3 days later.
Saitō Hajime stood by my door, face grim. For a moment, he observed my attire, gaze unnerving under the strands that partially hid his eyes. I had no idea what he was looking for. Forbidden colours, maybe? I'd kept the dark kimono, and wore a hakama over it now. The foreign woman, trying to blend in… Perhaps he found me ridiculous. Did Saitō resent me for the death of his comrades? His usual silence was, for once, so heavy. Yet, it did not know how to break it, I felt like I shouldn't.
The imaginary conversation went round and round in my head; I would apologise, and he would respond something profound like 'They chose their fates, do not dishonour them with your regrets'. This, of course, was the best-case scenario; I didn't dare imagining the worst. So I kept my mouth shut, and took advantage of the trip to watch the beauty of the temples. I'd never seen Japan before, and the architecture left me breathless.
As we walked, a deep rumble echoed in the distance. I froze at once. Canons? No, the sound was continuous, like that of a heavy truck crossing the road below an appartement's windows. A flurry of birds flew from the trees nearby, and it seemed like the devil himself was laughing from the depths of the earth.
I whirled around to find Saitō; he had paused, his features calm. My heart rate picked up as I sensed danger, but I couldn't pinpoint the origin of it until … until my feet started trembling, and the whole ground followed.
"What the …?"
"Stay calm. It shall pass."
Saitō's voice barely covered the rumble of the ground. I addressed him an incredulous look, but the man just shrugged. Then I understood.
Earthquake.
Dust fell from a temple nearby, the beams working against another as the waves passed over us, shaking the whole compound. Compressive, then secondary. I couldn't make the difference, my mind straining to understand that I was witnessing, for the first time, a real earthquake of a magnitude probably over 6.
At last, the rumble died, and all fell silent. For a moment, nothing moved around us. Then the birds started chirping again, and Saitō signalled for me to follow him. That was it. The moment had passed.
No discourse over safety, or anything of the sort. The man couldn't fathom that, for me, this was an experience of one's life. He probably presumed we'd been in no danger, or that I knew what to do if it happened inside a building.
I jogged after him, my legs wobbly, as he took me to another part of the compound, one I had never been to. In the courtyard, all the captains were seated except for Okita. I shrugged it off, perhaps his cough had picked up again?
After the earthquake, I followed the third captain dutifully, my legs feeling like jelly. Saito directed me to a spot beside him. I sat without a noise, trying to hide. Unfortunately, it didn't prevent Itō to spot me. His glare didn't faze me as much as the sick smirk he sent my direction. Horrified, I realised that guy had no conscience; he was about to sacrifice his men gleefully.
I narrowed my eyes at him; this war wasn't over. He had made it personal. Fuck that politician! Shinpachi clicked his tongue beside me, and I wondered what had annoyed him so much. The entrance of the three men that had attacked me, wearing a white kimono, broke Itō's staring contest. Silence settled in the courtyard, solemn. There was no sadness here, only rapt attention, and the roughness of warriors. Was it what honour felt like? Sounded like?
The convicted sat on their respective mats, bowing low before the three Shinsengumi Commanders. None of them winced, although I knew some must have felt pain from my earlier attacks; I had crushed elbows, temples, knees and shins mercilessly. Dignity infused their features, even though fear danced in their eyes. Then, one by one, they thanked the commanders for allowing them to die honourably. My stomach twisted into knots.
Gratitude wasn't what I expected, especially towards that snake of Itō who had probably sent them to their deaths. This was the extend of their loyalty. Or perhaps a way to retrieve their honour for the failure of me still being alive. A shiver ran up my spine, but I kept composure. The ceremonial allowed them to brush a letter, compose a poem, or write a few last words. Two of them did; the last one waited patiently until they were done. How could he remain so stoic, awaiting a death that promised a thousand pains?
From my position on the side, I could easily see Kondō-san's determined gaze, and Hijikata's clenched jaw. I grit my teeth; this was my fault. If I had not showed up, they wouldn't be putting their own men to death.
One by one, the brushes were set upon the trays. Someone collected them, slowly, deliberately, storing their last artwork away with reverence. Then, three more men entered the courtyards with slow, deliberate steps. Okita was one of them; he walked up to the man at the left and stepped behind him. For once, his posture was rigid, his eyes focused. Gone was the playful, sarcastic brat that coughed every time he laughed. In his stead stood a warrior.
He armed his sword, and waited, the only movement his loose strands dancing in the breeze. Eery silence descended upon the courtyard, the setting sun painting the buildings in crimson hues. Hijikata-san nodded, and the men opened their kimonos, sliding them down their shoulders to expose their chest. Another shiver ran up my spine; cold, or anticipation? My mind was yelling at me to close my eyes, to forgo that sight I could never forget. But if those men were to die because of me, I wouldn't dishonour them. None of the others would; as a warrior, it was my duty to witness their death, and contribute to their honour being restored.
Everything in me recoiled when they unsheathed their wakizashi, the blade sliding along the scabbard with a distinctive ring. My breath caught when their hands placed the blade against their lower belly, on the left side. In a fleeting moment, I wondered if Saitō would pick the other side if he ever had to go through this ceremony, or if he would stick with the ceremonial.
I gasped, and bit my tongue when they pushed inwards. The very idea of inflicting oneself such pain went against everything I believed in. The sound of a blade sticking into moist flesh was sickening, and I struggled not to scream when slowly, but surely, the three men drew the blade from left to right.
Muscles tense, jaws locked in agony, I saw one of them struggle to keep upright as he sliced his own belly. I couldn't fathom the searing pain that probably pierced them; I had trouble watching it as it was. The last man, further away from me, moaned before he doubled over. The blade of the man behind him descended upon him like a bird of prey, effectively decapitating him before his body touched the ground.
The man from the middle had drawn the knife all the way to the side, eyes glazed in pure agony, but a prideful expression upon his face. Blood oozed from the deep cut, staining his white kimono with crimson rivers. Intestines started to follow, and I cringed from the sight. The man was about to plunge the knife anew, on his upper chest, when his muscles slackened. His head rolled an instant later, neatly sliced by his kaishakunin.
On the left, Okita's convicted had managed to plunge his own blade again to slice a vertical line down, forming a cross upon his body. He struggled, his body shaking from the strain, but kept going at an agonising pace. In this moment, despite what they had been planning to do to me, I couldn't help but admire them. Had my thoughts been conveyed to him? I'd never know. But when his wakizashi fell from his grasp, the man locked eyes with me. I held his gaze, impressed that he was still conscious enough to seek me out.
Swish.
There was such gracefulness in the arc of Okita's sword. Such purpose, yet little force as he performed a perfect slicing movement, his feet advancing just enough to scissor more efficiently. Art, in the form of Bushido.
Eyes still opened, the man's head rolled over at his feet, his body slumping forward, covered in blood and innards. I swallowed the nausea, denying the urge to vomit on the ground. Dark spots danced before my eyes, and I, at last, relented to the urge to close them. When I found the courage to peek upon the scene, I realised that Hijikata's own were still closed. Kondō's hand rested upon his shoulders, his own gaze downcast in the blood painted ground.
It hurt them too. I felt the pain of human loss, deep within the core of the Keeper of Time, even though I didn't know any of them. I couldn't imagine what it felt for people who had recruited, trained and befriended those guys. Okita's face gave nothing away, yet I felt his own feeling of betrayal all the same. I would later learn he had decapitated one of his own men and that, by doing so, had honoured him.
A strong, agonised war cry echoed in the courtyard when Okita broke his katana against a rock. The blade broke into several pieces, scattering upon the soaked ground.
Ceremony over.
Ten days later.
The suburito was killing my arms – that sword was damn heavy. Saitō had instructed that I practised with the traditional training weapon to build up strength in my arms. After the seppuku ceremony, he'd started training me, left-handed. Once he had realised I could hold my won with a sword, he'd stopped going too easy on me. Not that he would utter any compliment, but his increased speed told me he judged me strong enough to handle it.
His use of Gatotsu – a particular technique designed after one of Hijikata's inventions – threw me off guard so often that bruises bloomed upon my skin. Nothing new: I'd spend more time banged up than without any injury. Saitō was ruthless; it meant he didn't look down on my skill because I was a woman. Despite the obvious show of respect, I couldn't help but wince as my sore arms. Damn, that training sword was heavy as a saucepan. What was it even made off?
Still, little by little, my arms were getting used to the slashing motion. I was a pretty decent swordswoman by now, especially with my elvish blade. That magical bound always enhanced my speed, and reflexes. Sometimes, I swore that it led me in battle, not the other way around.
But my sword was still held in custody, and the bokken techniques were different. So, I was deconstructing everything I'd ever learnt to integrate kendo into my routines. Hopefully, in a few months from now, I would be able to combine all the techniques.
Forsaking my initial training with Aragorn and Legolas would be a mistake; I kept practising them on days Saitō had no time for me. It allowed me to keep the muscle memory alive. Like martial arts, I tried to mingle all teachings to create my own style. Some moves just didn't correspond to my build and height; they were discarded without mercy.
Naked feed upon the soft grass, I lowered the suburito. Panting, I closed my eyes and relished in the sunrays. Days were getting warmer, and I enjoyed the feel of the exposed earth under my skin. After watching those men mutilating themselves in the cold air, I would never see winter the same way.
"You're supposed to wear the geta outside," a familiar voice echoed in the secluded garden.
Okita Sōji. Infamous brat – when he wasn't cutting people's heads off – who never missed an occasion to tease. So I just smiled at him, nodding at Saitō who trailed behind as if he had not a care in the world. Those two were such a pair, the obnoxious one and his silent shadow. I'd seen this configuration before, and come to realise that brothers in arms could bond over differences so strongly that they turned it into a strength. Legolas and Gimli, for one. Galahad and Tristan… Okita and Saitō.
"Ah, Gaijin," he smirked, throwing an arm over my shoulders. I quelled the instinct to throw him off; my newfound respect for him didn't cover the touchy-feely part. "Can't tell north from south," he added. It was meant as an insult. Partially. An improvement from the usual sneer and contempt. So I just smiled sweetly.
"Can you?"
Okita laughed, freeing me from his grasp. Despite his nonchalant ways, he definitely possessed the grip of a fighter. Nothing quite felt like a warriors' touch; I now could detect one with a simple embrace. Saitō gave us a speculative look, as if he wondered if we were going to tear each other's limbs, or become best buddies for life. Then, he turned and marched way.
Okita suggested to follow with a gesture of his head, and we both silently trailed after the left-handed swordsman. Feet silent on the ground, we moved like a set of shadow hidden in plain sunlight. It was unsettling how Okita could sneak around; I felt like a set of wolves stalking a prey. But again, this is what they were; the wolves of Mibu. Protecting their own.
Even though the Shinsengumi had moved headquarters from Mibu a long time ago, the appellation still stuck. I found it strangely comforting; I'd always been at ease with tight packs of wolves. They protected their own, loyal to a fault. Followed their leader to death and ruin. I could relate to that. Once again, I was stricken by the similarities between them, the fellowship of the ring, and the Arthurian knights.
Eventually, we rounded a corner. The scene that greeted us caused me to freeze in awe. Saitō stood, his dark hair gently swept by the breeze, under a massive Sakura tree. Lost in a sea of dancing petals, he looked … overworldly. A few feet behind the screen of blooms stood another figure, deep purple and dark engulfed by the beauty of this enchanting scene. Hijikata-san barely spared us a glance.
"Ah, you've never seen that, right, Gaijin?" Okita snorted.
"No," I whispered, mesmerised by the tiny petals that fell, painting the scene a pale pink. I took a few steps forward, falling under the gentle shower of tiny Sakura flakes, hand extended to allow some of them to brush my skin. I barely felt them, so light in the breeze. They danced like little fairies, as if they had a mind of their own. Weightless, free.
I felt a gaze resting upon me; I ignored it superbly, the scene was too theatrical, too enthralling to even care. Sakura was magical. I suddenly frowned, how long since my impromptu arrival? My theoretical birthday had probably come and gone.
"What month are we?", I asked Okita.
His eyes watched me, wide open, unguarded.
"February."
Well, that didn't make sense. I though the Sakura period was around march in Japan. Could it be that the calendar was different? But of course, the Chinese new year always happened at a different time, in France!
"Hum. You'll have to teach me the calendar, I guess."
Okita dismissed me without fioriture nor politeness, leaving me standing under the dancing petals.
"Go to Sanan-san."
Right.
Ten yards away from me, three grown warriors watched the petals dancing in the breeze, lost in the beauty of this flowery shower. All, except for one, who dark gaze rested upon me.