Blurbs: In the bloom of Cherry Blossom under the sun of spring, Seta Soujirou escorts a child to the Kamiya Dojo, life is about to get very interesting, and not necessarily in a bad way.
Disclaimer: Rurouni Kenshin and subsequent characters belongs to Nobuhiro Watsuki. Steal my characters without my permission and die
Timeline: Spring, 1882—Meiji year 13; PostJinchuu (No, I don't know when the Meiji year starts or whatnot, this is just estimated through the birth dates)
Beta: Khori Bannefin and Bloodedwyngs
01: Treasure Map
"Don't fight it."
She tilted her head and pouted slightly, pushing herself up and off the tree she had slammed into. "Now that's new, coming from you."
He chuckled; warm and honeyed, and his tiger-eyes were the rich canopy of autumn forest, leaf brown mixed with flecks of evergreen. "There are things that you could only win against by not fighting, Himeccha(1). Go with the flow; try it."
She ran over his words carefully, turning them in her mind as she considered carefully what he said and what he didn't, then she shifted into position. He followed suit.
The blind morning cast both of them in shadows, but she knew he had no trouble seeing her. If only she could say the same—in the low light she could not discern his expression or clearly read his intent. His ki flowed calmly, serenely, like lulling river in a lazy day.
When he suddenly lunged for her, he was again all harsh power, the force so sudden following such peaceful flow that it almost took her out of guard, but she managed to catch herself in time. And this time she took his advice.
Rather than meeting him head on, she followed the flow of his power and pushed on the same direction, and rather than being catapulted to another tree she used his momentum to propel him off-balance.
"See? Life is the same, Himeccha, think on it. Now let's continue."
She smiled, her blue eyes bright.
Kaoru-dono was changing, and Kenshin wasn't sure that he liked the change.
The sun was bright, and the lingering winter in that early spring morning made the air crisper than it was wont, gentle breeze tugging at his hair as he bent over the tub of laundry.
Kaoru-dono was always bursting with energy, evidenced by the way she chases after Yahiko every morning. Or used to; she had calmed down, quite drastically, much too drastically for Kenshin's peace of mind. Her movements were no more the artless enthusiastic burst of motion that they were when he met her, but neither did it resemble any other woman he had known. Kaoru-dono moved now with easy, flowing grace; the movement of a master fighter; efficient, economic, but full of elegance.
Curious, he had watched her kata(2), and the difference between then and just two months before baffled him. No one improved that much in such a short time-span; the rough edges in her kata smoothed and sharpened, the focus of her ki(3) almost blade-sharp, no movement was wasted and he felt the controlled wind of her slash and chop and stabs like a palpable force.
Yahiko was starting to get worried, that he could see, and so did Sano and Megumi—the two having come back from China and Aizu—occasionally—respectively. It usually took only one 'Busu(4)!' from Yahiko before they were running around the dojo, Kaoru-dono waving a shinai angrily. But she had not reacted to insults for months now, as if she could choose not to hear them. She had once quite calmly said to Yahiko that her name was not 'Busu', and thus she would not answer to it. After that, she had simply ignored any name-calling thrown her way, including Megumi's efforts of getting a rise out of her by consistently calling her 'Tanuki(5)' for a couple of weeks. Any effort of insulting Kaoru-dono, thus far, had as much effect as water sliding down duck's feathers.
It might simply mean that Kaoru-dono had grown up, but on the other hand it was such an abrupt turnabout that Kenshin could not help but worry.
Also, all of a sudden, Kaoru-dono had started sewing; she had started a little business of buying bolts of material and sewing colourful kimono to sell again. It was a lucrative little business, and they had finally managed to afford some reparation to the dojo that Kaoru-dono had been itching to have done for over a year and never voiced. Kenshin had a couple of new kimono and umanori(6) hakama Kaoru-dono had given to him—she had refused to hear his objections, on ground that what he had was threadbare to the state of almost tattered, or was tattered.
Another change that really drove Kenshin up the wall was that Kaoru-dono no longer wore her bright, colourful furisode(7) and tsukesage—though she kept her less brightly coloured tsukesage(8)—or kept her blue-black hair in that swinging high ponytail; she had opted to mostly wear cool or dark-coloured komon(9), or iromuji(10) instead, a wrapped tanto(11) slipped in her obi—he had even seen her in irotomesode(12) once and he thought his heart had stopped—she tied her obi in yanagi instead of her favoured fukura-suzume(13) and her hair was now always done up in a decorative bun, accessorized with ribbon or elaborate kanzashi that have no resemblance to tradition. He had once been sure that he knew Kaoru-dono, only to find out that he truly knows nothing at all; he knew nothing of her early years, he didn't know the circumstances that made her an orphan, he didn't know what she had been doing before he came, he didn't know – anything!
There were increasing amount of letters—through messenger birds instead of the postman—in and out. Books and odds and ends in Kaoru-dono's room multiplied by tens; two weapon racks appeared in the principle of the dojo last month—neither Kenshin nor Yahiko had come near it, despite their curiosity, as Kaoru-dono had finally shown her temper when Sano casually reached for one of them when they appeared and had to be peeled off the fence afterward.
Shinomori had found a new friend in appreciating tea; and despite her cooking skills, Kaoru-dono brew excellent tea with more ease than Sano could chew on a fishbone. Whenever Misao and Shinomori visited they could find Shinomori and Kaoru-dono on the engawa(14) with a pot of tea and a game of shougi(15)—Kaoru-dono had always been a considerable opponent at board games, and lately she had improved even more, Kenshin knew she used to think that he was humouring her when they played and she won, but he honestly wasn't, though she didn't seem to think that anymore. Misao, on the other hand, had become the proud owner of many of Kaoru-dono's more brightly colourful kimono, as well as becoming a dress-up doll for Kaoru-dono's amusement. Neither Oniwabanshu seemed to mind the arrangement, though, so Kenshin let it go.
To everyone's surprise, Hajime Tokio and Kaoru-dono had become fast friends, much to Saitou's horror. And the now Fujita Gorou had had to quit calling Kaoru-dono a raccoon in fear of his wife's retribution. With the amount of time Tokio and Kaoru-dono spent together, Saitou had become a common face in the dojo, amusing himself at Sano and Yahiko's expense. The wolf, however, had refrained from baiting him most of the time—Kaoru-dono had taken the Wolf aside for a bit when his jibes had gotten Kenshin steamed, and whatever she had said had put a very interesting expression of abject terror on the policeman's face.
But of all the changes in Kaoru-dono what really hit Kenshin harder than an off-track train was the absence of her cheers.
She was still bright, but there were scars in her ki; faint, spider-thread-thin scars that took Saitou pointing them out for him to finally notice—or admit they were there. Her silent affection for her strays—Yahiko, Sanosuke, Megumi, and him—was still in her eyes, but that bright iridescent blue was dark now, deep shifting cobalt and indigo instead of bright azure. Her smiles were true, and as beautiful as they always were, but sadness shaded the edge of that happiness. That she had taken to shading her eyelids and lips in pale blue did not help matters; under the moonlight she was a fleeting ghost.
Who was she grieving for?
Twice, she was not in the dojo when he made his nightly round this past month, and he would have torn the city apart to find her if not for the note she left tacked to her shoji(16). As it was, he spent those nights agonizing where she might be, and tucked himself in front of her shoji when she returned and went to bed, just listening to her quiet breathing to allay the demons brought forward by Enishi's Jinchuu(17) and her absence, barely last year and still entirely too fresh in his mind. He had spent half a year attached to her side like a shadow, and it was only after a year that his need for atonement overrides his need to always be sure that she was safe.
She saw more, now, than she ever had, and in her eyes he found his courage to keep on living, because she had seen what he was then, what he was now, and accepted both without question. In retrospect she had always seen more than she had ever let them know, but hence this wisdom far beyond her age? There was a quiet understanding and calm acceptance now on her face whenever he went off to atone for his past sins over her wary sadness—she didn't want him to go, but she understood, her eyes said, more than he does, what he needs to do. How, he dares not contemplate. It was enough for him, that she promised, unasked and silently, to always be there to welcome him home.
Something was bothering her, lately. He saw it in the way she paused over the tasks she was performing with furrowed brow, the line of her blue-tinted petal lips thin and tight in displeasure. But she had never pushed him, and he was obligated to afford her the same courtesy.
On the other hand it was becoming more and more evident that she was a woman. Kenshin had wanted her since the day he saw her, had loved her since he saw her determined eyes and burning spirit, and had only managed to hold onto the thinning strands of his control by arguing that she was too young, too pure, for someone like him. But that argument was quickly becoming moot. The depth of her eyes and the scars in her ki said their piece, so does the elegant neck and the body he increasingly suspected was more mature than her kimono shows(18).
He was so tired of holding back—from the time she was seventeen. Years, such a long time to be craving a woman's touch, denying himself even an open acknowledgement of what he really wanted.
He wanted; he wanted her with a fierceness that terrified him, a coiling spring wounding low in his stomach and a smouldering burst of desire whenever he thought of her. She made him happy; given him a home, soothed his demons, and promised him without words that redemption was not out of reach. No one else had given him that: not Ishin Shishi, not his shishou, not even Tomoe.
Only Kaoru-dono. And he loved her beyond anything else he had known in his life.
It was almost like an insult that he desired her so… so basely.
Therefore it was always with mixed feeling that he left the dojo for atonement; what was out of reach couldn't tempt him, but it was just desperation. It didn't matter how far away he was, the petal-softness of her skin, the way her long lashes cast shadows on her cheek, the stubborn set of her jaw—as if she spent a lot of time gritting her teeth—the tempting plumpness of her lips—and the perfect way they pout—the elegant curve of her neck and her perpetual scent of jasmine; none of them ever left him. His dreams were even more inappropriate when they were away, to his chagrin.
And as much as he tried to convince himself that Kaoru-dono would be better off without him, he knew that he would not react very well were she to actually take that suggestion.
In truth, he feared that whoever actually managed to capture Kaoru-dono's romantic interest would have to be wary for their lives, because he knew he would be sorely tempted to give them a one-way express ticket to hell, non-killing vow or not, if not for the fact that it would make Kaoru-dono sadder than she already was.
That was the one question, that he spent hours agonizing over, and the one question he had no way to answer. What in the world did he manage to completely miss that made her so sad? Whatever it was, if any Gods left in heaven had any pity, let it not be because of him. He would rather kill himself before he gave her a reason to grieve, because without her, there would be no living.
The petite woman smiled softly as the little boy scrambled to chase the wind-blown letter.
It had been almost four years since Keiji had come to her keeping, and while the circumstance that placed him in her care was regrettable she adored the serious, precocious infant. It would be time to return him to his mother soon, and it saddened her to see the little boy go; but she must be fair. Kaoru missed her son now that she was once again in full awareness of his existence, and Keiji doubtless missed his mother just as much, if not more. The little boy had behaved very well considering he knew the truth of his family's circumstances, but there was a wild restlessness in his gaze.
She would have to arrange a visit to return the boy to his mother soon, for she knew that the boy's patience was beginning to run out; he gazed a certain direction entirely too much for her to believe that he was content to wait.
The boy jumped and grinned triumphantly at the letter he clutched in his hand. It was the letter Kaoru had sent for him, and he had been reading it over and over for some time.
"Keiji, it's time for practice!" She called out, and the boy folded the letter and tucked it securely into his gi before turning her way. Dark, tiger-hued eyes glittered brightly in good-cheer, curiously almost the green of dark forest under the inky darkness of blue-black mane. The boy would grow up to break hearts.
"Yes, Aunt Orgulla." Sweet boy; she envied her friend a little. Orgulla could have no children of her own to dote upon, so she was determined to dote on her friend's son. Sometimes, she feared that she spoils him silly, but Keiji was such a sweet, well-mannered little boy that the concern seemed moot.
Besides, between this and that, Keiji might be an infant, but he had never been a child.
The shinai(19) sliced sharply through the air in a downward swing. A trickle of sweat trickled down his temple, but he ignored it, studiously counting the number of perfect swings he had managed to perform. It was a tedious routine, but he knew that in the end everything comes down to the basic: A slash, a thrust—a swing, a lunge—the rest was simply variation. To that end he endured, and conscientiously tried to make perfection of swing and lunge automatic, until he needs no longer think about it to be able to perform a perfect move.
Three hundred.
Moving right into another set of swings, he squinted a bit in confirming the correct posture before commencing. Orgulla had started him on the basics of the way of the sword and simple hand-to-hand principles after his birthday by his request, and if he went to bed feeling like an elephant had trampled him, he could blame no one but himself. Still, insofar, he had yet to regret his request.
As he moved he heard the rustle of crinkling paper tucked in his gi and smiled to himself. He never said so, but he missed his mother terribly. Young as he was, reasoning had emerged very early in life. He knew that his parents could not help but feel slightly cheated at his precocious-ness, but they loved him as much as any parents might love their child; that, he knew. So it was the edge he held against the hurt that his mother's memory loss had been powerful enough to forget all about him and his father – that, and knowing what he knew, he could as much blame her as he could deny that in this world, the sun rises from the east.
His parents' lives could make a script that rivalled any of Shakespeare's tragedies, should anyone take the time to record it. They only needed good wording and good actors, then they were set to wring tears out of stone.
White crow, black dove. Irony was not lost on the worst of them.
A hundred three, a hundred four…
On the letter was his mother's clean, beautiful calligraphy. She had not apologized, but that, he understood. She had, instead, asked him to come back home, writing almost hesitantly that she would like to have him home, as if she no longer had the right. But the longing for him was blatant in that hesitancy, and he could no more deny that he was more than happy to go home to her, more than ready to throw himself into the curve of her arms.
Aunt Orgulla was trying to find a time in her busy schedule to escort him home, that he knew well. He was grateful that his mother's best friend had been the one that took him in when his mother had lost her memories. He owed her the world for her kindness and patience.
But he simply could not wait any longer.
Two hundred ninety seven, two hundred ninety eight, two hundred ninety nine…
Three hundred ticks of the clock.
He watched as dew slowly formed a water globe at the end of a leaf, accumulated, and fell.
The dewdrop splattered against the tombstone after a few seconds of freefall with a soft resonance. Hisui stared unseeing, hearing laughter that did not resonate through the air, seeing a shy smile turning impish that was not there.
His tabi(20) was half-soaked by the dewed grass, as was the bottom of his hakama and haori. The sunlight rose in a false dawn, and last winter's ice glittered on the branches of still-bare trees. A ghost passed by, unheeding of anything but its pain, fading into the growing morning.
A namesake, dew exists for a short time before it changes form. He never meant it to apply to the person. Nothing was ever really gone, but no one ever guaranteed that you could ever find again what you have lost. A disgusted smile curled his lips as he moved his head sharply.
There was, perhaps, such a thing as living too long.
Finally turning away from the nightlong vigil, he whispered words to unhearing stones and spirits that could not respond.
The sun was rising. The dirt path that led to Kyoto was long, and he had things to attend to in a short while. Perhaps just as well.
Memories never fade no matter how much you try to forget them, it didn't matter how and where you bury them. Gold lasted no matter how long it was submerged in water—muddied and grown over by planktons and myriads of other water-growth, perhaps, but never corroded.
It was late, but Kaoru felt no compunction to go to bed, instead she sat leaning on the greyish trunk of an ancient-looking yamazakura(21) in the dojo's yard, silently running her fingers over the white saya(22) of the ceremonial tanto, tracing the inscription, scraping nail following the line of the pentagram and the tracery of a bird with her eyes fixed on the pale pink kikuzakura(23) and blood-red hikanzakura(24) just opposite her.
The moon was full that night, and the sakura trees in her yard had always bloomed early and lasted longer than most other sakura, except maybe the ones in her other home—but that was unfair comparison. That the trees bloomed all spring and summer and once again in the short transition of autumn and winter had drawn many amazed whispers—and quickly-hushed mutterings. But she was not worried. It was enough to know who had planted the tree to know that what grew would be as ordinary as flying bunnies.
A couple of years before, she would have had more company than her own thoughts as she sat underneath the tree that had no business looking as old as it was—less than twenty years an ancient sakura does not make—appreciating the bluish edge of the moon so full it seemed to want to burst into some other shape through the branches of the pink-ruffled yamazakura edged with the white ruffles of Tai Haku(25). Life has no fairness.
When Keiji returned, what would she say? How would she explain, to Kenshin, to Yahiko? Sanosuke and Megumi would doubtless want some explanation as well. But how does one explain what happened when one was not free to divulge the truth of the matter?
Forgive me, but I got hit on the head and forgot I was married and have a four-year-old son? She sighed. Oh, yeah… that would go as well as… Sano's sense of direction.
She huffed in exasperation, scowling lightly as the slight breeze blew hair into her eyes.
If she had ever discovered an aptitude for sake, she would have been drinking. All this was giving her a rather spectacular headache, and it's much easier to use drunkenness as an excuse to blurt out things.
For a defence, she knew she had the fact that no one had ever actually asked her out loud about her past, and so she could definitely excuse not saying anything. In fact, that route sounded more and more appealing the more she thought of it.
She might as well do that anyway. It was not like she owed them anything.
Satisfied, she tucked her tanto back in her obi and stood up, smoothing wrinkles and brushing off dirt and grass and fallen petals from her kimono. As she did so, a bit of wind swirled around her, blowing the pink and white and red of sakura petals against and around her, catching in the folds of her garment and among her hair. She absently raised a hand to brush them off before hesitating and lowering her hand back down. The wind and the flowers were like an embrace, one that a certain person would have given her whenever she faltered.
Sighing, she headed back into the dojo, petals in her hair and on her garment, a low, warm melodic phantom of a reassuring voice echoing in her ears. What she had forgotten, sunken in the recesses of her mind was not gone, sunken treasure ready for her to rediscover.
Life, love and lost, but no one can say she had never lived.
It was far from time, but the petals continued to rain down, never touching the earth. A strangely bare shikizakura(26) in the yard sprouted a single bud, blooming full and wide. Five pink perfect petals, like a painting, trembled slightly in the growing breeze.
A breeze that made no sound and disturbed no other leaves or grass or flower petals.
The spirits, ghosts and guardians and mischief-maker alike fell into fascinated, terrified silence as the petals danced out of its time, wild like talons of a frenzied hawk. A black dove flew, pursued by a white crow without sound. Circling in perfect circle among the trees.
Paradox. The world shifts following logic that does not belong to anything other than its own.
A shadow, powerful and frail. Tiger-bright predator eyes, smile as gentle as a prey, a sweep of non-existent petals. He came, but he wasn't there.
The single fast-blooming flower held still, then shuddered and rent apart, falling into the growing ink of the night. Others petals followed, and soon the night was still, the wind hesitant. The presence had blinked out of existence as suddenly as it took form.
The spirits slowly returned to their activities, memories of tiger-eyes and birds and things-that-should-not-be-there fading quickly in their wake.
In her dark room, the sleeping woman stirred but did not wake, her eyelids fluttering without lifting. To the left of her head, over and tangled in the coil of her blue-black braid, were petals out of their seasons.
The lingering cold
new growth peeked out of earth
cautiously.
Author note:
-This four season stories are crossover with a few other series; I invite my readers to a guessing game.
-The quotes at the end of each chapter were supposed to be haikus; I finally gave up trying to translate them into Japanese and wrote them normally. Because they were not intended to be left in English, the old 5-7-5-syllable rule is not followed. It is truly a pity I could not translate them well, considering I took the trouble of working almost each and everyone around the appropriate Kigo (lit. words that represent a season)
-Aah, the intricacy of Japanese tradition… I could safely say that they have succeeded in giving me headaches. But truly, it's all so very fascinating; what I wrote about in the notes is merely a dip in a truly enthralling world.
-The number of Sakura cultivars might seem ridiculously large, but I assure you, there're literally hundreds of them. I take poetic license in claiming that the cultivars I named exist in Japan during the Meiji, because frankly, I have no idea.
1 Himeccha -- corruption of hime-chan (little princess)
2 Kata -- a set movement for a martial style
3 Ki -- aura
4 Busu -- ugly
5 Tanuki -- Dictionary says this is a raccoon, but that's incorrect; another translation calls it a "Raccoon Dog", and I'm not sure how much more accurate that is, if any. Tanuki is a common fixture in Japanese Folklore; they reportedly have a single leaf on top of their head and delights in playing tricks on travellers along dark, lonely roads. It's quite interesting that it's canon to call Kaoru "Tanuki", because "Tanuki" are sly deceivers (I'm rambling, ain't I?)
6 Umanori -- there is two type of hakama, the divided and the undivided one. Umanori literally translates to "horse-riding hakama", it is divided like a trouser, just nearer the bottom.
7 Furisode -- a kimono for unmarried woman, normally it had long sleeves, and brightly patterned all over. It is a formal kimono.
8 Tsukesage—A type of semi-formal kimono, tailored to make patterns on both sides go to the same direction (upward, to top of shoulders)
9 Komon – Kimono with a small, repeated pattern throughout the garment. Both married and unmarried women may wear komon.
10 Iromuji--single-colored kimono that may be worn by married and unmarried women
11 Tanto – Japanese knife or a small sword, made in the style of katana, just very short. Kaoru's tanto is about 15 cm blade-length and 10 cm hilt, the smallest common measurement.
12 Irotomesode -- a single-colour kimono, patterned only below the waistline. Worn only by married women, hence Kenshin's reaction.
13 Yanagi & Fukura-suzume—Are styles of Obi-Mutsubi, or obi-knots, or put more simple, the way you tie your obi at the back. Fukura-suzume, "rounded sparrow" is the style Kaoru uses before she gets married, it's the usual style for young people, and also the type used when one wears furisode. Yanagi is square, and everything is tucked in, I choose this instead of the standard otaiko (drum know fastening)… just because I like it better.
14 Engawa -- porch, or the wooden deck that encircle the house.
15 Shougi – Japanese chess
16 Shoji -- the Japanese sliding door, usually with the windowed half covered with rice paper.
17 Jinchuu -- revenge
18 The ideal figure for wearing a kimono has no curves; therefore they're bound or padded over so that nothing shows—the reason why Megumi actually doesn't wear her kimono well, considering her curves shows over her michiyuki.
19 Shinai -- bamboo sword for kendo practice
20 Tabi -- Divided-toe ankle-high socks. Usually white, and white is the most formal, but I heard it could be different colour as well.
21 Yamazakura -- an erect sakura tree with reddish green leaves. The flowers are variable in size with a diameter of 2.5 - 4.0 cm. The flowers have only 5 petals and are a light pink colour. The corymbs are 2 flowered. The flowers usually bloom in the first or middle part of April. This is one of the more popular cultivars in Japan and is extensively cultivated in many cities
22 Saya -- sheath
23 Kikuzakura -- very unusual cultivar sometimes known as 'Chrysanthemoides' in this country due to the chrysanthemum-like appearance of the flowers. This is an erect tree with dark-brown bark and true green leaves. The flowers are of medium size and with a corolla of 125 pink petals with the inner 80 much smaller and darker in colour. The peduncles are elongate, nodding and glabrous. These cherries bloom in the latter part of April
24 Hikanzakura -- this is a small tree with dark black-brown bark and scarlet flowers. The flowers are relatively large and open with numerous, delicate stamens. The peduncles are pendulous, and before fully opening the flowers hang down and appear like bells.
25 Tai Haku -- Great White Cherry - This cherry was lost in Japan around 1700, but a single tree was found in 1923 planted in a Sussex garden. Collingwood Ingram, who discovered it, raised grafts and every 'Tai Haku' in the world is derived from this plant. Young plants have raised branches and long shoots covered in mid-season by large, single white flowers among red leaves. The leaves are well spaced and leathery and on some trees turning a bright red in autumn.
26 Shikizakura -- "Four Season Sakura". This breed blooms twice a year, roughly in spring and autumn. Also called "Fuyuzakura" and "Kanzakura", but "shikizakura " suits the purpose of this tree in this fic the best.