THE SWORDSMAN (II)

"What a waste…"

Kenshin looked up through the thick tuft of hair that shielded his eyes. The brawny young man—Koshijiro, as he had introduced himself,—looked almost comically mournful over the spilled tofu. He had been helping the boy pick up the dirt-covered sardines one by one, as if the slippery skin was the most disgusting thing he'd ever touched; but it was the half-block of fermented soy, which easily was the most tasteless thing of all time, that truly struck a cord? Kenshin scoffed. He would have laughed if it didn't actually hurt to see his dinner on the ground: Iori-san had masterfully haggled each bit of it, even managing to get a peddler to sell her two radishes for half the price he was selling them by the dozen. She always stretched every coin and good she could trade since the first time they went to the market, and he was well aware that a fair part of it was because They had to feed him too. So, if it rattled Koshijiro so much—the boy wondered as he carefully grabbed the biggest pieces of tofu and put them back into the bucket,—where had the honorable warriors been before the theft? Weren't they supposed to be patrolling or something?

His stomach growled in anger.

"Uh—… I'll talk to the merchants and get new ones for you…" Koshijiro suddenly sounded small, withdrawn… sorry even. Frowning, Kenshin rushed to cram into the bucket any and every salvageable bit of food left: "They won't be happy to be asked for more free stuff."

"Yeah, I guess I didn't think it through" the brawny young man replied embarrased, scratching the back of his head.

Rolling his eyes, Kenshin stood up. With the brimming bucket firmly held in his arms, he squeezed through the packed street towards Iori-san, patiently waiting on a storefront bench while they picked everything up. He was watching out out for any loaded street peddlers—he did not want to spill everything again when one of them bumped him, as they usually did,—when he noticed the crowd started to thin out around him. He looked up to find Koshijiro following close by. Whether he liked it or not, the young man's presenc was probably the only reason no one had trampled over their food to begin with—or the redhead himself for that matter. And although he'd like to believe it was because the top of the young man's head reflected the sun like a polished mirror, the truth was everyone's eyes were fixed in the two ornate swords in Koshijiro's belt. But if it was just that, how come no one else had one?

"Thank you, Ken-chan" Iori-san sounded almos sorry as she fixed her collar, as if she had anything to apologize for: not only was she sore from the fall, the baby had also been as hungry as Kenshin was—but luckily for him, a baby could eat and sleep anywhere, any time. A smile crept to the boy's lips. He brushed away the last of the pebbles still stuck to his chin, trying to hide the bit of pride he took in having kept the baby safe. So thoughtlessly happy…

"By the way, what's that you're carrying in your back, kid?"

Caught with his head in the clouds, it took Kenshin a second to follow the young man's eyes to the wrapped sword on his back. "Uh? This is…" he started, but a tight squeeze in his shoulder stopped him mid-sentence. It was Iori-san's hand. She was digging her fingertips into his flesh. "It is an errand for my husband, he is a smith, you see," she rushed to reply, her smile just on the side of strained, "I am guessing you are not from around here, are you Koshijiro-san?"

"So you noticed!" The brawny swordsman smiled broadly, scratching the back of his head once again, "Yeah, I'm from Edo; the Kamiya of Edo."

Kenshin left the brimming wooden bucket at the woman's feet. She continued to chat with Koshijiro as if the boy wasn't even there, desperately trying to meet her gaze for an answer. They talked about what cities she did and didn't know, the different customs each one had, the different families they knew… Iori-san wasn't one to chat so idly, much less with someone she didn't know. And every time he was about to open his mouth, the grip on the redhead's shoulder tightened even more. Why was she shutting him up but kept that air-head talking?

"… Yeah, I've only known Serizawa-sensei and Maekawa-senpai for a couple of months; I came looking to make a name for myself," Koshijiro continued, "they are… tough, but honorable men."

A pause.

"… Tough?"

Koshijiro's eyes darted to the side.

"Umm… I think it's enough chat, right?" the brawny young man excused himself, and Iori-san smiled politely at that. Finally. "We should get going; I still have to take you home," Home? But the polisher—Another firm squeeze stilled Kenshin's tongue. "I need to get going… to help with the search for the thieves that is."

"Oh, yes, I am sorry; I guess you don't want to keep the magistrate waiting."

"Well, it wasn't their first time, so…" Koshijiro's gaze darkened visibly.

And so did Iori-san's.

Kenshin looked at each other in turn, stumped.

"Koshijiro-san…" the woman murmured, and for a moment the noon sun seemed dimmer, colder. "It was just a kid, a scared kid."

The young swordsman's eyebrows knitted once more, but this time they were straight, somber: "It wasn't their first time" he repeated, as if to convince himself more than Iori-san.

"Well of course not!" the woman's voice raised, startling both of them, the baby, and maybe even herself as she continued in hushed but pleading tones: "I'm sorry to be so rude, but no, I don't think so with the harvest like it is, nor with the taxes! And I'd dare to say specially not if they are punished or executed when they so much as complain!"

"Iori-san," Koshijiro tried, "I understand, but—"

"No you don't!" Shocked and defeated, Koshijiro's shoulders dropped. Iori-san… "If you did," the woman continued, "if you truly did," she held the baby tighter, "you wouldn't defend your master cutting a kid's hand over a bit of rice!"

Realization hit Kenshin like a rock. The way people walked a bit too far around the swordsmen. The way merchants had crammed as much reverence as they could in every sentence when talking to them. The way no one dared to meet their gaze. The way having a sword made it a given to 'get' something instead of 'buy' it. The way, for a second, when the Serizawa's severe gaze paused on him, its disdain made the redhead squirm.

"Please Koshijiro…"

There was no saying 'no' to Iori-san.

The redhead bolted, weaving through the dense maze of limbs and wares towards the river that split the village in two. On the other shore, the outskirts sprawled deep into the hillside to the northwest, the place where the merchants said the thief and his family had their 'rat's nest'. But as the bridge came to view, the boy stopped: Drawn by the fishmongers' calls, which hoarded purses left and right, the crowd formed a thick, solid wall that grew larger by the second. How long had he been rooted on the spot? Serizawa already had a head-start, he couldn't afford to waste any more time. The redhead gritted his teeth. He darted left towards the narrow alleys, fresh with the water breeze. The raw edge rattled furiously in Kenshin's back as he vaulted over barrels, crates and drunkards until he finally hit the riverbank. Not knowing how far ahead the swordsmen were, he pushed on, rushing towards the bridge hoping to have gone around the worst of the crowd. As the redhead run past some kids sparring with sticks on the shore, his eyes stuck to them for a second too long. Realization came crashing down on him. He wouldn't know he found the thief even if they stumbled upon each other. His chest tightened. The only thing he remembered was the kid had a checkered kimono—he had been so fixed on catching Seikū… No name, no face, no place to look for him.

Just when he was about to give up, they boy held onto a hunch and jumped on the bridge's railing to avoid the crowd crossing it: There was a place he knew kids gathered to play in the outskirts of Otsu, where roasted chestnuts and tea awaited them when they had nothing else to eat; where they could run and hide when things at home got rough… where they stared at him for days as he waited for Iori-san. The midwife, she had to know. It was a long shot, but it was the only one he had, so he had no choice but to stubbornly believe it was so.

Now deep in the endless rows of thatched roofs of the outskirts, the boy hid and dodged swordsmen left and right: groups of two or three at most, questioning people on the child-thieves' whereabouts. Maybe there was still time, he thought with his heart beating wildly in his chest; the midwife's place was almost on sight and they were still searching for the kids. Maybe he could get them to hide, find a safe place and lay low until it all blew over…

But that hope came crashing down as Serizawa's sword cut through a small hand poking out of a long, checkered sleeve. The shriek was deafening. Kenshin couldn't even hear the midwife's cry, pleading for mercy. Couldn't hear the wail of the young ones, clinging to her robe as blood pooled under the young thieve's stump in thick gushes. ThebloodtheswordsthescreamsthePAIN. It was that night, all over again.

No, he thought. Never again.

Kenshin charged. His throat tore as he roared, the tip of his bokutō grazing Serizawa's jaw. The man was fast, but the attempt was enough to make him stagger backwards. A chance Kenshin didn't let go to waste: He grabbed the thief by his checkered kimono and pulled him as far away as he could from the man's sword. And just in time at that: "You fucking half-bred brat!" Serizawa bellowed, seizing Kenshin by his hair and hurling him to the ground. The impact knocked the air out of his lungs. The boy barely managed to dodge one, two very sharp blows that would have ended it then and there, all as he still fought to catch his breath. But as soon as he dodged, the man was over him yet again, sword already rushing towards the boy. Kenshin parried the third blow only to see his bokutō cut in two as if it were made of paper, the sickly thin edge piercing the ground just a breath away from his head. That was no training, no bone-breaking sparring—there was murder in Serizawa's eyes. Fear gripped his throat. In the past three years, the most the redhead had to worry about was pain, and he could always shake it off and try again. Now, one bad choice would be his last.

Throwing the bokutō's hilt at Serizawa's face, Kenshin rolled to the right. He clawed at the dirt to get some distance between them, the man's mad roar pushing him so hard that his nails bent backwards in his desperation. If only there was a stick, a stone, anything he could use, maybe then someone would come and—

"Die."

The blow sent him tumbling down the gravel path. The blade rang inside his head as something stiff, metallic, hard dug into his spine. It rolled over him, below him, jawbreakingly soft as he came to a stop with his face against it. He tried to open his eyes. It hurt all over.

"… A sword…?" Serizawa grumbled as the redhead heard his own heart still beating inside his head. He wasn't dead. Not yet at least. The blade in his back, Kenshin remembered, the raw metal edge hard against his cheek,—"You fucking scoundrel!"

Get up, get up, get up, get up! Gritting his teeth through blood and dirt, Kenshin fought to get his body to obey him as the grating sound of Serizawa's steps closed in. The man's sword rattled loudly, dragging behind him. The bastard was waiting, damnit: waiting for Kenshin to get up and deal the last blow, and his stupid body wouldn't even move.

You can't make it, boy.

The boy's eyes snapped open. His master's voice sounded impossibly clear in his mind, the terrible truth he uttered as they left for Otsu making his stomach drop. The ground below him was wet with spit and blood, a tooth glinting white in the red and gray mess.

You can't make it.

"Stop! Serizawa-sensei!" Koshijiro's voice cut through the awful sound of rattling metal, "Please!"

The blade stopped right next to Kenshin's head. "What the hell do you want now, Kamiya?!" the man shouted to his back. Seizing the opportunity, the redhead lashed out, only to bite the dust again with a heavy kick to the back. Serizawa was taller. Sharper. Stronger.

You can't make it with your strength alone.

"The thief's been punished," the young man cried, "It's enough! Please! Let's go back—!"

"Is that a fucking joke?!" Serizawa sneered, "I'm not gonna let scum think they can go around mocking us, discrediting us!" Kenshin tried to fight back again, but the man doubled down putting more and more of his weight on the boy's back. His ribs cracked inside his chest. A shrill scream pierced Kenshin's ears before he realized it came from his own throat.

"I'm gonna show this half-bred piece of shit what justice is, oh yes: I'll make an example out of him…" Serizawa spat, kicking his back again. The raw edge dug into his shoulder, now peeking out of its cradle of straw.

… So you'll have to do with speed, with wits.

"He's just a kid! A good kid! He's the one that was helping the woman, remember—?"

"I'm no idiot, Kamiya, I remember this brat! He came at me! He interrupted justice and dares to carry a sword! What the fuck is your point?!"

"How is killing and maiming children justice?!" Koshijiro cried, and if Kenshin had held any hope that the young swordsman could put a stop to that madness, that hope fell apart through the cracks in his voice. The boy curled his fingers around the raw blade.

"But that is justice! We are justice!" Serizawa bellowed, extending his arms as if to show Koshijiro his truth. "The peace they live in, the roof over their heads, the goddamn ground they walk on is made with the blood of our fathers! It is on us to keep these idiots from burning it all to the ground. And what do we get for it?! They go whoring and then whine they can't pay their dues! They mock us and plot against us! I've known leaches more honorable than this treacherous scum!"

It will be harder: pushing yourself to be faster than anyone else, read any and every move and attack in the blink of an eye.

Serizawa grabbed the redhead by the nape of his neck, turning him around and pressing the boy's head against his crotch, "They should suck my dick and be fucking happy I let them have at it!"

But that it's the only way you can do it.

Slash. Serizawa screamed. A bright red gash run upwards from the man's loin, his wound opening with every staggered step back he took. Kenshin spat blood, eyes locked onto Serizawa's every move and his raw blade now glinting red in his hands.

Fury and pain barely dulling his blade, the man lunged forward. But this time, his blade rang as the redhead blocked it, metal against metal. Kenshin bit through the pain of his cracked ribs, through the unfinished edge digging into his palms with each blow. He had landed a good one, but there was no way in hell he'd be able to keep up with the intense barrage. The boy grit his teeth as he was hammered down and down and down…

Don't just block dammit! Dodge!

The instant the blade came down on him, Kenshin loosened his grip. His hips turned away by a fraction, his own sword almost resting beside his forearm. This was it: If he failed, it wouldn't matter any more. If he failed, he would be dead.

Go!

His whole body tensed as the swords clashed. The redhead's arms followed his sword as it drew a circle around his head, recoiling from the combined force of both swords. Serizawa's eyes grew wide, fear and disbelief seeing the raw edge come around towards him… But Kenshin never saw his blow coming.

This time, it took no metal to make his head ring: the boy fell to the ground, clutching at his head as if trying to stop it from splitting in half. He had him, fuck, he was sure he had him! And yet Serizawa stood proud before him: a hand in his neck, barely holding himself together but still standing; still pointing the butt-end of his hilt towards the blinding pain in the Kenshin's head. The boy's vision blurred. He was going to die…

Fuck, he was going to die.

A flash of white blinded him. Cloth ragged, billowing, like a gust of wind. He knew that feeling… he knew that cape very well.

New year, new chapter, new chapter bi-generation! If I had known it would take more than 5k words to complete this chapter, I'd certainly would have planned it better not to bore you to death haha (please don't kill me)

Please let me know what's ok, what's good, what's bad and what could be much much better! What do you think of Koshijiro? And Iori-san? Also if you ended up reading by mistake for the "naruto fans made me jealous" part: Meant to refer less to the magic part and more to the convolutely awesome ploty stuff. Not that I don't love magic, but it wasn't what I had in mind specifically when I started the Ainuverse (part of other stuff in the burner, yes, let me know if you want to know more)

Next chapter will be the last on the Tiny Kenshin arc (I SWEAR I already have the epilogue... I'm struggling with keeping it short though... and monologues, I suck at epic awesome monologues); from next chapter onwards, here comes the Teeny emo Kenshin we all love. Thank you very much for reading! And for those who leave kudos, you make. my. day!

Historical context:

• Cities and villages had a sort of civilian police and a magistrate to judge and condemn local crimes. However, trade routes and important ports had samurai doing both. It was like militarized police or army staff making sure nobody stirred anything, like any other Dictatorship... which the Shogunate was...? Thing is, Otsu was such place: It was the last station in the Nakasendo AND Tokaido trails (2 of the big 5 routes) as well as an important port in the Biwa Lake. I couldn't find proof, but it makes sense that the Shogun would like to keep that place under surveillance—and rightly so, since Otsu was were many imperialists fled to and hid after the Ikedaya /

Thing is, samurai WERE allowed to bypass the magistrate to judge and execute on the spot. I couldn't find a table of crimes and their penalties, but aside from fines, physical punishment and executions, in some cases thieves could be maimed, specially if they were repeating offenders.

• After the Sengoku period (long period of war 200+ years before this), commoners were banned from carrying swords. Most weapons were deemed OK for defense, but swords wouldn't be your first choice to defend yourself, so why would you be carrying one? Because you were a criminal. Hence Iori-san jumping in to prevent Kenshin from saying anything about it. You could pass as a samurai's son or apprentice, but a redhead with weird clothes? There would be a lot of /

Moreover, during that time things were tense: It was the middle of an intense persecution. Targets were influential pro-imperialists, but I think it wouldn't have ended with them. Think cold war: everyone could be the enemy. Better not to take any risks, right?

• Wakashū *checks the notes... oh boy* were samurai sons in their teens (11 to 19?), but... complicated. I'll be simplifying a lot here because it's not a key part of the story so far, but: On the one hand, wakashū were supposed to learn about life, culture, arts and more from an older man of their choosing, think of a private teacher but with 0 qualifications other than being a samurai; on the other hand, many refer to them as a third gender nowadays, since they were objects of desire (and fair game) for married men and women alike. They could accept (or reject) to be in a monogamous relationship with their 'private teacher' and/or a married woman of their choosing (I'll check my notes on that later, but it wasn't forbidden), but said relationship could only remain as a romantic/sexual one until the wakashū came of age. Then, it was seen as... wrong. Or weird at the very least. In some cases, wakashū chose to delay their coming of age ceremony indefinitely, with examples of 80 year-old men living as wakashū.br /

Anyway, I didn't mean to imply Koshijiro was in a romantic/sexual relationship with Serizawa, but I *did* want him to be his pupil regarding everything else. I think the shock of defying a close teacher's authority for the sake of justice helps to paint a more fitting picture of how radical his beliefs were down the road. I'll review this chapter later to better reflect this point in the story without info-dumping you /

And yes, they had a shaved crown like other samurai, but with a forelock they tied over their heads. That forelock was sexy as heck for samurai that were into it, to the point that by 1850's wakashū were forbidden from clean-shaving the top of their heads. Some retorted to using a purple headscarf to imitate the clean-shaved look and hide the grown-out hair. Japan was WILD.