Some would say my luck had run out when I'd stumbled on those three idiots swordsmen that dared attack me in the deserted street I'd poped in. But the barest of swishes with my elvish blade had sent them running, yelling 'Kistune, kistune'. Or perhaps, given the whispers I got as I walked, it came from the red of my long hair that danced while I walked. Or my foreigners' features. I had not figured that out yet.
Some would say that luck had run out when I'd ended in Japan without having time to work on the culture, tradition and history of the Edo period. Too bad; I had procrastinated a little too much before my business trip, the language classes and research ending up squished in favour of a phenomenal movie, Ruroni Kenshin. That was about all that I knew from Japan. Given people still wore traditional clothes – the sight was incredible, all those colours, those coiffures, the flourish and postures - I gathered the year was before the 20th century. Before occidentalising took over.
Some would say that said luck had run out when I'd eventually realised it was winter, and the night would be terribly cold. Fortunately, I still had my elvish cape, and a few supplies in my backpack. Not so much, mind you, but given I had no local money, it would have to do. Still, it was freezing, and a few lazy snowflakes danced in the air, mocking me.
Some would say that luck had run out when, in the throes of fitful sleep, I was set upon by … monsters ? Spectra ? Zombies? Choose anything of the above. White hair, a strange jacket which colours I had trouble discerning given the feeble moonlight, and unnatural red eyes. I should have trembled in my boots at the sight of their inhuman features. Hell, I did, but the cold was as much to blame as the spectra that I was now facing. They called for blood, I unsheathed my blade and waited for them resolutely.
For sure, I wasn't enchanted; but after fighting Orcs, Uruk Hai, Trolls, ghosts and all sorts of aliens and Nazgûls – spectra of fear – I was getting a little blasé when it came to zombies. In the dark, they sure were frightening enough for children's bedtime stories. Who told their children monster's stories anyway, and complained about nightmares afterwards ? Parents were so weird, sometimes.
A hiss, followed by a rasped laugh called my attention again. My eyes narrowed; they moved with such fluidity that they seemed almost liquid. Shit. Not zombies. And then, they attacked. I lifted my elvish blade, counting on years of training honing my skills, and the magical help the sword always infused in my fighting. After a few dodges, I realised my cockiness was misplaced. Block, block, slash. It wasn't enough, and I was losing ground. Two against one was an unfair match; those half-dead guys were too fast, too strong for my abilities.
I should have gone for self-defence at once – hand to hand – but somehow, I dreaded coming any closer. What if their zombiness was a transmissible disease? So I faltered, and, pushed by their onslaught, took another step backwards. The place was deserted, no one in sight, the very reason why I'd settled here in the first place. The gentle sloshing of the river below was now covered with the metallic ring of blades crossing.
A miraculous opening offered an opportunity to dig my foot into one chest; the man stumbled barely a foot backwards before hissing at me. Shit! Whomever those men were – warriors, much more than the three from this afternoon – they were well trained. And even though I, also, wasn't the clumsiest of women with a blade, they still outmatched me. Mind running a mile a minute, I took a second to observe my surroundings, looking for an escape. Beside the river, a path ran in the darkness. Was it my chance ?
Would those zombies pursue me in the dark? Probably. Another slash tore the sword from my grasp, the blow so mighty that my arm trembled from the strain and pushed me backwards. My foot slipped on a rock, shiny with ice, and I sent tumbling… right into the river.
Frozen water engulfed me; I couldn't even yell before the rushing waters took me in. F …! A thousand needles dug into my skin, the cold so overwhelming that my body froze. I gasped, mind running, limbs unable to move. Funny, how thought could run so fast when panic settled in my heart. If I couldn't regain control of my body, I was about to die before I even figured out why the Valar had deigned dragging me in medieval Japan in the first place.
My head came out of the water, not of my own volition, mind you, but it was enough for my mouth to open. Yet, the cold wouldn't allow that damn chest to expand. In the end, as I struggled to take a breath in the icy clutches of the current that was dragging me under, I realised that luck had not been on my side at all. From the very beginning, this mission was a fiasco.
I couldn't let go … couldn't … people would miss me, at home. Parents, brothers, friends. I couldn't allow the darkness to take me. But those treacherous limbs refused to obey, and damn, it hurt. It hurt just as much as the day I'd gone under into that icy lake in the mountain of Scotland, fighting for King Arthur. Funny, how the body didn't make a difference between 5 degrees water and 0. Funny, how my mind still ran, and ran, when I was dying, like a horse at full gallop. Like Tristan's horse when we'd been thrown over.
Darkness started to eat at the corner of my vision. In a streak of will, I managed to lift my hand out of the water. It found no grip. Legs, though, just refused to work. Just as I was about to give up, a strong, warm grip pulled upon my left arm. I was lifted out of the water as if I weighed nothing. Senses in overload, I barely had time to gasp before the man – tall, and bulky – set me on the bank. My legs gave out, and I stumbled upon the frozen grass, landing in a puddle.
"You're all right, lady?" a gentle voice asked.
I blinked, heaving, limbs shaking. Damn. What was it, with me and icy water ?
"Peachy !", I rasped.
The sarcasm didn't touch home; the man by my side took off when the sound of clinking weapons reached in the darkness. Then, a blood curling scream rose in the silvery silence, and I knew one of those spectra had succumbed. Head heavy, I managed to catch a glimpse of a group fighting off the last of them. They were good. Incredibly good, especially the tallest one with a white scarf. One efficient slash and the second zombie was down.
Catching my breath, I squinted in the moonlight. They all wore the same vest, a light colour with triangles at the sleeves. Who were those guys? With a grunt, I managed to stand. Damn, the air was cold, but compared to my skin, it nearly felt warm. Sadly, there was no Tristan, this time, to scold me for my recklessness and wrap me in Arthur's cloak. My knight in shining armour, champion to the end, was truly dead.
Dead, but the memory of his hands around my shoulders, and the warm feeling of him in my chest. No, I was dreaming; there was no one there but those three strange men, two dead spectra, and the silence of the night. With a sigh, I stood on shaky legs and started walking to my belongings; I needed to change out of those soaked clothes before I caught pneumonia.
An exclamation caused me to pause before I could loosen the straps of my elvish armour. I never, ever removed it when sleeping outside, a lesson drilled in my head by mindful instructors. Their wisdom had once more saved my life; those Samuraï wraiths would have made a pincushion of me if not for the heavy leather.
One piece at a time, I dropped them over my elvish cloak, ignoring the banter between the three remaining swordsmen two dozens yards away. The leather didn't seem too damaged, but oil would do it some good. Now … where was I going to find oil in here ? Especially without money.
A cloud passed over the moon, darkness descending upon the scene. It was the occasion to change my soaked t-shirt. Unfortunately, a voice was calling to me. Slightly disrespectful, and mocking.
"Say, lady, are you going to undress in the open?"
I didn't bother facing them, aware, by the sound of their footsteps, of the distance between the group and myself.
"Turn around," I ordered.
The mocking man snorted, and I was the one who pivoted to give them my most heartfelt glare. With the scarce light and soaked hair, I was probably not as impressive as I'd hoped. Three silhouettes faced me, their lighter vest singling them out of the shadows. Black stains marked the places where blood had seeped into the fabric. Two of the men pivoted on their heels to give me privacy, but the third one stubbornly refused.
"That's going to be a bitch to wash out," I remarked. Waiting. Like a cat whose tail swished, waiting for the kill. The moon eventually won its fight and pushed the cloudy veil away, its roundness nearly full. Silver light flooded the river's banks and gave me a better look at the young man that faced me, all bravado and provocation. Sigh. Fantastic, a brat.
A low, almost imperceptible voice rose, and my opponent was unceremoniously grabbed by the shoulder to be turned around by the scarfed man. His sound of protest was muffled by a slap in the back. A thicker arm landed on his shoulder from the other side, pinning him into place and I nearly laughed.
"Harada !", he squirmed.
"Hush. Now let the lady change."
"Arigato," I mumbled. My t-shirt was so soaked that it clung to my skin. Shit. Grunting, I pulled at the fabric. As I shuffled into my bag to look for a tunic, my ears strained to catch the conversation between the three swordsmen. They talked of Kitsune – again, that word! – and, God Help me, big boobs. I shook my head. Men.
I fished out a new pair of heavy, woollen pants I'd sewn myself. Phew. Warmth returned to my legs, as I cinched around my waist a heavy mantle whose wide arms allowed for freedom of movement. I'd found those in Norway, and was very fond of the design that kept me warm without impeding my sword arm.
"So now that you are decent," the voice rose again, "we will take you to our commander."
I tapped my foot on the ground to bury it in soaked leather of my boots, lifting an eyebrow in interrogation.
"Why?", I asked.
Three faces watched me, three different expressions. The tall man who'd saved my ass from the water, looked expectant, almost zen. As if he wondered how this confrontation would turn out. The one to the right, long hair tied up, gave me a puzzled look. And that brat at the centre looked very smug when he spoke.
"Shinsengumi's orders. He'll want to interrogate you."
Cinching my soaked scabbard at my hip, I also slid the dagger into the holder at the back of my waist. There, I was armed and ready, my elvish blade singing already; it wanted a rematch of earlier.
"I'm not interested."
My very blunt response pulled a scoff, a snort, and barely anything from the third guy. Damn, he had one hell of a poker face, especially since his dark hair covered most of his right eye. I also noticed he wore his swords on the right side instead of the left; left-handed ?
This called for bells of alarms in my head, but I dismissed it. Those guys wanted me in custody, and I had to pack up and leave right under their noses. Damn, what a day!
"On order of the Demon Vice commander, I, Okita Souji, will subdue you or kill you."
It was my turn to snort.
"Demon Vice Commander? Real one or self-appointed ?"
"Who knows," the left-handed guy grumbled. I detected a hint of humour in his voice, as well as admiration. But I actually needed to know. In my line of work, everything was possible. At least, this time, I had not stumbled into Nazgûls right away.
"You're human, right? I mean, compared to those guys, over there."
Two pairs of eyebrows shot up, nonplussed by my absence of fright, and the rational way I was analysing this. "We're humans," the tall, spear man eventually answered.
"Good. And your commander?"
He just nodded, wondering if I was crazy. The sincerity in his posture allowed me to sigh in relief, then giggle. "I bet he likes the nickname, then. Oni Vice Commander."
The brat seemed to share in my amusement, swinging his sword around. "He deserved it. So, pack up and follow."
I shook my head. "Give him my best, and leave me be. I'd like to finish my night. It was interrupted by your buddies," I added, pointing my chin to the bodies. "Now they're dead, and I'm tired. So shoo."
"Are you mocking me?"
Okya – or whatever name he gave me – lifted his sword, jaw clenched. I should have been more patient, this one was rather quick to anger, but the lack of sleep was getting to me.
"Not at all. I'm just asking you to return to whatever it was you were doing before I was thrown into the river."
"Souji!"
The warning didn't give me time to unsheathe my sword, but my cutlass was already drawn by the moment he took a step forward.
"Three men against one woman? How is that a fair fight?"
"You want a fair fight?" the one named Harada exclaimed. "With Souji?"
I smirked. "No." Then I turned to the quiet one. "With him."
The brat started laughing his ass off, but it did the trick; he took a step back. Harada's clear eyes opened, round like flying saucer. The lines of his face were chiselled, his posture that of a man who knew his worth, and wasn't afraid of showing it. But the wariness with which he turned to his counterpart, half-hidden behind his hair, told me I'd stricken an impossible bargain.
I didn't want to face the brat; the unsettling look in his eyes told me he'd have no qualms playing dirty if it meant winning. But the quiet one had been polite, so far. He seemed … pragmatic. Perhaps, if I could bring him to the ground, I'd have the upper hand and be able to flee. Or appeal to their honour and demand freedom. It all depended on about how much they feared that commander of theirs. Oni, they called him. Poor guy, commander to that bunch of … soldiers. Such young souls; I suddenly felt old.
"Saitō?" Souji smirked. "Up to it?"
My eyes travelled to the one named Saitō – still rang a bell – and I suddenly realised why. Saitō. Wasn't it the left-handed samurai of the Ruroni Kenshin movies? My insides froze; if I was right, this man was a devil with his blade. Fortunately, he looked still young, which meant he would probably not expect some of my moves.
Saitō bowed, accepting the challenge.
"I won't treat you differently because you are a woman."
I nodded gravely, wondering if the moon would grace us of her presence long enough to finish this duel.
"Fair game. Your kind is scarce enough."
I was actually buying some time, hoping for an opportune cloud to spread confusion and hightail. It shone stubbornly, daring me to challenge one of the greatest swordmen of history. Damn, I really was out of luck today. Couldn't have stumbled on a bunch of drunk ronins swinging their swords like hammers.
I took a few steps back, eyeing Saitō suspiciously. Under the moonlight, the white of his scarf shone more brightly than the gem of his eyes. Still, I could see how calculating they were. So. Left-handed – check. I could deal with it – Legolas and Lancelot had both been ambidextrous and pushed me to learn the basic deflections of left-handed users. Still … it that man was who I thought he was, he was next to unbeatable on the battlefield.
Which meant that, even with my elvish blade, I stood no chance in a fair fight. I released the dagger in my left hand, earning a narrowed look from Saitō, and an outright laugh from Okita. Or Souji. Or whatever his name was.
"You sure you don't want to use the big knife here?" he chortled.
I smirked, a playful mood infusing my chest.
"Only for special occasions."
This day had been a real fiasco, and I needed to unwind. My aggressivity and reflexes were pooling in my body, pumping through my veins, all senses alert. But that playful retort, hopefully, would cover it. The tall Harada actually scoffed his amusement, but Saitō didn't move. When he was sure I wasn't about to attack him, he made up his mind, and unsheathed his katana.
The move was graceful, almost as beautiful as Legolas' draw of his twin knifes. Almost as mesmerising as Tristan's slow and deliberate pull of the long Dao over his head. It felt like a dance … and dance I could. My dagger twirled in my hand, the blade aligning with my forearm, guard facing upwards. An assassin's stance. It wasn't glorious, but it would do the deed. It was all a matter of timing.
Seconds passed, the moon shone, and the whole place suddenly seemed to still. Everyone, except for us, held their breath in fear of disturbing the tension in the air.
Yes, I was a woman.
Yes, I faced a legendary, masterful swordsman.
Yes, he was left-handed, and skilled as hell.
But I wouldn't give him a chance. A chance would get me killed. I'd gone through war; I knew how a millisecond would make the difference between life and death. Killed, perhaps, more people than those guys reunited. Shed blood, and saved lives. Ten years, more or less, or training with techniques from both this world and others.
I was the Keeper of Time.
So. There's that first fight coming, and with Saitō nonetheless. I hope you enjoyed this first chapter. Please leave a review to let me know !