Note

I remembered that Hiko specifically not liking Kyoto sake despite living in Kyoto is a trait I got from SiriusFan13's rk fic verse. So kudos to them again! Thanks to FrostyEmma who took a look a draft of this chapter all the way in May.

This will probably be the last chapter of this fic for this year before I resume posting in 2021. But it is a super long one at 8000 words!

In the Aoiya

Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth sat across the table from Kenji. At the start, the boy made an effort to be polite, sitting still, hands to himself, but his big watchful eyes staring at Hiko's cloak and his little curling and uncurling fingers flagrantly gave him away. Soon he started fidgeting, humming a little tune. After a while, Hiko made out the tune as teru-teru-bozu. A children's song to bring sunshine so they could go out to play. Kenji hummed and hummed. Until he started to sing.

"Teru-teru-bozu, teru bozu

Ashita tenki ni shite o-kure..

Do make tomorrow a sunny day

Like the sky in a dream sometime

If it's sunny I'll give you a golden bell

But if it's cloudy and I find you crying

Then I shall snip snip! Your head off…"

Locking eyes with the boy, gripped and flummoxed, Hiko realised he was way too sober. He twisted to the side, groping for Osaka's Best. But he just grasped at nothing. Because he decided this morning he needed a clear head today and deliberately did not bring any sake.

That one was on him.

After more moments of sitting and singing, Kenji finally worked up the courage to come up and grab Hiko's cloak. But Hiko reached out, lighting fast, one palm shielding himself from the grasping claw of Kenji's.

"I don't think so. Take a seat."

His hands were so small compared to Hiko's.

Kenji frowned and plodded back. But his spirits recovered quickly as he started singing again. "Teru-teru-bozu, teru-bozu…" over and over…until Hiko got sick of it.

"You realise it is not raining right now. It's been sunny all day."

Kenji stopped and stared. He got up, puttered to the window, and stared quizzically out. It occurred to Hiko that Kenji did not know the background behind the folk song — a vague threat for clear skies — he just liked the tune.

Kenji looked past his shoulder back to Hiko. "Then why can't I go out?"

Hiko raised a brow. "Did you not hear what your handler said?

"…Want to go out."

"Your father is not back yet."

"But I—

"—Have a grievance? Take it up with him."

The boy pouted. "Papa would'n let me go with him. That's why I'm with Aun' Misao."

A muscle twitched furiously in Hiko's lip, and he was lucky there was no one in the room to see it. Just what on earth was he to say to that? Why didn't the baka deshi just take the baka kid with him?

…Because the baka deshi was on his way to see none other than Hiko himself.

The way Misao had acted was as if Hiko had known about Kenji all along. All she did was make a poor assumption. After a minute's reflection, Hiko was not surprised. Kenshin would not tell him about a son. Why should he? No longer his disciple, he had no reason to prattle about the goings on in his life to the likes of a potter. It might have simply never crossed his mind to tell Hiko about a son. Even Kaoru did not tell him.

And that was fine. Because none of this was any of his business.

Kenji had grown tired of going on his tiptoes to look out the window. He soon flopped back on the floor, legs informally splayed, singing his song again. "Teru-teru-bozu, teru-bozu…"

After a few more minutes of repeating the same two lines of the song, Hiko got antsy. "Enough. How about I tell you a story."

Kenji's mumbling took a dip. Mercifully, he stopped singing. "What story?"

"The story about teru-teru-bozu."

"…'Kay."

"…Okay. As you know, 'teru' is sunshine. 'Bozu' is monk. There once was a monk. He lived in a village. He made a promise to the villagers to stop the rain. So rain wouldn't ruin the crops. He prayed for sun. But no sun came. He failed. He was executed. The end."

Kenji blinked.

"And that is the story behind teru-teru-bozu. When you 'snip off the head,' that is the end of the monk."

Kenji blinked. Again and again. Then his mouth cracked wide, he rolled back into the floor, and he started — started wailing.

The line of Hiko's lip went slack flat. "What is wrong? Baka deshi's son—" Hiko cringed at himself. "Former deshi's son. What is wrong?"

All of a sudden, as if Hiko had opened the floodgates, Kenji began bawling. "Ahhhh…he…he died!"

"Yes. He died," Hiko said, matter of fact. He crossed his arms tightly. "That was what you were singing about."

"Ahhh!"

"Stop."

"AHHH!"

"…Stop this! Your father never cried. Your father entered my tutelage when he was six, and he never cried."

"AHHHHHH!"

Hiko balked. He was startled a noise that loud could come out of a boy that small. Was that normal? Hiko's eyes darted around the room, looking at the walls as if someone would burst in and catch him redhanded for story telling crimes. He looked pointedly at the teapot as if its poor shape and un-ergonomic design had suddenly become the most riveting thing in the world. He stared anywhere but at Kenji's scrunched up little face, which was in the middle of crying so hard rivulets of water actually streamed down his little puffy cheeks. Fine job, Seijuro. Absolutely splendid. Why did he have to stop him from singing? This was so much worse. Why did Hiko have to tell that cursed story? Stupid sunshine. Stupid villagers. And stupid monk.

For the longest few minutes of his life, Hiko sat defeatedly across the room as Kenji howled. Sitting there, pondering on his words, he was the most powerless man in the world. Children cried in the market place sometimes. When he had to resort to going into town he always walked past with a faint sense of disgust. Now he was on the receiving end of that. Why was he so…vexed by the singing? Kenshin had never done that. Kenshin had been a quiet, withdrawn boy; serenely obedient, calmly reserved, and when he'd grown to become angry and defiant — he had always been menaced by a deep, riled something lying beneath a surface of youth — he still held a stranglehold over his emotions. Kenshin had rarely ever cried. And if he did, it was far away from Hiko's view, with only slightly red eyes and a blushed face to show.

After a long, hard moment, Hiko sighed. Hiko caught Kenji's eyes, dark like his mother's, with a motion of fingers. Then he lifted his cloak. Kenji continued to whimper, mourning for a non-existent monk who had died at least centuries ago. But he slowly puttered forward with his arms outstretched, then grabbed onto the cloak like a lifeline. He calmed down. After that moment of satisfaction, one tiny but surely undeniable victory, Kenji tugged on it with a rather satisfied smile.

"You like the cloak, do you?"

"Hnm…"

"You have a good eye. This cloak is over a hundred years old. A great mantel of my line."

Hiko's brow furrowed a bit as he heard his own words fill up the suddenly quiet space. Like he was remembering a thing he'd always known, yet never really thought much about. A reoccurring dream that had come by his sleep once again. A light in the dark. A campfire in a hot night.

Red lapels, denoting strength and sacrifice. Weights, denoting control and duty…Or something like that.

Hiko lifted his cloak. He smoothed down the collar. "It was worn by my master. The Twelfth. By her master, the Eleventh. And…oh. So on. You get the picture."

He wasn't really sure he did, but Kenji nodded sagely.

As Kenji held onto the hem of the cloak with a death grip, Hiko reached into his gi, fumbling around for his rag. It was something he always had on him, a small square of cloth used to clean the blood off his sword should the situation ever come up. Pulling out the rag, he mashed it to Kenji's face, wiping it like he would a table. Kenji didn't pull away, so Hiko took that as an opening to try fix his hair as well. Misao had done a number on it, but Hiko didn't have a comb on him. The best he could do was smooth it out with his fingers.

"There." Hiko grunted. "Presentable."

Kenji nodded. With no warning, he spun around, wrapped Hiko's cloak around himself, and then curled up next to his knee as if it were a blanket. Hiko resisted the urge to tug his cloak back like a tablecloth beneath a dinner set.

"Stop that," he said. "Only a master of Hiten Mitsurugi ryu is qualified to wear this cloak."

"…Mit—Mitsugi ryu…is Papa's," Kenji said. But his babble died down. He said, looking straight in Hiko's eyes, into his soul, with startling clarity and conviction, "That's Papa's style."

"Yes. It is," Hiko said. "He may be qualified to wear this cloak. Not you."

Kenji soured. His little face scrunched up. As if standing his ground, he lounged at Hiko's knee with his cloak snug like a futon.

"…Fine. I'll make an exception today. On one condition."

Kenji looked up accommodatingly.

"You tell nobody about what happened here." Hiko frowned. That was too revealing. "—Or you will end up like the monk."

Kenji's eyes flashed with some alarm. He withdrew into the cloak. Hiko regretted this immediately.

But in a moment of quiet it was forgotten, his fear shaken off as easy as it had come. Kenji had caught his eye on the thing fastened to Hiko's belt, which seemed to shine out to him like a moon in the night. All at once, the cloak was forgotten, the monk was forgotten, and all manners were forgotten as well as Kenji wriggled forward to grab onto the sheath of a sword.

"Katana," Kenji said.

Hiko's eyes snapped to the side, staring daggers down at Kenji. He pushed his little hand away with two carefully placed fingers. "Hands to yourself. Lest you lose them."

But instead of being rebuked, Kenji's lips turned petulantly up. Hiko frowned. One measly little triumph, and he could no longer be swayed. That was apparently all it took for Kenji to realise Hiko was the same as everyone else. All he spouted were empty threats.

"Katana," Kenji reached for the sword again, "I want to see."

Hiko looked down on him with disdain. "No."

"Please?"

"I said no."

"But I wanna."

"Why? Do you not live in a dojo?" Hiko snapped. "Do you not see swords every day?"

At that, Kenji's face twisted again. This time into a bitter frown. The kind of frown someone gave to their killer before offing themselves to save them the satisfaction; Hiko knew this look.

"…They always practice with swords…Papa carries one all th' time…but he never lets me have a go." Kenji made a dissatisfied noise in his throat, then knocked a fat fist on Hiko's knee. "…Never lets Kenji see sakabatou. But he get's to carry it everywhere. Even in restaurants!"

Hiko watched this with an air of silent entertainment. When the boy was angry, he looked damn like Kenshin.

Hiko leaned into Kenji with a deadpan air. "Do I look like your father?"

Hiko pulled the sword from his belt. He set it down on his knees, angling himself to give Kenji the best view. With one smooth motion, Hiko drew it, eliciting a high, pleasing ring. It was a shirasaya sword, sheathed in wood. At first glance its plain, undecorated wooden mounting made it seem bland and common. But the blade itself could never be overshadowed by the plain casing. Hiko's sword was beautiful. It was the cream of the crop, a legendary make by masters already lost to time; to compare this to the sakabatou was like comparing gold dust to sand, silk to twine. Even a common eye or lesser man could tell this sword was exquisite, even if they could not quite voice why. Kenji's eyes widened, and he gazed hungrily. Wherever the light hit the sword right there was a faint blue glint that gave the illusion of a glow. It radiated cold.

Hiko cut it slowly through the air, showing the engraving upon the habaki near the hilt of the blade.

"This is Winter Moon."

"…Winter Moon…" Kenji echoed.

"Yes, former deshi's son. Tamahagane steel. Perfect balance." He ran two fingers up the blade. "And perfect curve. The original hilt and sheath are long dust. Probably withered in time. Its accompanying wakizashi, also gone. But this blade?" Hiko boasted. "This blade is still the same one that Hiko Seijuro, First of his name, had used to raze the entirety of Nagumo Domain to the ground."

Kenji nodded in reverence. As if he understood a semblance of what Hiko had just said. He leaned in, an eager curator of swords.

"Is it…sharp?"

Hiko smirked. "What does the former deshi's son think?" He straightened up in his seat, Winter Moon before his face. His eye reflected back to him like a still lake. Then, as slowly as he could manage to keep within a child's level of visibility, he swiped Winter Moon horizontally through the teapot upon the table. It came away clean and easy. Like cutting cake. Hiko reached out and picked up the halved teapot as if it were just a loose lid. Tea gushed out from the sides like a little fountain.

Kenji's mouth fell open, a soap bubble popping. Deeply impressed. "—That's sharp."

"Indeed."

Kenji scooted close, grabbing fistfuls of Hiko's clothes. Hiko, decidedly, did not expect that. Taken aback by his forwardness, he actually flinched. Hiko leaned pointedly away. But that seemed oddly to encourage Kenji into leaning in, climbing him like a rock face.

"Can Kenji…hold it?"

With all the imperious certainty of thirteen generations of masters, Hiko gave a look that said, what do you think.

As Kenji read Hiko's expression, his own one fell. Kenji slid off Hiko's knee.

But before he could completely deflate, Hiko grunted. "Ask me again."

"…Huh?"

"Ask me again."

"…Can Kenji hold your sword?"

"—Why not."

Not a thought able to form in Hiko's mind to consider otherwise, he leaned down and placed the unsheathed Winter Moon in Kenji's grabby hands. Kenji was awestruck all over again. His eyes went unbelievably wide like saucers, his brows flown up as high as they would go. He was quite ecstatic doing nothing but holding it. His hands were so small he had to use both to support the sword.

"It's heavy."

"True swords are lighter than their training counterparts."

"This is suppose' to be light?" Kenji breathed.

"To me. It is."

Kenji looked to Hiko with a stupid grin. With all the concentration of a one track mind forgetting everything else outside his head, Kenji swayed a sword larger than he was up and down. Up and down like the world's most brittle kata. Hiko touched a hand to his chin, watching. Kenji had definitely held wooden bokkens before. He latched onto it with practiced ease. He actually knew how to hold a sword. He was definitely the son of a dojo instructor.

Hiko's amusement wiped off his face. Did Kenshin teach him how to hold a sword? Or did Kaoru?

…Did it matter to him, who did?

With a gaping smile on his face, Kenji whooshed Winter Moon up and down. After a while, his movements began to sway from side to side a little concerningly. Moving where he was sure the boy could see, Hiko slowly approached, then placed his hands over Kenji's. He guided him into position. "Hold steady," he said. "One."

Hiko struck the air.

"Two."

He struck again, and Kenji let out the smallest gasp, feeling the new power in the motion. The glide. Slow like a current, but full of strength.

"Three."

Hiko returned them to position, and Kenji made a sound of delight. Hiko smirked.

"This sword," Hiko started, as he held the weight of Winter Moon, but Kenji directed them drawing squiggles in the air, "was supposed to be your father's. But he…he doesn't have use of a thing like this anymore. So instead, it lingers with me."

"Why doesn't Papa want it?" Kenji said immediately.

Hiko regretted saying anything at all. He moved to take Winter Moon off Kenji, sheathing it safely back at his side with a soft clink.

What kind of lie should he say? Because he was a man who could keep an oath? Because he did not kill?

Hiko scoffed. "That's enough questions."

Kenji blinked. He gave him a betrayed, accusatory look, like Hiko was a man who took candy from children. Behind those wide eyes he seemed to realise Hiko's hesitance. But the moment was gone, easily thrown behind as Kenji got up again and ran to the window. He looked listlessly out, mashing his chin against the low sill in order to see.

Of course he could. Hiko Seijuro had been so adamant about that. Of course he could do his duty, of course he could kill Kenshin. He could kill Kenshin, like he could, right now, draw this sword and slaughter everyone in his ten metre vicinity for absolutely no other reason than he could. He had the power: that was a fact of life. But would he? People lied to themselves all the time. What made Hiko that much different from all the other ants in the farm, in that respect? He'd gotten complacent. Lured into a false sense of security by the era his progeny had created, or lulled by the lack of ugly outward things to the eye. That he by extension had made possible, through the tiniest choice of walking the scenic path up his mountain one night. Because he wanted a sorry breath of fresh air. He could have killed Hitokiri Battousai before he ever took a single breath. He could have saved hundreds — no, doomed the same number of a completely different smattering of people — by wiping out the rot to which flies flocked, by levelling the playing field for history to run its bloody course; and all of this could have been done with the equivalent of him lifting a finger, if only at the right time.

If nothing mattered, then only principles did. Principles, which at its core, were choices. He chose not to kill Kenshin when he spat in the face of Hiten Mitsurugi ryu. When Kenshin had draped the sword Hiko armed him with in the flag of revolution: a Choshu brand of revolution. When he had disrespected all twelve of their forebears. He, Seijuro, chose to let him go. Not only that, he chose to put a warm haori coat near the door where even an idiot couldn't miss it, because it was a bit chilly outside. Could he kill Kenshin? Hiko Seijuro's delusions were over. That was about the one thing he could not ever bring himself to do. It would be easier to kill himself. He'd considered it before. In fact, it had won out before.

For some reason, he remembered with startling, vivid sensation the absolute murderous rage he was in when he saw Kenshin hadn't taken the warm haori. Hiko was much angrier then than when Kenshin refused to take this cloak off his back.

The spitting image of Kenshin pulled his red-brown head from the window. He eyed Hiko like he hadn't just been considering killing his father.

"Kenji wants to go out," he said in a small voice. Kenji bounded back to Hiko with a hop and a skip. "…Want dango."

Hiko sighed. "I'm sure the ninja in this place are perfectly willing to serve you food."

"I really want dango."

"I can take you to this inn's restaurant."

"But they don' have dango. I want dango."

"If it was on the menu here, I would order it. Alas, it is not."

Then, again, with the kind of conviction someone had only when they have worked out some truth about the universe, helpless against it like a mite on a breeze, a leaf down a stream it had no control over, Kenji said, "Papa said I can't have Kyoto dango."

Completely thrown off by the inanity of that, Hiko frowned. Speechless.

"Wh…what's wrong with Kyoto dango?"

A memory.

It got muddled on the old bridge upon Kamo River in Kyoto. The numbers he used to count in his head. It was like a little game.

"Keep moving, baka deshi," his master said, corners of his mouth curling into a condescending smirk, "if you fail to make twenty do not expect to come inside."

Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth was not a man of empty threats.

"Count."

"One." Kenshin slashed his sword. "Two." He struck again, the force of his motion blowing the leaves harshly back in a sudden jolt. "Three."

"Faster."

"Four."

The same four strokes. Up, down, left, right, diagonal; shifting footwork, evasion. They were basic moves, the easiest kata there was. Kenshin had made these same motions a thousand times before, and he would perform them a thousand times more. If there was a time he did know this kata, he could scarcely remember it. He was Himura Kenshin, a disciple to a swordsman, and he had always known this kata, had always counted his strokes.

Three years ago he was the son of farmers. He spoke like the peasants. He had never held a sword before. Three years was a very long time ago.

Then Hiko stepped in to test him. He never let up, not even a little. He expected nothing less than perfection and was not in the least bit concerned about letting Kenshin know it.

"Five." Kenshin struck. Hiko met him back this time, pushing his training sword down and then ruthlessly catching his open shoulder with the flat side of the blade. Kenshin had to learn to move fast, or nurse bruises.

(He had also gotten very good at nursing bruises.)

"Six." Kenshin spun, and before Hiko could catch him in the back he defended himself with a parry.

"Not bad," Hiko remarked. He tilted his sword and re-centred Kenshin's for him, "Now again. Faster. Until you stop thinking."

Until he stopped thinking?

"…Six…seven—"

Hiko swivelled, sending the tip of his sheath to Kenshin's ankle: a hard, unforgiving crack. "Don't miscount."

How could he be counting and not think at the same time?

Hiko Seijuro was not patient enough to explain. Instead, he showed him. That was how he learned. Hiko performed the set once, maybe twice, and then landed in front of Kenshin with a soft tap on his cheek with his sword. It radiated cold. He didn't flinch, because that only made things worse.

"Did you manage to see every attack?"

"Of course."

"How many?"

"…Twenty strikes."

"Wrong."

And then Hiko hooked Kenshin's feet and sent him crashing into the dirt. But Kenshin was well versed in being tossed into the dirt, he went with the motion, one hand supporting his body, retaliating with a twist and kick. It had worked the first time — he'd hit Hiko in the jaw and it was the most satisfying thing in the world. It did not work this second time. Hiko just hooked Kenshin's wrist with his shoe instead, and he tumbled into the dust twice as hard.

Kenshin grimaced. He bit down his yelp. Because that only made things worse, too.

Hiko huffed, amused. Kenshin went for his sword. Hiko kicked it out of the way. He put a well-placed boot to his back, pinning him. Another cold tap of sword in his face.

Slap.

"You're not even paying attention. If you cannot see your opponent's attacks, how do you expect to defend against them? If you cannot count correctly, how will you learn the next set?"

Kenshin scoffed. "I am paying attention."

"Then you have managed the impossible." Hiko removed his sword. "You have fooled me."

So Kenshin watched and practiced and counted, day in, day out, until one day he was no longer Himura Kenshin, a disciple of a swordsman. He was Hitokiri Battousai, shadow assassin to the Ishin Shishi. He was the son of revolution. He did not remember what it was like to not have killed before. He was trained for this.

Near the centre of Kyoto was Sanjo Bridge, wide enough to shepherd over three carriages at once and strong enough to hold two cannons and a quarter-battalion of Bakufu soldiers and Shinsengumi all crowded around. On the opposite side, Hitokiri Battousai stood with the Ishin Shishi. It was the first time he'd ever seen a cannon, let alone two.

The game, as Hiko put it, had gotten harder and harder. Kenshin was made to count his strokes, count them until he could continuously strike without being finished off by Hiko in two blows. It had forced him to strike with such amazing speed that the only indication an attack had being launched was the soft, sure click of a sword sliding back into its sheath. It had honed him into the kind of swordsman that moved and reacted rather than thinking out a step by step procedure; he did not think of his sword, he did not think of footwork; he just was. The strikes came to him naturally, like a perfected song. Like breathing.

(Alone, far away from that rundown little hut in an isolated clearing, away from the sting of cold waterfall that supposedly soothed his cramped muscles, it finally dawned on a boy apprentice what the counting meant. Their style was designed for one to fight many. Hiko had told him. Without hedging words, with not a hint of regret, Hiko had said: Hiten Mitsurugi ryu will make you a mass killer. The counting was not just a game. Each strike was one body down, one opponent dealt with. Precisely one kill. This truth came to Kenshin before he'd ever killed anyone. Kenshin was, and always had been, completely informed of what his skills were.)

He never blamed Hiko for this. For — any of this. Kenshin knew, from the very moment Hiko put a sword in his hands — not a wooden stick, not a bokken; a real, noble samurai sword in a roadside slave boy's hands — that he absolutely was going to carry out his words.

That Kenshin was being offered a chance at something he'd so greedily wanted before he was even old enough to voice what that was. To be something more. To do something more.

And he'd lapped it up like dirty water in his village.

He was grateful.

On the bridge there was gunfire and embers and shots of cannon, broken only by sounds of the ragged shouting and screaming of three dozen or so men. The orders: kill as many as you can before retreat. It was time to count. Battousai jumped over the line and started from where he'd left off.

"Eighty four."

He spun, swiping his blade cleanly beneath a man's chin, sidestepping and leaving before the body had even fallen. "Eighty five."

He evaded a spearman to the side, jerking left and then thrusting from underneath an arm. "Eighty six."

(The slight shock of a cannon hurtling past his head. Something loud crashing and heat furling alive behind him, grazing his back. The threadbare parts of his gi blackening, on fire. Kenshin had been jerked away, his teeth clattering violently in his head as he was thrown forward. It wasn't the heat or the skinned palms or splinter on his collarbone that startled him. It was the awful, aching ringing. The ringing that threw him off his composure, thrusting him into a loud yet deaf world, where everything was still much the same. One of the cannons fired off wrong — it bit into the wood, crashed through the foundations — and the bridge collapsed in the middle, throwing half of the fight into the river.)

He'd gotten lucky, caught a handhold on the half of the bridge that didn't collapse. Kenshin heaved himself up, knelt to gasp in lungfuls of air. Someone used the moment to nick his ankle with a blunted sword, and Kenshin — Battousai — swivelled furiously, resurfacing from the confusion. Battousai parried the next strike, ending it on the second. His body leapt back into action, going through unthinking motions as he plowed down enemies. In a way, the moment had made him immune to the cannon fire, instinct pulsing through him like blood. Gunfire clattered to the ground, but he couldn't hear it anymore. There was no time to even count. Kenshin's mind went near blank. He killed.

At the end of it all, his ears were left ringing in the moment where the cannons had gone off, someone else's blood dripping down his neck.

"How many….how many," he murmured.

The dead were circled around him. He couldn't see faces or wounds, he couldn't match it all to the numbers. The realisation came to him. All of a sudden he was overcome with a primal, absolute need to follow the discipline drilled into him all those years ago. He was lost, crazed, even, by the thought of the numbers, the numbers.

He had to count, like a secret kata, like a spinning top wavering, another one of a dozen little rituals he indulged in to keep sane…

Sanjo Bridge collapsed, sending a tumble of wheels and metal and bodies into the Kamo River.

That was the day he stopped counting how many he'd slain.

At the end of the game, when Hiko got bored of watching Kenshin's kata, he sat him down on the log. His hands were utterly shredded. Red and stinging and oozing blisters.

"It's getting everywhere," Hiko chided. "Brace yourself."

Hiko held Kenshin's hands in his and poured his nightly sake over them. Kenshin winced and yelled in pain.

"That's what you get when you fail to learn the techniques correctly. Why do you still need to think about the intricacies of the same strike after a hundred, two hundred strokes?" Hiko huffed loudly, released Kenshin's hands, and calmed down before he finished bandaging him. "Ridiculous."

"Three hundred and twenty five."

"What?"

Kenshin lifted his head. "Three hundred and twenty five strokes. I'm trying," he muttered. "I'm trying."

"Well try harder," Hiko said.

He took off, back to the hut. Kenshin counted the steps Hiko took until he could no longer see him.

That night after Sanjo Bridge had collapsed, after he'd killed more in one night than he ever had at once, he'd retreated back to headquarters. Over a rowdy dinner with war tested Ishin Shishi lined up and down the largest room, a cheerful, sake-tipsy comrade slapped him on the back and slurred aloud, "What's the number now, Battousai?"

But Battousai could no longer recall.

A Shishi laughed, slamming a palm to the ground. "Hah! Higher than you could ever dream of yours being!"

"Hey, hey, let the man live! What's the number, Himura?!"

"I've fergotten too! What's it now— the count—"

He had no gag reflex. Kenshin put down his chopsticks, curled over, and threw up right in his lap in one single, smooth heave.

"Hahaha!"

"Lightweight, huh?"

"Hahah — it looks like Battousai can't hold his drink!" the Shishi laughed.

He didn't drink, because it all tasted like…like—

"Blood," Megumi said quietly, and Kenshin startled out his reverie.

Where was he? Mount Atago. The hut in the clearing.

Megumi lifted the old potter's rag she found on a shelf and wrung water into a bucket. "—So hard to get out of things." Bent in a ball on the floor, she began scrubbing the wooden planks with the wet rag. "Hard to get it out of the wood, hard to get it out of tatami mats, harder yet to get it off your hands, hahah," she said with a lilt to her voice.

Kenshin stirred, sitting up from the bundles of blankets piled over him.

"Oh," Megumi started, and sat up. "Did you hear…I mean…that was careless of me."

"No," Kenshin said. "It's nothing."

It was the late hours of the afternoon. He had taken everyone to show them where the well was to get water. Then they all came back to the hut, lying in wait. Hiko still hadn't returned, and the five of them had gotten antsy waiting in the small hut. Kenshin had picked a square corner of wall without pots and sat against it to think. To his horror, he'd actually drifted into some restless half-sleep. Someone had draped way too many blankets over him — he folded them away in a hot sweat he wished was only because of the blankets.

Outside, he could hear Sano, Kaoru and Yahiko talking faintly. "I don't want to eat turnip soup anymore. Can't we just eat Aoiya food?" "Unless you're going to cover the expenses, Sano, no." "I don't want turnips either. Can't you just cook something else Kaoru?" "Pretty big request to make to your shishou, Yahiko." "Whatever. It's not like you were going to cook it anyway. Kenshin would've."

Megumi, for whatever reason, had occupied herself with scrubbing the leakage from the burlap bag. She looked at Kenshin as if he'd caught her doing house chores, and she was embarrassed it was not immaculate before a guest walked in. The funny thing was, this was Kenshin's childhood home (that he'd broken into without a shred of remorse) and Megumi was supposed to be the guest.

"How long was this one asleep?" Kenshin asked sheepishly.

"Just an hour or two." Megumi smiled. "How are you feeling? Maybe you need to take more time to rest."

Kenshin huffed, shook his head. "That I most certainly do not." He gestured to the rag. "Please, Megumi-dono. Let this lowly one relieve you."

Megumi ignored him, scrubbing on merrily. Kenshin quickly took another rag, joined her, and after more than a decade, began scrubbing these floors again. They worked like that for a long, silent time.

"Can I…ask you a question, Ken-san?"

Kenshin turned to her with a bewildered look. Megumi was never…tentative towards Kenshin, she never asked him anything — she talked at him and Kenshin was glad to be a receptacle. It hurt a little she had to say that.

"Of course," Kenshin said with some force. "Of course, Megumi-dono. Please."

She regarded him a moment. But then her brows creased against herself. As though she were faintly scandalised at whatever thoughts she was narrowly about to set loose out in the open. Instead, she said in a careful, level tone, "What are we doing here, Ken-san?"

Kenshin blinked. An awful feeling settled in his stomach. Megumi, kind but forward Megumi, had been so careful to be nothing but forbearing this entire trip; even though Kenshin had been chokingly aware of how angry her ki was — tiny and flickering like a candle flame refusing to die — when he'd broken the news she was uninvited to Kenji's birthday celebration due to unforeseen circumstances.

"Murders? What murders? Let me speak to the officers—"

"Megumi-dono, no…"

Megumi tapped two fingers on her crossed arms, waiting for his answer.

"This one is here to speak to his shishou, that he is."

"Yes, I know, but," Megumi pursed her lips, brushing her fringe out of the way. "You're going to have to fight him. Aren't you?"

"If it comes to that."

This was about his body, wasn't it? Kenshin knew she knew exactly what condition he was in — Hiten Mitsurugi ryu was still available to him and would be for some years yet. He didn't feel that incapacitated…did he look particularly pathetic against Saito? Did he mess up in front of her? Kenshin sat up straighter, wondering if he'd stopped slouching he'd look a little less like he had one foot in the grave.

"Megumi-dono," Kenshin started, "If you're worried about Hiten Mitsurugi ryu—"

"I'm asking you if there's any point in you being here," Megumi said shortly. "Can you really fight this man?"

Kenshin pulled back. Fight Hiko Seijuro? It was not a smart idea. But of course he could. He used to fight Hiko every day. Physically. Verbally. Hell — that used to be his specialty.

"There may be no one else who can stand a chance. I have to do something." Kenshin swallowed. "I am a practitioner of Hiten Mitsurugi ryu. Even if this one refused the title…he is beholden to its teachings."

"…I see."

Kenshin licked his lips anxiously.

Changing the subject, Megumi stood. She vaulted to the table where a letter sat. As she held it out to Kenshin, he realised the letter's seal was already broken.

"So I might have been digging," Megumi started. "Don't give me that look. Who's here to get offended? But — look what I found."

Kenshin took the letter limply. Even if he was here to confront Hiko about murders, it didn't exactly feel great to be going through his letters and things…

A letter.

Suddenly Kenshin snapped awake. Who on earth would send Hiko letters? Hiko didn't even have an address. He tore open the seal a second time, unfolded the paper with ravenous abandon—

12 January 1880

Honoured Shishou,

Your unfilial deshi writes to you hoping this letter finds you well. He writes to inform you of a jubilant occasion. He would like to invite—

Oh. Right. Kenshin wrote this.

Kenshin tore his eyes away from the letter, cringing hard before stuffing it back into the envelope as if prolonged exposure might flay his fingers. A great deal of embarrassment rushed over him, turning him a bright shade of red. Ripe for Megumi's judgement.

But Megumi mercifully pretended not to notice, busying herself with skimming the letter again. "I didn't know you'd invited your swordsmanship master."

"Yes. Well," Kenshin huffed. "That was a long time ago."

"Honoured Shishou," Megumi began to read, and Kenshin felt something inside of him die, "Your unfilial deshi writes to you…bla, bla, bla…something something Kaoru-dono…something something marriage…We want very much for you to attend. Enclosed is a train ticket to Tokyo City from Kyoto Central Station. Your presence is wished at our ceremony," Megumi looked up. "—In the place of this one's father."

Kenshin, beet-red now, gave Megumi a deep, defeated look. "Must you read it out loud, Megumi-dono? This one wrote that when he was mad, that I did."

Kenshin slapped a hand over his face, and feeling like a traitor, laughed artificially. Play it off as a bad joke. Make a fool of himself. That had always gotten him out of sticky situations. He thought Megumi might join in, laugh at his expense like she might do on a good day. But she did not.

"Oro," Kenshin said, forced. "It was a mistake."

Megumi folded the letter neatly, tucking it carefully back into the envelope with none of the poise Kenshin had. She couldn't hide her ki, but the best coverup by far was how she consistently acted casual, yet not quite, normal.

"Let's turn the clock back. Five years ago," Megumi started in a honeyed, indulgent voice. "You and Kaoru were getting married. A big — huge! — milestone for the both of you. You wanted to have a traditional wedding. I remember you lovebirds running around to the clinic, mouthing off at me to get advice."

Then she switched gears. She said, in the confidential tone of a doctor describing particularly awful symptoms without making it sound too depressing, "You wanted a ceremony, and you two wanted to do it right. Weddings required parents. No bride or groom invites people to their own wedding. Their fathers do. But Kaoru didn't have a father. So she managed to find her old caretaker, Oguni Gensai-san. Her old family doctor, good friends with her father. He watched her grow up. And you? You wrote this letter."

Kenshin didn't move. Feeling distinctly like an interrogation subject strapped to a seat, he nodded lethargically, betraying his secrets. "Yes. Yes, fine. I invited Hiko Seijuro. It was important to Kaoru-dono. We—she wanted to do it right."

Carefully, Megumi opened the first drawer on the dresser, placing the letter back where she found it.

"He never wrote back," Kenshin said noncommittally. He leaned forward, sighing in more embarrassment. "Honoured Shishou? Unfilial deshi? Bold words from this one, indeed. My shishou…" Kenshin said, staring at Megumi's feet, "…is a hard, vindictive man. He would no sooner drink from a cup I offer than he would leave this mountain to stop his 'deshi' from killing legions."

Kenshin stopped. Slowly, he put a hand to his mouth. What was he doing? Voicing these ugly thoughts. Things nobody needed to hear. And putting them on Megumi, as if she hadn't enough Kenshin-related problems to muse about. Had he no shame?

But Megumi shook her head. There was too much understanding in her eyes as she bobbed down, patting Kenshin's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to — to put you on the spot or anything. I just…Gosh. Nnm. I wish I hadn't said this. I wish I hadn't said any of this."

Megumi bunched her sleeves, crossing her ams and getting up.

She was a civilian, she couldn't help how her ki jumped and flickered, amplified a million times by Kenshin's own elevated vigilance and the emptiness for miles around on this remote mountain. Kenshin thought himself lucky on this count — if she could sense his ki she would be getting out her medical kit for how unbalanced it was right now. But it also meant he didn't have to try hide it.

"…There's something else you're not telling me," Kenshin said softly. Megumi stiffened. "What's wrong, Megumi-dono?" He lowered his eyes. Then he fought past himself, looking imploringly up at her. "Please, tell this lowly one."

Megumi paced the room. Finally, she stopped at the shelf with the san-san-kudo wedding cups. Megumi lifted the first in the set. The past, an offering of gratitude to ancestors and parents, blessing the couple's meeting. The cup Kaoru offered to Ogumi Gensai-san to also drink from, who gave his blessing to the union — the cup Kenshin offered to no one in their unconventional wedding.

"Read the date."

Kenshin did. "Made in 1880." He looked up. "Megumi-dono?"

Megumi just stared at him. Slowly, Kenshin connected the dots.

1880. The year he and Kaoru were married.

Hiko didn't make these cups to sell. Hiko didn't make these cups for show. Hiko made these san-san-kudo ceremonial cups for Kaoru and Kenshin's wedding.

He had…actually planned on coming.

Kenshin's stomach plummeted. Why?

"I thought he was just some man who taught you the sword. Now I know what he is to you, this is — the stupidest thing ever." Megumi folded her arms. "We didn't need to come here. You shouldn't have come. This is none of your fault — I'm sick of the government sticking their hands in your life."

"Not the government," Kenshin mumbled. "…This was a personal request."

"Why are we listening to Saito then?!" Megumi said shrilly.

She plodded herself down next to Kenshin, sighing in annoyance. "…I hate it when you use Hiten Mitsurugi ryu."

Kenshin swivelled to face her, his eyes wide.

"Ugh," Megumi grunted, "Look at me. Pestering. —What am I, Sano?" She laughed, high-pitched and humourless. "I don't want to be the nagging woman who tells you over and over you shouldn't fight. You shouldn't fight anymore, your body can't take it… I know Ken-san is fully aware. You love fighting," she said, and Kenshin frowned, unsure if she was right or not; but there was no time to ponder, "You love swordsmanship. You use your sword for protection. You even used it to save me."

Megumi huffed, her brows flying up as if that was a bad joke. "—But I can't let you fight Hiko Seijuro, Ken-san." She turned to him dejectedly. "…I'm saying this as your friend. Not your doctor. You can't fight Hiko Seijuro, because you won't be able to put your heart into it."

Couldn't put his heart into it?

This was too much. Did Megumi not know what Hiko Seijuro was? Did she not see the reach of his killing sword? Did she not know how Kenshin had been trained? How he was beaten to a pulp every other week by this man? How he made him count sword strokes until he threw up? Did she not know how Kenshin had gained the succession technique?

Of course not. No one knew Hiko Seijuro. Nobody on this earth knew him other than perhaps Kenshin. Nobody knew — not even Kenshin himself until this moment — how much hurt and anger Kenshin harboured for the man, deep down in his soul, balled into each fist at his side, swallowed like pride. How many bitter memories there were fighting to jump back to the surface, tear at his head like crows to shine.

"This one hears you, Megumi-dono," Kenshin said. He got up. "You must forgive me. But this lowly one is perfectly able to go against Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth."

Megumi got up too, watching him cross the room. But Kenshin did not flee. He did not leave. He simply placed the smallest san-san-kudo cup back snugly upon its place, completing the tower.

Honoured Shishou.

Unfilial deshi.

Kenshin shouldn't have written that letter. That was stupid. Humiliating.

At least that was the easiest lesson he'd learned yet from Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth. Hiko Seijuro had not wanted a son. He had trained a soldier. A vassal for Hiten Mitsurugi ryu. And when Kenshin didn't become the kind of soldier he wanted, he dropped him.

When you said you wouldn't carry on the Hiten Mitsurugi line, I was no longer your master, and you were no longer my disciple.

Forget I was ever your shishou.

And Kenshin did. For five years.

It had taken a long, long time to get here, but he finally knew who he was. He was Himura Kenshin, husband to a dojo instructor. He was a father now — a father to a wonderful, happy son. A son Kaoru named after Kenshin, and her own father, whom she loved and missed more than anything else. He knew what peace looked like. He knew what a family looked like. So he would fight for those things.

Kenshin would clear his name, and he'd do it for himself, too.

Kenshin went back and sat down. Megumi did too. She sat close, then leaned her head on his shoulder. Basking in dissatisfaction.

Could he put his heart into fighting Hiko Seijuro?

Kenshin could do better than that. He could put his back into it.

Notes:

The first bit presents a 'warabe uta,' a Japanese children's nursery rhyme. I must point out that I mix and matched the eng translation here to show a complete story in one verse.

:)