himself, you go behind Kido's back and arrange bogus orders to take out Choshuu's living legend?"
Kenshin didn't know what to do. He had to figure out some way to get Makoto and Hideyoshi out of the harm's way, but how? Using ki, it was out of the question. He had nothing left. If he tried to use it, he would just pass out. He didn't have a weapon or anything longer than his arm. Gods, how could he save those two?
Hideyoshi raised his voice to shout, too. "Hitokiri Battousai is not insane! Himura has been loyally fighting for years. The guy has sweated, bled and sacrificed more than anyone I have ever known for the cause, for our dream – and this is how we repay him? Haven't we just spent three days butchering Tokugawa's troops? Haven't we seen enough death already?"
"You are all crazy," Nakamura stated, furious. "Fine. You will all die. Men, shoot all three of them."
Kenshin's heart skipped a beat. No, no, this couldn't be happening.
The sounds of a blade being drawn from its scabbard cut through the tense silence. A low, raspy voice said, "That's enough."
"Yes!" Makoto cheered and stepped aside just enough that Kenshin could see Fujiwara-san holding his katana to Nakamura's throat, droplets of blood beading out from the thin cut.
It was like the time stopped.
Nakamura's eyes grew wide, his mouth falling slack in shock…
The men in the execution squad froze, their eyes wild and pose off. No one's fingers were at the triggers and some were even lowering their gun barrels to face the ground.
Fujiwara-san narrowed his eyes and called out, clear authority in his raspy voice. "Lower your guns, boys."
The crowd came alive. People began to shout their agreement, "Stop it!" "Why are you trying to shoot our own? It's insane!" Some men even drew their weapons, holding them high, less of a threat than just showing that they did, in fact, have weapons and if something didn't change fast, this could get real bloody and fast.
The execution squad didn't hesitate, they threw their weapons away and held out their hands in surrender. Clearly, none of them had been prepared to face a lynch mob when they had been ordered to carry out their dirty task.
The crowd started to sheer. Fujiwara lifted his sword high and grinned in victory.
Makoto and Hideyoshi turned to Kenshin, quick enough to take hold of his shaking shoulders before his knees buckled.
"I told we would protect you, didn't I?" Hideyoshi said, a winning smile on his lips.
Kenshin swallowed weakly, shaking like leaf in autumn winds. An odd sensation was spreading in his chest. He blinked to clear his eyes, then nodded. "So you did." He agreed, smiling.
Gods, this was ridiculous. He didn't understand why he was shaky like this. He inhaled deeply and exhaled, repeating the motion enough that he got the worst jitters off. Finally, he shrugged off Hideyoshi's and Makoto's well-intentioned hold and stood on his own legs, faint shivers still racing through him.
Fujiwara-san walked to him. "Himura, you need to leave. There may be more of those bastards coming after you. We will cover you here and tell anyone that asks that you died in the fields of Fushimi. But boy, you need to move now and disappear."
Kenshin met the older Choshuu samurai's gaze and nodded slowly. Yes, that made sense. If Nakamura had gotten consensus for his execution from the Choshuu leadership, there might be more men coming after him. He looked past Fujiwara, where someone was tying Nakamura's hands behind the man's back. "What about him?" Kenshin asked, nodding pointedly towards their former commander.
Fujiwara-san sighed, then rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It would be best for all of us if he conveniently ended up dead on the battlefield. The night is coming and there are enough corpses down there that one more won't faze anyone. That way he can't cause any trouble for us. Besides, it wasn't like anyone liked the man."
That was true. They all knew that Nakamura was one to hold grudges and everyone here could get into trouble for disobeying a direct order from a commander… or in other words, for being complicit in a mutiny. But Kenshin had sworn to never kill again. No matter how tempting a target, how easy option it would be, the killing had no justice in it.
Kenshin coughed softly, and whispered. "Please, if possible, don't kill him. He is a difficult man, true. And what he did, threatening to execute Makoto-san and Hideyoshi-san, it was wrong, so it was. But please, if you can, go and tell Kido-san about this. He can help. That way no one has to die for this unworthy one again."
"What makes you think Kido is not in this plot against you?" Fujiwara asked, his expression skeptical. "We all know that Nakamura was not high enough in the ladder to make this decision on his own. He needed a majority from big bosses and there is no one more ruthless or higher up in Choshuu hierarchy than Kido."
"Kido-san wasn't part of this." Kenshin denied. "This one is absolutely sure of it. If Kido-san had wanted to get rid of this one, he had only needed to ask."
"Well, if you are sure…"
Kenshin looked up at Fujiwara-san, narrowed his eyes and nodded, just once.
The older man shook his head, then laughed out loud and slapped him on the back. "I should have known that you would make this difficult for me. You cute little rascal, you are always making things more difficult than they need to be." Fujiwara walked away, muttering rude words under his breath.
"So, you are leaving," Hideyoshi stated.
Kenshin blinked and looked up at his friend. "So this one is. Any further fighting, this unworthy one wants no part in it, that he doesn't. Besides, this mess with Nakamura…"
"I understand," Hideyoshi said, and suddenly, grabbed him into a hug.
Urgh! Those arms were like three trunks squeezing the breath out of him! But as odd as a feeling it was, Kenshin didn't feel like running. No, it felt… almost good?
After what felt like an eternity, Hideyoshi released him and took a few steps back, as if to give him additional space, in case if he freaked out. It made Kenshin smile. Trust Hideyoshi to be considerate of his issues.
"What about me, Pretty?" Makoto chirped.
Kenshin glanced at the honey-eyed young man, who had been the bane of his existence for all these hard months. "Oro," he mumbled awkwardly, not really knowing what to say. Thanks for saving me? Thanks for making me worry that you get yourself killed by your own stupidity?
Makoto's eyes sparkled with mischief; like the other youth knew exactly what he was thinking.
Kenshin really didn't like that look.
But then, without further warning, Makoto took a fast step forward and grabbed Kenshin's face with both hands and kissed him right on the lips. The lips smashing against his were cold, chapped and entirely unfamiliar… and the breath, gods!
Suddenly as he had charged, Makoto released him and danced away from his reach with a smirk on his lips. "Sorry, but I figured that was my only chance. Besides, given that you have conveniently lost your sword, it isn't like you could kill me for that." And then the bastard skipped away cheerfully, pumping his fist in the air like he had just won a greatest of victories.
Kenshin couldn't help but stare after the Chirpy idiot, shocked – embarrassed heat rising to his cheeks. That, that – what the fuck was wrong with that guy?!
But then his packed bedroll and travel pack were showed to his arms, and he looked up…
Hideyoshi was looking at him, laughter in his eyes and deadpanned, "Get going already, you odd idiot."
Two days later, Kenshin was sitting alone at his campfire by the roadside. He was damp and cold. Especially his scalp and hair were freezing, the tips of his hair already frozen to dark icicles. He eyed at the damp, mat of black hair hanging over his shoulder and sneezed. Gods. This was the last time in his life he would wash his hair outside in the middle of winter.
Who would have known how miserable wet hair would make you feel? Even the thick haori coat he had wrapped around himself wasn't keeping him from shivering.
There was no way he could sleep now.
He rubbed his arms to keep up his circulation, watching tiredly the flames burning through the damp wood.
No matter how he tried to keep doing it, every now and then he couldn't help but glance resentfully at the piece of scrap metal that grumpy swordsmith, Arai Shakku-dono had gifted him with. Or more accurately, burdened him with.
After Toba Fushimi, Kenshin had been perfectly ready to abandon the swords and swordsmanship entirely. However, his thrice-damned curiosity and his overblown sense of obligation had driven him to take a detour to the sword smith's place.
"Since you have taken so many lives, could you refrain from taking any more? If you live by the sword, you die by the sword – that's the only road a sword-wielding hero can take." Arai Shakku-dono had said, before throwing that odd katana at him.
Kenshin scowled.
He had lost all love towards swords a long time ago. He had grown past believing there could be any justice or rightfulness in the art of the sword. He had chosen to abandon it all for a good reason. He was tired and at long last – free to choose another path.
Three years ago, he had sworn to her that he would find a way to protect and help the common people without killing.
It was a beautiful dream.
But the fact was, that without a sword, he was nothing. He had been born to nothing. He had been trained to the sword and little else. Take the swordsmanship away and what was left?
Kenshin sighed.
So yes, he could see the point Shakku-dono had in giving him that sword. And yes, he was grateful. But at the same time, he hated the man for forcing this new path on him. Just when he had been able to choose, to finally look for a way forward on his own, he was handed a…
"A goodbye present."
It was, in a way, the best sword Kenshin had ever seen. The steel was first class. The sword's balance, weight, and length, everything was perfect. Like it had been made for him. It felt better to his hand than his old katana had, which made perfectly clear just how badly he had outgrown his old blade during the last years in the rebellion. Just like Shakku-dono had told him, time and time again.
"It's not one of my killing swords, but it's still probably too much for you. Try being a swordsman with that at your waist. You will find out how deeply you believe what you just said and how laughable it is."
Shakku-dono's words echoing in his mind, Kenshin took the unassuming sword in his hand and trailed his fingers on the plain and modest sheathe. He took his time to observe the handguard and handle, which were made in simplified style. Perhaps it was a joke form the swordsmith, a way to criticize his bad habit of breaking his sword's replaceable parts on a frequent.
Kenshin drew the blade out of the sheath once again, just to look at the beautifully crafted folded steel – and note how the edge of the blade was on the wrong side.
He smiled faintly.
It was a backward and ridiculous sword, just like he was. An assassin who didn't kill, a swordsman who didn't want to draw a sword… maybe it was just perfect for him.
Kenshin looked up at the sky, inhaling the crisp winter air to his lungs. Even with a sword like this, he wasn't sure if he could ever gather the strength to draw it fully, to use it like it should be used. Not when he was this broken and tired shadow of a man.
He sighed.
Tonight, he was eighteen years and some months old.
He felt ancient.
Gazing at the stars in the sky, he whispered: "Love, what should this one do?"
