Rurouni Kenshin Fan Fiction ❯ Fevered Revelations ❯ Fevered Revelations ( Chapter 1 )

A/N: Just a cute, dramatic Kenshin/Hiko moment that popped into my head and wouldn’t let go. This was extremely fun to write (especially the Hiko parts) and decidedly less depressing than some of my other recent work. I wanted to illustrate a change in relationship dynamics, triggered by a single event. I love Kenshin and Hiko’s unique relationship: it’s parental, brotherly, student/teacher, caring, and sadistic all at once. I figured things didn’t start out that way, so here’s my humble interpretation. I also tried for some consistency (look out for bed-wetting, placebo medicine, and baka deshi references) Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did creating it!

Disclaimer: You mean I’m posting this on a fanfiction website, I’m not making any money, and the characters aren’t my own?! *clutches face in mock horror*

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Fevered Revelations

By Kenkaya


Go-juu-ichi, fifty-one. Go-juu-ni, fifty-two.

Steel cut sharply through the air with each swing. Labored breath echoed across the dark clearing, thick clouds shrouding silver starlight that normally shone down on the mountain nightscape.

Go-juu-san, fifty-three. Go-juu-yon, fifty-four.

Red strands, slick with sweat, swished in front of the boy’s eyes; each violent motion completing another pendulum. His arms ached, underdeveloped biceps and pectorals protesting the vigorous workout. But the pain was nothing compared to his hands. The excruciating bite of open blisters all up and down his palm, a burning line of friction against uncalloused skin. Nearly two weeks of practice and his tiny body still wasn’t accustomed to the strength of a real sword.

Go-juu-go, fifty-five. Go-juu-roku, fifty-six.

A roll of thunder sounded in the distance. The boy ignored it. He was obsessed, devoured by the desire to become stronger; that single vice was the only thing left to him.

The metal blade snapped piercingly against the wind as he brought it through another downward arc. Little more than a year had passed since the man called Hiko took him under wing; shielded him from a world that had all but succeeded in stealing his family, his freedom, and (given the chance) his life. Now a pupil of the Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu, the boy had determination and purpose; but even that wasn’t enough to deter the nightmares.

Whoosh! Another heavy slash, followed by the grind of clenched teeth. He would master the katana, just as he mastered the stick. He had to if he ever hoped to gain the power to protect.

Live, Shinta.

Again, the boy sliced, cutting through the memory of three young women slaughtered before his very eyes; his edge met nothing. They bestowed upon him the ultimate gesture of love, defending him with their own bodies--- and still he was weak, unable to prevent such a horror from ever happening again.

Plip. A single drop of water fell from the sky, dribbling down the digit of his thumb like an angel’s tear. The boy’s exercise didn’t change. His eyes were fierce, a cold steely blue instead of the usual vibrant amethyst. Onward he pushed his tiny body, hardly noticing when one drop became many.

Shinta was afraid. Afraid of the desperate brown gaze that haunted his dreams, of disappointing the giant man he had everything to thank for, of a future where he failed them all. That fear was enough to block out the sheet of wetness as it draped over the earth around him.

Numbers became meaningless; the boy had lost count anyway. Rain water mixed with the perspiration on his brow, running in cool rivulets along heated skin. His movements, which had first held the grace of a much practiced step, soon gave way to the frantic actions of an anxious child.

He lunged, a strangled cry escaping through white-pressed lips. Still, no matter how he tried, the dead weight of his blade couldn’t beat back the lingering nightmares. Couldn’t erase those final words of a dying woman.

Live, Shinta.

The katana slipped through icy numb fingers, clattering unceremoniously to the ground. The boy followed soon after, sprawling across the dirt, letting the cloudburst rinse away the sweat off his body. His lungs burned, nose already hopelessly clogged and runny, as air circulated in loud, gulping gasps.

A few minutes passed before Shinta was calm enough to think clearly again. Sitting up slowly, head bowed humbly, he felt ashamed. What would Hiko think if he saw his prize pupil now? Squatting in the mud as he ran circles of fear around a memory? Some swordsman he was turning out to be.

Finally, soaked through and shivering from cold, the young boy rose to his feet, stumbling as his brain pulsated and spun. The short journey across barely registered in Shinta’s muddled mind. Clumsily, he pushed the door flap aside; but the gesture offered no relief from the chill set deep in his bones. The evening fire had long since burned low and the single room hut was as cold as it was dark.

Suddenly feeling quite hot, Shinta fumbled over to the mat in the far corner. Loud snores from the adjacent wall pounded against buzzing ears. Fatigue brushing common sense aside, Shinta couldn’t see, didn’t care about the pale sleeping yukata hastily crumpled at the foot of his bed.

He fell.

Without a second thought, Shinta collapsed atop disheveled blankets. The world rocked beneath him, giving one the sensation of lying in the belly of a storm-tossed ship. Water seeped through the crude futon from his saturated green gi, enveloping the boy in a haze of damp and cold.

Shinta didn’t mind. Barely noticed, in fact. He closed veiled violet eyes and immediately fell into a deep sleep.

Hiko awoke at the crack of dawn to the sounds of his roof being assaulted. Sheets of rain pounded mercilessly against tight thatching, causing the large man beneath to groan miserably. At this rate, he would probably be forced to breakout his meager carpentry skills once the storm had passed.

The burly swordsman rolled over, silky black strands fanning out in a wide arc behind him. Getting out of bed wasn’t his biggest priority at the moment. The air around his face was crisp and chill, promising painfully bitter cold once protective blankets were removed. Of course, Hiko knew the problem could easily be fixed if he just got up and stoked the fire; but he saw no reason to put himself out when he was perfectly comfortable where he was. The boy could do it. Maybe, the master thought with a smirk, he could even get the kid to do his handy work on the roof for him.

Speaking of the devil---

Hiko peered over his shoulder, piercing slate eyes scanning the barren room until they fell upon a small figure huddled in the corner. The early morning light, obscured by grey overcast, offered him barely more than a silhouette of the sleeping child. Strange, he thought, usually the boy woke him up by now with poorly concealed, incriminating movements. Hiko suppressed a grimace. Had he known his pupil would turn out to be a serial bed-wetter, he might have had second thoughts about taking the little pest in.

A guttural moan violently interrupted the man’s thoughts.

“Oi, Kenshin!” Hiko rose when the boy didn’t respond. Flinging aside the warmth of his blankets, the disgruntled swordsman stood tall and imposing. Irately, he stomped toward the cot in the corner; fully prepared to shake his stupid student free of whatever silly nightmare had taken root until the runt’s brain was too rattled and traumatized to ever dare pull a stunt like that again. Mornings were definitely not Hiko’s friend.

“Oi! Wake---” he stopped mid-sentence. Dark brows furrowed, the Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu master immediately knew something was wrong.

The boy lay sprawled; face pressed against the wall and dressed in his training clothes. He was uncovered, shivering atop wrinkled blankets as his breath came in short, labored spurts. Hiko knelt cautiously, placing a steadying hand on the makeshift mattress. He drew back in an instant, hard mouth pressed into a thin line. The material beneath his fingers had been unmistakably wet.

A robust arm reached out, grabbed the boy’s shoulder (damp as the bedding, Hiko promptly noted), and pulled him on his back. Matted vermillion hair stuck to a thin face flushed almost the same brilliant hue, lips pasty and cracked in sharp contrast. Hiko felt a strange twinge reverberate through his chest when the boy opened hazy purple to stare down his sharp silver. Eyes seeing but not seeing: the eyes of one lost outside reality.

“Shi--- shou?” he croaked, barely above a whisper. The word proved too much for his small body to take, and the boy broke out in violent fits of coughing.

“Shit!” Hiko cursed vehemently. Awkwardly, he hoisted the choking child into a sitting position against one large arm. The giant almost sighed with relief as hacking subsided into raspy gulps of air, only to feel a wave of panic forming when the full impact of his situation finally hit.

Hiko Seijirou the 13th had many hidden skills outside swordsmanship: he considered himself an excellent potter, a master at holding down his sake, an above average cook, and (though he’d deny it with every fiber of his being) a decent housekeeper. Caring for a sick child was definitely not on the list.

The boy shuddered and Hiko became suddenly aware of the cool moisture spreading through his sleeve. At a loss for anything else to do, he decided the least he could do was change his charge into a dry set of clothes. The yukata at the end of the bed hardly seemed a good first choice, but (seeing as he didn’t know where the boy stored a spare change of clothes) it would have to do. He stripped the small body, so cold compared to the heated face above, wrapped a pale robe around the shivering form and wondered frantically what else he should do. Narrow eyes darted from corner to corner in a frenzy; searching almost desperately for a sign, a hint, anything.

A low whimper escaped the child as he curled subconsciously against Hiko’s bulk for warmth. The gesture was enough to give the swordsman focus. Glaring pointedly at the wet bedding, he realized (a bit grudgingly) that his own bed was the only option for the sick boy.

“Damn it!” Hiko cussed up a storm violent enough to match the hail outside as he lumbered through the unfamiliar actions of tucking his ward in. When he finished displaying his pathetic lack of talent in the “fatherly-figure” department, the swordsman proceeded to rummage through the chest at the foot of his futon until he produced an extra, moth eaten blanket. He draped it uncharacteristically gentle over the curled child.

“Damn brat! Stealing my bed,” he grumbled as he settled down on the floor nearby to think. “Alright--- the kid’s bundled up--- put to bed. Now what?”

If the torrent outside had been any less, crickets would have filled the following silence with cliché enthusiasm.

“N--- nee--- chan,” a hoarse voice drifted from the bedding. Hiko peered down in frustration, wondering who the young orphan could possibly be referring to. A harsh truth, that he knew practically nothing about the boy’s earlier years, suddenly occurred to him. He shifted uncomfortably (humbled by the realization) and wary dark eyes happened by chance to land on frighteningly red cheeks. Jerkily, he raised a large hand to touch the child’s brow. Every muscle in his oversized body winced visibly at the feel of burning skin beneath steady fingers.

The timid touch stirred a distant memory reluctantly set in the recesses of Hiko’s mind. Taking note from the faded images of his youth, the 13th hustled to follow the 12th’s suit: grabbing a curved pan from the handmade cupboard and stepping outside briefly to fill it with cool rainwater. He re-entered to find the frail body on his bed tossing, turning violently as names spilled from a painfully-sounding parched throat. The boy called out for the mysterious afore mentioned “sister,” his parents, and (much to the giant man’s surprise) for Hiko. The meek entreaty left behind a pleasant warmth deep inside the sword master’s chest.

Still, Hiko pushed the distracting feeling aside, barely pausing in his actions as he swept across the room. He grabbed several spare rags before swiftly wetting them, and knelt down once more by the futon. He proceeded to pin down flailing limbs, wiping layers of cold sweat off the boy’s face with a damp cloth. His strokes were slow and unsure at first, but soon grew more confident as the child calmed under his ministrations. The small frame beneath him stilled after a few minutes, filling the hap-hazard caretaker with immense relief. He re-soaked his makeshift towel before folding it carefully over the tiny forehead.

Hiko leaned back; task done. A natural peace seemed to filter through the quaint hut, broken only by the pitter-patter above and raspy breathing below. His ears tuned in on the latter sound scratching against his senses. A classic smirk lit up the man’s face as he remembered the rough words uttered earlier.

“Ah! I know how to handle that.”

Turning to check the hearth, steel orbs widened as he noticed the dying embers. In the midst of his flustered reaction, Hiko had completely forgotten about the fire. Frigid air assaulted the man and he was brutally reminded of his own comfort.

“Shit!” the man swore, disbelief laced through his exclamation. He quickly clamored over the short distance, grabbed a nearby stick, and coxed the flames to life. He watched sullenly as the blaze grew. For the first time in his life, Hiko had put another’s wellbeing before his own. Without a second thought. The very act, so new and unlike him, left a discerning knot at the pit of his stomach.

Why should he go this much out of his way for the boy? Oh, he wasn’t completely heartless. The master had no intention of kicking his ailing student out of the dry bed. Understood the boy needed the spare blanket and cool cloth to keep his temperature in check. But why should he feel so uneasy? Why let something common like illness sidetrack him from his everyday routine? As long as Hiko kept up basic care and didn’t neglect his ward, the sickness would surely run its course.

A feeble cough dissolved all his self-serving notions. He didn’t utter a single complaint as he scrambled to set a pot over the fire and gathered ingredients for simple dashi.

Nearby, the rustle of movement bounced though the young boy’s skull; sounding five times louder than it should in his wool-stuffed brain. He rolled sideways, intending to ask the noise for silence, but a rattling moan was all his sandpaper pipe yielded. Heavy lids creaked open as the child grew more aware by seconds. Only to instantly shut them. Pain: the dim cabin light bore behind his sockets like a drill, the headache from before paling in comparison. Desperate for relief, he burrowed into the sheets, seeking blessed darkness.

“Oi Kenshin, get up,” a cautious tap brought the youth crashing back to the physical agony of reality. Slowly, bleary purple revealed themselves, having learned their lesson last time. A large hand sliding between his shoulders blades was the boy’s only warning before being pushed upward; his vision swam against an undertow as shapes gradually began to form. He blinked a few times and realized with disappointment that the action did nothing for his pounding head.

“Eat.”

A ceramic bowl filled with hot broth was unceremoniously shoved against his lips. The diligent hand inched up his spine to tilt his neck, forcing the scorching liquid down his gullet. He choked at first, but let the contents slip across his tongue when a numbing warmth started to spread. Too soon, the soup ran out and he found himself eased back on the mattress; a soothing coolness weighed down on his brow.

“Shishou?” the child inquired, secretly relishing in his ability to speak again. He glanced askance, hardly noticing the strange sight the man made wearing his white mantle wrapped around a sky blue sleeping yukata. His master smiled and the boy was too far gone to consider the idea he might be dreaming.

“Go to sleep,” the adult commanded in his usual gruff tone. The child was more than happy to comply.

He awoke moments later when a cup of tea was thrust under his nose. Unable to resist in his groggy state, the boy gulped the hot beverage down. He just managed to drift off afterwards only to have a soft shake rouse him. Sitting up on shaky arms, he almost passed out as fine powder exploded in his mouth.

“Wha--- was that?!” he gasped, trying vainly to ignore the sensation of broken glass rolling down his throat.

“Medicine,” came the brusque response. “It’ll make you feel better,” another cup of tea was imposed on him. “Now get some more rest.”

The youth closed his eyes, allowing the warm drink to wash away the grit on his tongue. He recalled Hiko waking him once more to sip broth before dreams finally claimed him.

Birdsong brought him to the land of the living again. Blinking open sleep-clouded violet, he sat up; covers falling off petite shoulders to pool across his lap. The first detail to catch him was sunlight streaming through the matted doorway. His face twisted in confusion, attempting to comprehend the sight through a bought of light-headedness. What happened to the rain?

A shadow suddenly blockaded the light before the mat was swept away to reveal Hiko Seijirou in all his glory. The man strode inside confidently, clutching something deep in the hidden folds of his cloak.

“Ah, I see you’re awake, baka deshi.”

“Oro?” the boy immediately clapped both hands over his mouth in horror. He hadn’t made that sound in a while, not since his parents died. The exclamation of surprise had been a goofy quirk left over from early childhood; he briefly remembered his mother once telling him she found it extremely cute. But his ‘oro’ became one of many innocent signs lost in a year of death and slave trade. He flushed royally, unsure how the burly man would react.

A barking laugh broke through the youth’s rumination. He peeked up to see Hiko shaking with mirth, the initial guffaw winding down to an amused chuckle as he turned scolding eyes on his young apprentice. The redhead bowed from opposing sources of shame.

“Why did you call me that?” the boy asked meekly to cut the tension. His master had never referred to him as an idiotic pupil flat out before.

“Because you are,” was the simple answer. A dull thud on wooden floorboards brought the child’s attention to his bedside. Startled eyes landed on the katana he practiced with the previous night.

“Only a stupid apprentice would leave his weapon out in the rain overnight,” Hiko admonished. “A sword will never let you down as long as it’s properly maintained. Looks like I’m gonna have to give you a lesson in how to take care of your things.”

One look at the reproachful recipient brought a twitching smirk to the swordsman’s lips. He plopped down cross-legged, giving a long winded sigh before continuing, “But I’ll have to lecture you later. Better that you get well first.”

“Well?” the boy’s amethyst orbs darted to and fro. His position in Hiko’s bed and the dry yukata he now wore finally dawned on him. Memories scattered by fever delirium cemented the obvious truth as he peered up in wonder at the man’s hardened face. Unnecessarily, he voiced aloud, “You looked after me?”

“Of course,” Hiko snorted. “Who else could have?”

His blunt statement left the younger one at a loss for words. The chirp and hum of wildlife surrounded them as Hiko reached to his left for an uncorked jug of sake.

“Your fever finally broke late last night,” he paused to take a hearty swig of the clear liquor. “But you didn’t eat much yesterday except broth and your body’s probably still weak from fighting illness. You need to build your strength back up. I want you to stay in bed today, but don’t think for a minute that you’re off the hook. I still plan to find out just what the Hell you were doing in the middle of the night with the katana I gave you.”

The man rose in a fluid motion that belittled his size. Performing a smooth pivot, he tossed over his broad side, “I’ll hang your futon outside to dry properly while the sun’s still out. Get yourself some sleep, Kenshin.”

Hiko strutted the short distance and began gathering musty materials for his chore. He was mere steps away from the door when a soft intonation stopped him.

“I had a bad dream.”

The earth seemed to halt, as if in reverence to the momentous occurrence inside a quaint mountainside shelter. The boy trembled, scarlet bangs obscuring his fearful expression. Hiko, to his credit, stood firm and listened.

“I had a bad dream--- and I--- I just needed to get it out. I need to get stronger. Stronger so the bad dreams don’t happen anymore--- so I don’t just stand there and make new ones.”

“I see,” his teacher murmured with a slight nod. The man lifted his steely gaze to the ceiling, a somber expression gracing his features.

“You may not like what I’m about to tell you, Kenshin--- but death is the only known in life. That’s the harsh reality. If you travel the path I lead you on, as a sword wielder, you will see more than your fair share in the future. I can’t promise that I’ll be able to make you strong enough to prevent your nightmares from coming true. But I can at least promise you the ability to make a difference.”

“Thank you, Shishou,” Kenshin smiled as his master’s silhouette made a hasty retreat. “For everything.”

He rolled over on the bed and, for the first time in days, Kenshin closed his eyes to peaceful sleep.

Owari
(The End)