It dawns upon me, after what may have been a considerable stretch of time, that I have been standing, rooted before the threshold of Kohagiya. An emptiness pervades my mind, save for the singular realization that the act of opening the door and stepping within eludes me.
This path, one I have traversed countless times, now seems alien to me. In this moment, it seems as though the lingering metallic scent of lives extinguished by my blade encircles me. It is as though the icy grasp of those departed souls clings to my being, drawing me towards the crimson rivers that flowed from their forms.
A compelling desire to escape, to dissolve into the shadows of Kyoto's night — my rightful abode — gnaws at the edges of my determination.
And that woman, the source of my disdain, for without her influence, such turmoil would have remained foreign to me. Never would I have been burdened with the wish that my essence were different.
"If only I was not like this—"
Abruptly, I halt my musings, aware now of my labored breaths. Retreating from the shoji, I commence a circuitous wander around Kohagiya.
"Why am I walking?"
"Where am I going?"
In my aimless strolling near Kohagiya, my gaze, as though led by some unseen force, falls upon the window left ajar - the very window of the room that cradled my presence and hers not many days past.
After a time, I find myself merely existing, my back against Kohagiya's wall, beneath that window.
It strikes me as odd, this sensation that the room we occupied together but days ago, now merely steps from where I stand, seems as distant as the farthest star.
Here, rooted to the spot, time slips from my grasp. I ponder over the elapsed moments and the reason for my stationary vigil. In this contemplation, I sense a slipping away of self. Am I teetering on the brink of madness? Or is it that sanity has begun to reclaim me?
Doubts cloud my mind, casting shadows over my path. With closed eyes, I am besieged by visions of a cramped, dark expanse, the haunting echo of a wooden wheel's creaking, reminiscent of a macabre symphony. Memories of confinement in a cart's narrow quarters, pressed against others as if we were mere cattle, flood back.
In that shadowed space, despair was absent, as was sorrow. What pervaded was a twisted sense of resignation. No cries for freedom were heard, no attempts at escape made. All of us, ensnared in that grim hold, recognized a truth - the world outside our prison was even more merciless. Within those confines, we were at least granted the mercy of a daily meal. Oddly, it was universally acknowledged that beyond our captivity lay a desolation, more profound than the bindings that held us.
As the visions within my mind begin to dim and vanish, I am brought to the stark realization that the blood upon my hands has dried.
In contemplation, my grip tightens, and with it, my resolve strengthens once again.
I am aware.
I am aware that beyond the carnage and the terror, there will be a glimmer of hope.
These lands will not remain barren and forsaken, devoid of joy where women and children are bartered as mere objects, reduced to the playthings of fleeting desires.
It is solely through such destruction, solely by tearing apart this cursed world, that we may dream of a new morning that shall cast its warmth upon those broken souls.
Hence, regardless of the engulfing darkness, regardless of the myriad shadows that lie strewn across the road to rebellion, I will stand resolute. Even if it means to tread this path in solitude, to sully my hands, to transform into a fiend from hell, I shall forge onward till the advent of a new era.
As my mind races, a familiar presence draws near, a presence I have endeavored to evade with all my being since that night.
A reflex urges me to conceal my hand. The realization dawns upon me that I do not wish for her to witness the blood that stains it.
Without once casting my gaze upon her, an awareness settles over me—a deliberate wish to remain unseen by her eyes.
Her presence, merely there, with her eyes seemingly etched upon my form, has ceased to bring forth any surprise within me.
To her, my voice carries softly, "Not sleeping again, I see."
A brief silence follows, and then, as though emerging from the depths of thought, her voice finds the air, "Did you kill?"
Such a query, startling and unexpected, compels me to face her, my response caught in a moment of bewilderment,
"Eh...?"
Never before had the subject of life and death been broached with the casualness of inquiring about one's evening repast.
In her gaze, the reason for my aversion becomes clear. I sense a fear that her eyes might pierce through me, delving into the frailties of my resolve and the depths of my emotions.
Time passes in silent communion until I realize I've offered no reply, merely met her stare with my own.
It is she who cleaves the stillness.
"Hand," she utters, a word devoid of emotion, as if remarking upon the weather.
"What..?" My own voice mirrors confusion, grappling with her meaning.
"Your hand," she insists.
"What about my hand?" I find myself asking, voice laced with a mixture of curiosity and defensiveness.
"Show me," comes her simple command.
Involuntarily, my hands clench into fists, as if to guard against unseen threats.
Her gaze, unwavering, traces the path to my tightened grasp.
"So you have killed," she declares, a statement so softly spoken it seems almost detached.
An involuntary shiver passes through me.
"That has nothing to do with you," I retort, a defensive edge to my words.
"I see," she responds, her voice a calm mirror to the turmoil within me.
She turns, and in that motion, a question flickers in my heart - have I hurt her? Yet, the weight of her feelings seems but a feather against the scale of truth I have laid bare.
"Come inside," she beckons.
A puzzle forms anew in my mind, its solution dangling just beyond reach. Yet, I trust time will reveal all. She leads me towards the shoji, the entrance to Kohagiya, and I, like a shadow, tread softly in her steps. Memories of a day, merely four sunsets past, seek entrance into my thoughts, but I thrust them aside with a force born of necessity.
As she slides open the shoji, her glance catches mine, a fleeting look. "Go upstairs to your room," she directs, her voice a blend of command and mystery. My gaze lingers, for her intentions are, as usual, sentences written in a script I have yet to learn.
"I need to wa-" I begin.
"The blood?" she cuts in.
"...Yes," I admit, the word escaping like a whisper.
"Isn't there a reason why you didn't come inside and clean?"
"Eh..?" escapes my lips once more, a reflection of my bemusement. This day seems to favor repetition.
"Go upstairs. I will bring the water and the Tenugui."
At this moment, the thought of encountering another soul, be it a Shishi or anyone else, fills me with a desire for solitude. Without protest, I watch her disappear within, and I embark on the journey through Kohagiya's familiar corridors. The stairs, the door, all greet me like old friends. And as I cross the threshold into my room, a sensation unfamiliar for days breathes life into my lungs.
For the first time in what feels an eternity, I inhale deeply, finally at peace.
I step towards the window, a scenery familiar to my gaze, and peer outside. A realization dawns upon me, gentle like the first light of dawn, she was probably here too, looking outside, just like this and indeed, she saw me from here because from the window, I would have been rather easily visible.
Finding my usual place by the window, I let my thoughts drift as my eyes linger on the scene outside. The dried blood adheres to my hand. Within me, a turmoil, a sense of defilement wrestles with acceptance, for this darkness is the cost I bear for the cause of revolution.
My musings meander through the shadows cast over Kyoto by the window, as if the night itself swallows the city whole.
The shoji door whispers open, and her presence fills the space, wordless. She kneels by the window's edge where I sit.
Turning towards her, our gazes lock, hers piercing the shadows of my being, yet within her eyes, a tranquil depth, as if to question the turmoil outside, the very chaos of Kyoto, as nothing but an illusion.
Her fingers, slender, grace my wrist, taking my hand in a gesture of deliberate kindness, tracing the contours of my tainted hand, beginning to cleanse the stain upon my skin.
Her touch, gentle, almost painfully gentle, as if to erase the remnants of death itself from my existence. Unblinkingly, I observe her, seeking condemnation within her actions, yet finding none.
As the last vestiges of red dissolve, her focus remains on my hand.
"Why aren't you scared of me?" escapes my lips.
Her reply, a whisper, "One can only slay the living," barely reaches my ears, a riddle veiled in silence, leaving me cloaked in a bewilderment I choose not to reveal.
A yearning to grasp the essence of her words grips me, yet a silent chain restrains me, as if the weight of truth would tear apart the fragile bond that binds us. Thus, I release the sentiment to wander the abyss of uncertainty.
In her demeanor, a detachment, perilous, as if aloof from life itself.
With a tenderness, a hesitation, I enclose her hand in mine, fearing she might dissipate like morning fog. Her fingers twitch. Her gaze, once engaged, now evades mine.
"My hand is cold," she murmurs, her voice a tender whisper in the chill air.
"No," I find myself replying, our fingers weaving together. Her touch does not stir, yet it matters not. Thus, I persist in our entanglement, as if to mend the tattered seams of our beings.
As moments pass, only the soft cadence of our breathing lingers in the stillness.
Then, her voice breaks the silence, "Your hand..."
At her words, I still, my thoughts racing. Does she see the stains of death on my skin? With my emotions cloaked, I feign indifference, uttering,
"Hm?" while distancing my heart from her imminent words.
"It's like a woman's... it's beautiful," she declares, an ordinary observation upon the hand of a Hitokiri, devoid of the condemnation I had braced for.
Startled, I blink, momentarily lost for words. With a curiosity reminiscent of youth, she captures my wrist, examining my palm closely. She traces its lines gently, a quiet "Calloused" escaping her lips.
"Because I...use a sword," I admit, perhaps too tentatively.
Her gaze lingers on the callouses, a silent study, a quest for understanding. Watching her, I dare hope my quickening pulse remains unheard.
For no reason at all. Absolutely no reason at all.
Upon studying my hand for a time, she begins to detach, her touch fading away. No matter the subtlety, its absence is felt as a loss.
"I will go throw away the water," she declares.
I offer no reply.
My eyes follow her as she overlooks the container, its clear contents now marred with red, and moves gracefully towards a corner in search of something. My gaze remains fixed upon her.
Retrieving her shawl, she approaches, draping it over me with a slow, deliberate grace. Her actions, once confounding, now envelop me in her essence, a comforting presence.
She withdraws once more, tending to the container, then makes her way to the Shoji door. Surprising even myself, I inquire,
"Will you..." My voice trails,
"Will you come back?" The question, laden with an unintended plea, hangs between us.
"No, I have to prepare Dashi for morning," she answers, dispelling any hope my query might have harbored.
Thus, she will not return.
"It isn't even dawn yet," I murmur, irritating myself with my own words, wishing she hadn't heard.
Yet, she had, responding simply with "I have to prepare."
In that moment, a divide is cemented; her desire for distance becomes clear. Despite my growing understanding of her, this realization brings an unexpected ache.
As she exits, my thoughts involuntarily drift to a recent moment of closeness shared between us, stirring a mix of emotions within. Clutching the shawl now wrapped around me, I am surrounded by her lingering scent.