Yes. Yes, it has been two years since I last said I was going to post something "soon." *sigh* Sorry y'all! To use an overused excuse: I was busy with work and kids! And since this summer, I've moved across the state, and had ANOTHER kid. Soooo, I really was busy in the past six months. :) Anyway, here is my first Battousai story, which promises to be a little rough since I've never written Kenshin in his Battousai persona. So here's a "mazel tov" to that. [And as an addendum, I'm a little pissed that NOTHING I write in as html (ie, professional-looking scene breaks) is saving! What gives! If anyone can answer that, I'd be forever grateful. Used to not have a problem with it. I'm making do with zeros for now.]
0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000
"Hey, chibi," The derogatory name is spoken with faint mocking, "I hear you have an assignment tonight. Going to slay some kids?"
He gives the comment the disdainful look it deserves, but it still bites, so he purposefully shoves up against the man's arm as he walks by without answering. It's a childish maneuver but he doesn't care.
He's been in Kyoto for several months and whispers have been moving among the Shishi men. At first it was undisguised bawdy comments about his petite frame and light coloring, and sniggers about why, exactly, Katsura decided to bring him to Kyoto.
Those remarks died after he returned from his first assassination. Now, he mostly gets awkward glances, sometimes furtive, always mixed with fear and uncertainty. Inevitably there's the hiss of whispering after he passes by, and even though his sharp ears can usually make out what's being said, he's learned to ignore everything he hears.
Most men don't bother trying to talk to him−he's not responsive anyway. The ones that do make the effort to speak are usually relaying orders.
The insult to his face is new. He analyzes it with detached curiosity. Maybe the man was trying to provoke some sort of reaction? He knows from the whispers he's not supposed to hear that most everyone thinks he's an unemotional wall, carrying out orders without a thread of remorse.
He used to feel a shimmer of pride when his composure and accuracy on a mission was spoken of with admiration. He would scoff at the cloistered murmurs about the unfeeling boy, so cold that his expression never changed even as he killed. He knew he wasn't a ruthless killer. He was only doing what he'd been instructed, and doing it to the best of his ability, for the good of Japan.
Something has changed though, and it bothers him that he doesn't know when this happened. He just knows that what had at first been an effortless task is now taking everything from him; he is shrinking into a black hole with every deadly thrust he delivers, feeling as if part of his soul is ripped away with every neck his blade bites into. The feelings that engulf him with each new life he takes scare him most. Contempt; hatred; he doesn't know where they're directed, just that they exist, threatening to swallow his sanity. But he can't dwell on it, or it will consume him, render him ineffective. He has to ignore it, and if that requires closing himself to feelings of any sort, then he'll gladly do it.
He's effectively barricaded the pain behind a stony facade that lets nothing through. That only encourages the whispers to grow more sinister.
Twisted.
Evil.
Demon.
Sometimes, more and more frequently, he thinks he's all of those. He's beset by doubt, and he spends sleepless nights agonizing over it. Is he blinding himself to the truth? If so many people perceive him this way, does that not make it so? Does it matter how he sees himself, if the world sees him differently?
He's so busy with his thoughts that he hardly notices the man in front of him until hands reach out to grab his shoulders, stopping him in his tracks. His eyes widen and he feels an overwhelming urge to draw his sword. He's at the safe house though and knows it can only be an ally. He forces himself to relax.
"Why so gloomy, Himura?" Iizuka. "It's Gion-matsuri tonight!" A laugh. "Well, I guess you've reason to be a little gloomy, because you have to take care of this before you can celebrate with the rest of us." A well-practiced hand slips him a black letter folded into a neat rectangle.
He feels his heart quicken but smoothly tucks it into his shirt sleeve, not wanting to open it. "Anything in particular that I need to know?"
Iizuka whacks him on the back, friendly. "So damn serious all the time!" He smiles openly. "No, just the usual. Don't be seen, don't leave witnesses."
He can tell Iizuka is trying to read him. He's staring at his face, but he looks away.
Iizuka isn't one for beating a dead horse, and he throws a hand up in a lazy wave, turning. "Maybe I'll see you tonight then?" He calls over his shoulder.
They both know it's unlikely. He's wary of crowds−a product of his upbringing as much as it as from joining the Shishi−and he hasn't been able to relax enough to enjoy anything recently. So even though he yearns to participate in something as carefree as a festival he stoically buries all thoughts of the festivities that night and walks into the inn.
Ookami-san is carrying laundry out to the yard and she gives him a smile as he passes.
"Good afternoon, Himura-kun."
He sketches a bow in response and heads to his room, feeling the hard edge of the letter rub against his chest. He waits until he's settled by the window with the shoji firmly closed before he takes it out.
Murata Masaharu. He would be leaving the Shinsengumi headquarters at 9 that evening.
He knows why he was chosen for this assignment. With the job right on top of Shinsengumi territory, there is no room for error. The job must be quick and efficient, before there is time for anyone to sound the alarm, before corps can be called to heel. If there is an escort accompanying Murata, they must all be disposed of.
He can do it.
He rips the letter in half and puts it back in his sleeve, then makes his way to the courtyard at the back of the inn. Crouching, he sets the two halves of the letter on the ground and uses the flint stones he always carries on his person to set them aflame.
Face impassive, he watches the small fire consume the paper, curling the edges into black charcoal. For a brief second he imagines the paper a writhing mass of flesh, the flames an undulating sword that swings tirelessly. Shaken, he stands and vigorously stamps out the fire.
He needs to clean his swords.
The night arrives cool and clear, and although the stars are bright as diamonds there is no moon. He's glad for that. It's easier to stay unseen, and less of a challenge to keep his sword from glinting as he draws it. The walk to the Shinsengumi headquarters is easy. Most everyone is attending Gion-matsuri, and the few people who are roaming the streets are too inebriated to notice anything, let alone a hitokiri who melts into the shadows as easily as if he was one.
The "headquarters" is actually a pharmacy. He knows the place well, having been sent there on errands once or twice, before his occupation was so firmly established. It's a nice building, settled snugly in between two other establishments. Though small, it's well-maintained. He can picture the inside in his mind's eye, shelves neatly arranged with bottles and urns of various shapes, a curtain leading to a room where Yamazaki-san mixes his powders on a scarred table.
Strange, how sinister the place appears now. The night-darkened walls seem to stare maliciously at him, the deadly secrets they harbor threatening to spill out.
He shakes his head at the fantasy. The only evil there is inside, and it will be coming out any second now. He stays in the shadows of a tree, so innocuous that even the night insects think nothing of his presence and chirp and buzz as normal. He tenses as voices reach his ears. They're coming out now. He listens intently, not wanting to reveal his presence just yet. There are two−no, three of them, headed directly towards him. What luck. His heightened senses tell him they are thirty feet away. He waits another second, then steps calmly from the shadows, drawing his sword as he does so.
The shing of the blade as it draws against the saiya produces an immediate effect. All three men whirl, two of them positioning themselves slightly in front of the third. He can't make out their faces in the blackness of the night.
"Is one of you Murata Masaharu?" He hears the two men in front whispering furiously. They must be trying to deter the third from confirming the question. The other man pays no heed to their well-intentioned warnings and shoves past them, standing tall with false bravado.
Tall?
The third man−surely he is a man?−hardly has an inch on Kenshin. The hitokiri still can't make out enough facial features to determine his age, though. He can only see he wears peasant jinpei and zori, and there is the outline of a short tuft of hair that has been pulled into a mage.
What is a peasant doing supporting the Shinsengumi?
The question is moot. Orders are orders, and the peasant opens his mouth now, voice shaking slightly as he responds to Kenshin's query.
"I am Murata Masaharu."
"Then you are a traitor to the Emperor of Japan, and I have come to deliver tenchuu." The hitokiri intones, voice devoid of emotion. Murata starts noticeably.
"Get back, Murata-kun." One of the other men growls, his drawn sword leveled in classic guard stance. "We'll take care of this Ishin dog for you."
The men don't know who they're up against. They rush towards him with little caution, convinced that one man is no match for two Shinsengumi swordsmen. He lets them come, twists out of the way as the closer of the two delivers a thrust to his stomach. They don't just want to kill him. They want to make him suffer.
He's positioned perfectly behind the man who tried to gut him, and his sword sweeps across the hapless Shinsengumi's neck. The headless body remains upright for a second, then topples to the ground. The second man is wary now, and he jumps backwards as a sickened sound comes from Murata.
Why can't they just give up? Why do they have to delay the inevitable? The hitokiri doesn't wait for the man to come at him but sprints forward with blinding speed. The man is dead before he even realizes it.
He flicks his sword to the side, sending a spray of blood into the darkness. Murata is still standing, although an imperfect circle of ground beneath him is noticeably darker than the rest. The hitokiri steps forward, wanting to finish the job quickly. Murata holds up an imploring hand.
"Wait, please." His voice is choked with tears. "I know I'm going to die. I have no skills with a sword, and you are obviously quite skilled." He pauses for air. "Could you please deliver a message for me?" Murata's voice sounds young, almost as young as his.
"The only message I deliver is the one you're about to receive." He sounds calm but inside his heart is pounding. A boy? He's been sent to kill a boy who is hardly old enough to be considered a man?
"My mother doesn't know where I am." Murata sounds desperate, his words falling fast. "I ran away two weeks ago. I just want to let her know-" His voice breaks. "Just tell her that I didn't mean what I said. She'll understand." Murata steps forward, and he's close enough that the hitokiri can see his features: his face is unlined and smooth, with no trace of facial hair.
He's hardly older than I am! The thought is accompanied by a rush of horrified realization. He's supposed to be fighting for people like this: for the peasants, the subjugated lower classes, people who can't defend themselves. And now he's to kill this boy who can't even wield a sword, about to crush the very ideals he's supposed to be fighting for. What could a boy, a peasant no less, possibly do in this war to deserve being murdered by a hitokiri?
Murder.
Suddenly, all his ideals are crashing down around him, and he can hear the words of Hiko Seijuurou the XIII as clearly as if he were standing there yelling in his baka deshi's ear.
You will be nothing more than a murderer.
He takes a step back, legs feeling weaker than they have since his first day of training. Am I . . . just a murderer? Everything he's heard people say behind his back takes on a new meaning. This is how they see him. In their eyes, there is no skilled boy trying to save Japan by putting an end to the out-of-control tyranny running rampant. Only a killer.
Murata is looking at him now, brow furrowed with confusion. "Hey . . . are you . . . are you okay?"
The question is enough to bring him to his senses. His eyes narrow as he responds bitingly. "What do you care?" It doesn't matter what he thinks now. He must obey Katsura's orders.
Murata sees the change in his eyes, and fear finally overtakes him. He turns to run but Kenshin is already at his side, sword stabbing into his back on the left side, passing through Murata's chest and piercing his heart. Blood fills the peasant's throat and he coughs weakly as he expires, sending flecks of blood onto the hitokiri's arm.
Kenshin steps back before the blood bubbling from Murata's mouth can further soil his clothes. He flicks his sword, wipes it against Murata's shirt before slamming it into the saiya. Someone will be there to inspect the job. He hopes they weren't watching; hopes it isn't Iizuka.
The bushes rustle and the Ishin inspector steps out, sauntering towards the hitokiri. It's Iizuka. "Are you trying a new approach now?" He asks congenially. "That hesitation isn't like you."
"Shut up." He turns abruptly.
"Hey, don't take it the wrong way, I'm not criticizing you or anything." The hitokiri has already begun the walk back towards the safe house. Iizuka calls after him. "Oi, I haven't confirmed-"
"He's dead."
Iizuka watches him go for a moment, shrugs. "You're probably right." He's speaking to the darkness.
00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000
Murderer.
He's reaching for his sword even as he gasps his way to reality, sweat dripping into his eyes, running down his chest. His blindly searching hand finds the sword and he clenches it as if his life depends on it, the coolness of the tsuba pressing against heated flesh a tangible reassurance. He blinks to clear the sweat that seems to burn his eyes with knowing vindictiveness; runs his other hand down his face when that doesn't work. It's only then he realizes he's shaking.
He's dreamed about his kills before but never like this. Never in such horrific detail, where the deception of illusion is so convincing that he can't tell when dream ends and reality begins. He looks to either side of him, almost expecting to see Murata's mother standing over her son's bloodied corpse, eyes hollow as she mouths silent curses at her son's killer.
Murderer.
He closes his eyes, hoping the gesture might banish the gruesome images still flitting across his mind.
"Kuso!"
It only makes them worse, and in desperation he delivers as strong a blow as he can muster to the side of his head. The images blur into bright orbs of light, then fade gradually, leaving him with a racing heart and the taste of blood pooling on his tongue.
He's still clutching his sword, and he glances at it now. He can still feel the way it cut into Murata's stomach, the certainty of the thrust delivered with practiced ease. The blasé manner with which he can dispense death almost makes him sick, and he drops his sword in a moment of disgust, glaring balefully at it.
He grabs it again, eyes spotting an almost imperceptible blemish on the hilt. There's a pinprick of blood, dried where the hilt meets the tsuba. How had he missed that?
Knowing it's pointless to try and sleep now, he slides the sword from its sheath, inspecting the length of the blade with pedantic scrutiny. He can find no other dulled red stains. Just that one speck, then.
He cleans the entire blade anyway, taking his time, letting the familiar ritual settle his nerves.
Fold the paper; wipe the blade, twice down; powder . . . He reaches towards the tansu, picks up a corked bottle and pulls the stopper with his teeth. White uchiko powder puffs into his face, and he pauses for a moment as the tickling sensation in his nose gives way to a sneeze.
He lays the sword across his lap, then taps the powder into a square of cloth that he ties closed. He taps the cloth down the length of the blade several times, keeping the distance between taps exact. He rubs the blade down with rice paper again, admiring the way the silvery wave that is the hamon has taken on an otherworldly shine. He reaches towards the tansu one last time, taking the bottle of clove oil and a cloth that already smells strongly of the unguent. A few drops is all the cloth needs, and he rubs the sweet-smelling fabric across the blade.
He gives the sword another inspection when he's done, and for a brief moment he's overwhelmed by a memory, a tall, dark-haired swordsman showing his new apprentice how to properly clean his weapon before nodding at him to try. No words are spoken, yet the simple act of caring for the sword, done with such gentleness, is enough to form a tenuous bond between teacher and student.
A gong sounds loudly, the reverberating toll reminding the hitokiri that many are still enjoying Gion-matsuri. He feels his stomach constrict, thinking of days when he might have enjoyed the festival too, and for a moment he almost loses control of himself.
It's the top that saves him.
Eyes hollow with desperation, looking for any distraction, he catches sight of the small toy that he hadn't been able to part with when he left the mountains of Kyoto. He reaches for the wooden toy, resting on the short tansu above his futon, where he carefully places it each night. Methodically, he wraps the string around the worn wood, sets it on the floor and steadies it with one hand while yanking the string with the other.
He stares at the colors as the top's velocity merges them together; listens to the soft shirr of the pointed bottom on the tatami. The top wobbles, oscillates violently for a second, then topples on its side. He stands it up, repeats the process. The monotony is enough to soothe his churning stomach, the colors and sound offering a tranquil escape from his dreams and thoughts, the spinning toy bringing back blurred memories of family he's all but forgotten.
Kaa-san . . . tou-san . . .
Would they be proud of what he's fighting for, understand it is for people like them he swings his sword? Or would they brand him a naive idealist, as his shishou had? Would he appear as much a demon to them as he does to all of Kyoto?
The question is too painful, and he knows he can't answer it; can't ever ask it again.
He shifts, and the movement sends a foul scent drifting under his nose. He knows it's coming from his yukata, even though he bathed earlier in the evening. The smell is already beginning to permeate the room, and he stands, placing the wooden top back on the tansu. A bucket of water over his head might do more than just rinse the smell from his clothes.
There are a couple of men in the courtyard, but their humorous tones, further enhanced by their disheveled appearance and the shallow saucers held loosely in their hand, suggest they are intent on enjoying their evening. They don't spare a glance as the hitokiri walks by.
The water is just what he needs. As it splashes over his head and cascades across his shoulders he can almost feel the remnants of the dream peeling off of him, washed away by the force of the water. He pulls another bucket for good measure but rather than pour it over his body he hesitates and sets it on the edge of the well. Long seconds pass before he peers over the bucket's lid, hands gripping the wooden ribs tightly.
The mirror-like surface stares up at him, and for a second all he sees is his visage reflected in the gently moving liquid, the young, smooth face, pale skin, red hair pulled into a topknot. He closes his eyes for a moment and breathes a sigh, relieved that he looks as unassuming as ever. He hasn't taken on the appearance of a demon. A tendril of calm eases its way into him, and he opens his eyes, sparing one last reassuring glance into the bucket.
A loud clatter and the fading shush of water flowing from its corral grabs the attention of the men drinking saké.
"Oi, what's going on over there?" One of them slurs, asking more for the sake of finding further entertainment than any actual concern.
"N-nothing. I'm only washing." His voice is shaky, and he bends to pick up the bucket that lies innocuously on the damp ground, a thin trickle of water still issuing from its lip. Hurriedly placing it back on the edge of the well, he turns abruptly and heads back to his room. The two revelers watch him with disinterest, until the shoji closes softly and leaves visible only a silhouette.
He walks blindly, maneuvering the stairs by feel, a hurricane of emotions threatening to let loose. He wants to scream and pound his fists against the wall, to run away and forget, to blame someone, but he knows all of these are futile. He chose this path, this never-ending road lined by flashing silver and paved with liquid red.
He makes it to his room and sags against the shoji after he closes it. His empty futon stares at him, but instead of inviting warmth he sees a hard, cruel surface that mocks his every attempt at rest.
You can never have peace.
A pool of despair swallows him, so strong his throat constricts and he almost slides to the floor. He lets his gaze settle on the daishou resting beside the futon, thinks of how easily the blade sliced through Murata, ending his life in a heartbeat.
Easy.
He shakes his head, and the surge of anger he feels is enough to break the iron grip of hopelessness that has twined itself through every fiber of his body.
Taking a shuddering breath, he pushes himself up. The yukata clings to him wetly, and he pulls it over his head, depositing the wet garment outside his door where Ookami-san can fetch it during her morning rounds.
Pulling a dry yukata over his head, he casts a sidelong glance at his futon, then steps over it and positions himself in front of the window. Already he feels safer, with his back against the wall, his sword gripped in his hand so he can easily sever real and imagined foe. He thinks he can manage to sleep like this.
Eyes closing, he thinks fleetingly of the image he'd seen dancing in the water. He shouldn't have looked a second time. The very worst thing he could have seen, the indistinct shadow that haunts both his dreams and his waking hours, was the only thing he could see.
Himself.
0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000
Reviews are the best critiques! Thoughtful comments are always helpful for future fics, and are greatly appreciated. I'll make no promises about the length of time before I post anything again, but I am working on a short chapter fic. Although inspiration fizzled since I've been on a year and a half-ish hiatus. I should probably just light right into that again and get the creative juices flowing. Thanks for reading, and thanks for the reviews in advance!