Well, I'm sad the latest chapter didn't inspire anyone to leave a little review. I loved writing that Saito-gasm so much. But anyway... Here's a little info on the Bushido code wrapped in cuteness.
Winter is coming.
Thank you, game of Thrones.
But anyway, winter was coming, both figuratively, and metaphorically. To greet the first icing upon the ground, I sang as I helped Chizuru tackle the amount of laundry. The little lady had told me she found my voice soothing.
'It reminds me of my mother,' she said, her expression shy, an adorable pout upon her face. I knew that Chizuru had grown estranged from any family save her father. Her doe eyes did it for me. So, while she affixed the kimonos upon a drying board and wiped the moisture out of it, I handled the pieces that needed some ironing.
The cast iron pot with a handle was nothing laughable; it weighed so much that my arms ached, and I burnt my fingers over the stupid contraption. But it did the job right, and I changed the coals inside when they were spent.
The action, in itself, was an adventure. Picking up hot coals, without pouring some upon the tatami mats, and exchanging with red embers always interrupted my singing. Chizuru chuckled once in a while, especially when she heard me swear – in French. She, too, was learning forbidden words.
Hakamas were a mess to iron; two pleats behind, five in front. On each freaking side! Fortunately, the little lady knew how to care for laundry. She set the grey hakama upon the tatami, folding the back first, and superimposing the others over it and gave me a wide smile that seemed to say 'voilà'. I just snorted. Voilà quoi ? Did I iron the cloth directly over tatami mats?
The answer was yes. So I set to work, and to keep Chizuru in good spirits while she froze her ass outside, I sang. Thank Loreena Mc Kennitt for drilling those tunes into my brain.
The truth was that my memory bordered on eidetic; it was excellent. Excellent to the point that I remembered smells, images and random things up to my baby years. That tool – my brain paths – got me through engineering studies without the need to commit seppuku. It also caused me to know a hundred million songs that I'd heard; they just penetrated my mind until I pulled them out.
Of course, my voice wasn't as crystalline as Loreena's so I just took the liberty to tone it down. It sounded good enough; the song, in itself, was melancholic and harmonious.
"All hail to the days that merit more praise
Then all the rest of the year,
And welcome the nights that double delights
As well for the poor as the peer!
Good fortune attend each merry man's friend
That doth but the best that he may,
Forgetting old wrongs with carols and songs
To drive the cold winter away."
Not a noise came from the engawa, and I struggled with a particular shifty fold, scrambling my brain with the next paragraph. Well, this was English. Who would know if I messed up a few lines, or started the same one again? Water sloshed gently outside; the only testimony of Chizuru's continued presence.
"This time of the year is spent in good cheer
And neighbours together do meet,
To sit by the fire, with friendly desire,
Each other in love to greet."
I could almost hear the violin and the harp as I pressed the rough cloth into shape. Those Hakamas had seen better days, and the knees were showing signs of tear and wear. This would not do. But I'd think about it later on … for the moment, my mind was too busy to think about anything else than the singing … and that blasted incoming war.
"Cross out of thy books malevolent looks,
Both beauty and youth's decay,
And wholly consort with mirth and sport
To drive the cold winter away."
My back and knees were killing me now and I sat with a huff. A sudden wave of homesickness hit me then, and I paused. Damn, I missed the sofa. Would I ever see my ironing board again? Chocolate, central heating? Would I ever take a hot shower?
Damn … perhaps I should find something merrier to sing. The melancholy was getting to me.
"Hey, don't burn a hole in those. Hijikata-san's going to be pissed."
Both Sōji's entrance and the mention of Hijikata shook me out of my musings. For a moment, I'd been far, far away. On the shores or Ireland, maybe, or in the open plains of Scotland. Suddenly, I understood what Okita meant; the iron was still flat upon the cloth. I removed it precipitously, and checked for any damage. Fortunately, natural fibres didn't melt the way polyester did. Phew. Crisis averted.
"I need to patch it already, or he's going to get holes in it."
The young captain studied me, his green eyes squinted. He looked healthy … and pretty relaxed. Always nonchalant, but it was a ploy. Okita was always ready to attack, whether physically, or with sharp words. At the moment, though, I felt no hostility.
A loud series of bangs echoed against the walls, the sound reverberating inside. I started, eyes darting outside for a moment before I forced my body to loosen. Okita was one of the rifle commanders, and if I had gotten used to the noise, Chizuru always jumped at the sound of firearms. Too bad I couldn't join the training; I had never handled a 19th-century rifle.
"Aren't you leading the drills ?", I asked.
Sōji shrugged.
"Shinpachi's turn today. Good for you, so I can save Hijikata's hakama."
I snorted, lifting an ironic eyebrow to the young captain. To see him relaxed, wiry limbs folding and unfolding with grace without an ounce of a cough always felt like a miracle.
"Think he'll kill me for ruining his clothes ?" I quipped.
Sōji's lips pressed in a thin line until a grin twisted them.
"We're not sticklers for formal stuff. Not since Serizawa … well except Saitō-kun, of course."
Saitō was renowned for his strictness in all matters; if he never commented on his friend's attire, the third captain always wore his kimono pristine and fastened expertly.
"I take it your attire didn't fit Serizawa's standards?"
"Ah, no. He used to make fun of Hijikata-san for his mended haori vest. It wasn't even fun anymore…"
I cocked my head aside; if Sōji had not been amused to see his commander disgruntled, he must have hated the man indeed.
"That guy really pushed you around, didn't he?", I asked.
"Tch. I'm glad Hijikata-san put his katana through his chest. Anyway, let me show you before you burn his clothes. He'll owe me for this. Make sure to tell him."
The captain only tugged upon the fabric neatly, and opened the first folds to expose them.
"From the inside to the outside, Kitsu. Your ironing technique is awful."
I glared. "My ironing machine is just much nicer than yours, that's all."
And the ironing board kinda helped. I would have pulled the katana legs around it, and been done with this mess a long time ago. The captain only smirked, giving me a meaningful look. A mischievous gleam shone in their depth, and I wondered how much he knew about my relationship with the man that owned those pants.
"How much nicer?"
I blinked. Ironing machine, right.
"It's blue, for starters," I snorted.
It was Okita's turn to blink. Then he settled, cross legged, upon the tatami mat, taking pleasure in seeing me struggle with that damn thing with too many plaits.
"Whatever. You're definitely not ready to be a housewife."
This was standard joking insult for Okita; little did he know that I didn't give a damn about marriage. Which, of course, probably mattered a lot for the women that lived in this era. I sent him a grin that slightly unsettled him, retorting in the next heartbeat:
"But you are, Sōji."
His eyes widened a moment, and I swore I saw a blush creep up his cheeks. Probably thinking of little Chizuru, eh? In the end, he poked his tongue between his teeth.
"You are devious Kitsu-san."
I nodded, trying to catch a plait that had gone awry at the base.
"You earned it. But anyway … why are those pants having so many freaking folds!"
"You don't know?"
This had been a rhetorical question, but I realised there actually was a reason for the strange structure of Hakamas. So, I vented my frustration to Sōji, arms wide open to expose my western clothing.
"Hello, gaijin here!"
Okita lifted his hands in the air, surprised that I would use such a derogative term to designate myself.
"Don't shout, Kitsu. Or I won't tell you."
"Don't care," I sing songed. "I'll go to Sanan-san."
This was such a low blow… Sōji's lips pursed as he hissed.
"Fine."
And for someone so set against authority, I found myself enthralled by the way he explained the details of the Bushido code. Each fold of the Hakama represented a principle. He pointed them out, from centre to side, and I watched his face brighten while he talked. There was, no doubt, the reminiscence of memories here. Perhaps a private moment with Kondō-san in their Shiei hall dojo.
I remained still, refraining for any mockery as Okita's seriousness called for my attention. Thus, I learnt what each fold meant.
Yuki stood for courage, valour and bravery. Jin, for humanity and benevolence. Somehow, it was Kondō's face I saw when Soujō spoke of the samurai's aim; to treat the other as you wished to be treated. To take them into consideration.
Gi stood for justice and integrity. This one suited Hijikata best; I kept it for myself, of course. Rei was linked to etiquette, courtesy and civility. It could also be linked to obeisance. The pure embodiment of Saitō. Makoto was all about sincerity and honesty; it reminded me of the day when Hijikata had told me, half-irritated, that I followed two principles of the Bushido. This third one was carved for my shoes!
"This one," Okita went on, turning the Hakama around, "is Chugi. It means loyalty, and devotion." His wistful smile wasn't lost on me; Okita revered the ground upon which Kondō walked: no one was more devoted to the man than he. Except, maybe, for Hijikata who went out of his way to keep the man happy … the only difference was that Fukuchō knew of Kondō's shortcomings, and made up for them where Okita blatantly ignored them like a child looking up at his father.
"The last one," he said, "is Meiyo. Honour."
He snorted then.
"Or reputation and dignity, both of which we don't have. The wolves of Mibu are not much on the liking list. But I don't care. I'd rather be feared than revered."
I nodded once more; I had forgotten half of them already, and would make sure to note them down in my notebook. In French, or English, or whatever language I would understand when I came home. Too bad I wouldn't be able to keep the knowledge of the Japanese language once the necklace transferred me back.
"Why don't you wear Hakamas, Sōji?"
After all the name calling, I felt now pretty at ease with using his first name. Which would never happen with Saitō whose opinion I valued, but had not offered friendship as of yet. Okita was another case … we didn't get along, and fought like cats and dogs sometimes. But there was a certain closeness due to our mutual protectiveness towards Chizuru, and the fact that my offer of western medicine had saved his life.
The familiarity didn't seem to faze him as he settled backwards, his stance relaxed, katana balanced upon the tatami mat.
"Nope. I don't fancy myself a samurai. I am Kondō-san's blade. I don't need a Hakama to look all high and mighty."
My lips quirked; no need to say the words, I knew who he was referring to. As usual, Okita was being unfair with Hijikata; I doubted Fukuchō wore his for the sake of looking noble. Especially with those holes forming into the cloth. The truth was that there was no reasoning Sōji when it came to his makeshift elder brother, so I let it go in favour of another issue.
Kondō's blade, and nothing else. Okita had been wrought into a mighty tool by the Serizawa; I'd heard Kondō's heavy sighs, sometimes, and knew Kyokuchō himself regretted it. Perhaps now, with the perspective of a future, the captain of the first unit might be willing to reconsider. Chizuru's recognisable footsteps were closing in, and I hoped she could help me kick a little sense in Okita's closed mind.
"I doubt a certain young lady would appreciate to know that you are only a sword. Speaking of which…"
Okita sent me an indifferent look that failed at convincing me when Chizuru appeared in the doorway. At once, her face brightened.
"Okita-san!", she exclaimed, her voice vibrant.
Oh, what a mighty struggle! I watched as Okita's shoulders purposefully remained poised against the wall, his whole being controlled under my scrutiny.
"Chizuru-chan," he nodded. And no matter how hard he tried to rein it, the gleam of fondness in his eyes betrayed him a thousand times over.
"Kondō's blade, eh?" I snickered, my mirth annoying him tremendously. "Perhaps you could devote your blade to protecting others as well, ne?"
The little expletive had become a common occurrence in my speech. Ne. It replaced my usual uh, or the 'eh' that Tristan was so fond of. Sōji blinked, his whole body still, as if to consider the truth in my words. When his eyes travelled to a pretty puzzled Chizuru, watching her wide eyes and earnest expression, something sparked in their depth.
It was beautiful. The way he looked at her. So moving, yet hidden behind layers of self-loathing. Perhaps, after hours and hours of drilling this into his skull, Okita would possibly consider to live for himself … for the moment, though, he might very well be amenable to live for Chizuru's sake; a mighty step already.
I wished them well in my heart but damn, she had not chosen the easiest of men. As Chizuru and Okita exchanged a long look, forgetting altogether about my presence, I giggled.
Who was I kidding? I had a knack for choosing downright scary guys.