Near Misses
Summary: Five times Nathan Algren caught a glimpse of hitokiri Battousai, and one time he meets Himura Kenshin.
A/N: Another Last Samurai crossover. Because I can.
Disclaimer: I own neither Ruroken nor the Last Samurai. Written for enjoyment, not profit.
After the war, after he'd presented the young Emperor Meiji with Katsumoto's sword and marched out of the palace with head held high, Nathan Algren returned to the mountain village and to Taka, who had been waiting patiently for his return. And there he stayed, for six months, a year; content to live his life in peace and immerse himself in the calm stream of Japanese life.
He returned to Tokyo only rarely, wary of encountering any foreigners who might recognise the American who'd abandoned his own kind and gone native. But it was on one of these rare trips, some years later, that he bumped into a young red-head and spoke a quick, instinctive apology in English.
The youth turned and regarded him out of a face clearly Japanese. And then it was that Algren realised his second mistake: this was no youth. Not with those eyes, and not with that old, faded scar.
He recognised hitokiri Battousai instantly, of course. He'd come too close too many times not to make the connection.
1.
The first time Algren heard of the shadow assassin was on his very first night in Japan.
The others had long since retired, pleading fatigue, but Algren and the English interpreter saw out the early hours of the morning with some very fine whiskey. Graham had been in Japan for more than fifteen years, and Algren wished to learn everything he could of this young, ambitious nation. They talked, or rather Graham talked, and Algren listened: of his coming to Yokohama with a British trade delegation in the early '60s; of how he had gradually come to learn the language and understand something of the people. At Algren's prompting, he tried to explain exactly what the Japanese meant when they spoke of samurai.
But, much later, as they prepared to retire for the night, Graham drew out a pile of journals and garishly coloured parchment woodcuts, pressed them on Algren with a shy smile. "Please, Captain Algren," he said. "I have made something of a hobby of collecting these; they may give you some insight into the samurai beyond my poor powers of explanation."
The journals were Graham's own translations, traditional tales of famous samurai and ronin loyal even beyond death, and the woodcuts were Japanese depictions to match. But one journal was a personal account, disappointingly sparse, of how a much younger Graham had once crossed paths with an extraordinary killer and lived to tell the tale.
There was only one woodcut that could possibly match that account. For a long, long while, Algren stared at the shadow figure of crimson and gold ink, tracing his fingers along the characters that could only mean "Battousai".
He took the woodcut with him when he left Tokyo, folded carefully in the pages of his personal journal.
2.
The second time Algren heard anyone speak of the Battousai, it was on the dark, moonless night before the battle, as the young soldiers under his command sat around campfires, drank and told what Algren assumed were lurid ghost stories. It seemed that soldiers were all the same, whether in America or in Japan: fresh recruits were always fodder for terrifying tall tales.
He did not catch much of what they said, picking out only a few words: Kyoto, and Bakumatsu, and Battousai. His interpreter, a young, fresh-faced aide, gave him a sidelong glance in response to his query.
"They are speaking of the great assassin," he said softly, looking a little spooked himself. "The demon of the Bakumatsu, who came at the Ishin Shishi's call to terrorise Kyoto whenever the blood moon was high. They tell of the time Battousai murdered Ogami Kyukichi in his own bed while one hundred guards patrolled outside."
The taleteller's audience pressed closer, enthralled. Algren leaned closer with them.
3.
The third time came after he had survived the winter months in the mountain village, and the wet, muddy spring saw him taking lessons in the sword from the fierce master, Ujio.
"Again," Ujio ordered gruffly, staring fiercely down at where Algren lay sprawled in the muddy grass, his bokken at Algren's throat. "This time – no mind!"
Algren picked himself up, trying uselessly to brush off his hakama. Something fluttered out of his pockets, and before he could react, Ujio's bokken had pinned it to the ground. There was a moment of silence as Ujio stared down at the woodcut, his expression impossible to read.
"Himura-san," he said quietly – almost sadly – then looked up at Algren. He spoke quickly, too quickly for Algren to follow: Algren looked to Nobutada, who was watching from the sidelines.
"Ujio wants to know where you got that woodcut, Algren-san," Nobutada translated. "He says there were only a very few prints ever made, and the artist died in the Bakumatsu."
"Tell him I got it from an Englishman named Graham," Algren replied. He was looking at Ujio as he spoke, so he saw the way the other man's eyes widened in recognition even without Nobutada's translation.
"You know him," Algren breathed. "You know the Englishman, Graham – do you know hitokiri Battousai too?"
But Ujio only shook his head and refused to answer, his mouth set.
He did learn one more thing that day: Ujio drilled him for hours on a move designed to counter a swift attacking stroke that Nobutada called, with considerable awe, battoujutsu. Algren knew better than to ask why the master was so set on it.
Whatever tale there was behind Ujio's silence, Algren never learned the truth of it.
4.
Sunk deep into his stance, balanced, breath hissing in and out, Algren nevertheless retained enough awareness of his surroundings to catch sight of a shadow out of the corner of his eye, a flickering blur of – red?
A pressing sense of awareness flared against his mind – was this the ki that Ujio had spoken of? – and Algren moved without thinking, his sword an extension of his will in a way that it had never been on the practice field.
All through that extraordinary encounter, as seconds stretched into what felt like hours, as the hired killers surrounding him attacked and fell, one by one, he felt eyes watching him like an invisible promise of protection.
5.
The first and only time Algren and Taka and the boys travelled to Kyoto, they arrived under a blood moon. No matter that the Western part of Algren knew that it must be an atmospheric effect caused by an accumulation of dust or ash or the like in the air, he could not quite control the superstitious shiver that raced down his spine.*
Taka had always hated Kyoto. "There are too many ghosts," was all she would say, as she drew the screens closed to shut out the sky. "The streets are soaked with blood, and they do not forget."
During the day it was just like any other Japanese city, more beautiful than most; by night, though, as they wondered back towards the inn from a restaurant Taka remembered, he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck bristling.
Just as they passed a wide square, brightly lit with flickering gas lamps, a cold wind began to blow –
One by one, the gas lamps went out.
Algren drew Taka behind him, backed up until they stood against the wall of an imposing stone building. Slowly, he drew his pistol, wishing that he had been able to carry a sword into the city.
By the light of the blood-red moon they saw mist, writhing upwards from the cobblestones, coalesce into a ghostly tableau:
Transparent, flickering in and out of sight, the traditional architecture and buildings of Bakumatsu Kyoto replaced the more modern Western-style mansions. The shadows grew darker, thicker; coming towards them they heard feet pounding on the cobbles, echoes of voices shouting and calling in reply, and the ring of swords leaving the sheath. Before their wide, fixed eyes three men stumbled into the square, one of them bleeding heavily and leaning on his fellows. Their ghostly hunters spilled into the square behind them, implacable executioners with swords out and ready for the kill.
Taka drew closer to him, close enough that he could hear her shuddering breath. "The Wolves of Mibu," she whispered. "Shinsengumi."
From the corner of his eye, Algren saw the slender youth emerge from the deep shadows, saw him step between predators and prey. A stray shaft of crimson moonlight illuminated him, picking out the glint of cold pitiless eyes and the scarred ruin of his cheek.
He stopped them in their tracks.
For a long, long moment, they stared at each other, Shinsengumi and the youth who could only be the Ishin Shishi's Battousai, tension crackling between them like a humming wire. And then the tension snapped – with a defiant roar, the Shinsengumi captain raised his sword and charged. His men followed, deep voices baying, spreading out to surround the assassin. Algren could not – quite – see what happened, but there was a sudden cry, and a gout of blood sprayed up into the night.
"Look," Taka whispered, squeezing his hand. "He buys time so they can flee."
Unnoticed, overlooked and forgotten by the hunters, the three men who had been the Shinsengumi's original prey were taking the opportunity to slip away as quickly and quietly as they could. While the assassin spun and ducked and slashed, other men melted out of the shadows on the other side of the square and helped the limping men to safety.
Moments later it was all over – with a swift, brutal series of strokes Battousai cut down the last of the Shinsengumi, leaving them bleeding on the cobblestones, until he alone stood in the square under the blood-red moonlight.
"Oh," Algren breathed. Though he spoke as softly as he could, he saw the swift dart of the young assassin's attention, felt – just for the moment – the full force of his ki.
And then a cloud passed over the moon, throwing the ghostly tableau into darkness and shadow. By the time the moon was clear once more, the mist had faded and the ghost-visions gone. The square was empty, now, the gas-lamps burning and the buildings familiar once more, and any memory the streets might retain of events more than ten years past had faded into nothingness.
+1
It was only the dark copper hair that had fooled Algren into thinking him another Westerner. He'd stammered out an apology in his still-limited Japanese; the youth – the assassin – had smiled warmly and greeted him, in turn, in English.
"Please," Battousai said, "my name is Himura."
*Interesting science fact: according to Wikipedia, the great 5 minute research site, red moons are indeed caused by ash and dust clouds thrown into the atmosphere by fires or storms. To my knowledge, though, red moons do not cause mist-borne visions of past assassinations to rise from the cobblestones. That particular phenomenon cannot be explained by science.