Rurouni Kenshin Fan Fiction ❯ The Crooked Path Series ❯ III. Lessons ( Chapter 3 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

This is the third story in a series of vignettes I've decided to call the "Crooked Path" series. Yeah, I know. I suck at titles. -_-; In any case, I probably should've called this fic "Lynch"... but that's for you to decide. *grins* C&C are very much adored.

Rating: PG

Generic Yasmin-fic warning: I am not a nice romantic. You have been warned.

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The embroidered willow trees on her silk kimono caught the sunlight as she moved, reminding him of breezy days and the cold water of spring streams. Paper rustled in his hands, the sound captured in stillness for a brief, dream-like moment. His pen fell, rolling across the table.

Slim, elegant fingers halted its movement. "Sanosuke? Sanosuke!"

"Hn? Ah?" Sano blinked, flushing at the reproving look in the woman's hazel eyes. "Sorry, Fujiwara- sensei. I, uhm..."

"Haven't been paying attention," Fujiwara Ryouko finished, removing her wire-rimmed spectacles and setting them on top of a leather-bound book. She steepled her hands, regarding the young man steadily. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he muttered sullenly, tugging at his hakama. Fujiwara had insisted that he wear "proper clothes" for their lessons, but the simple kimono and hakama still felt strange to him even after three months.

She arched a delicate eyebrow at him, leaning across the table. The light flashed in her eyes, turning them golden. She waited.

"I saw him again today," he blurted out finally, unable to resist filling that uncomfortable silence. "With you-know-who."

His new lover, Sano's mind supplied. A deeper, raw wound in his heart added: Saitou got over their aborted relationship fast, like he always suspected. Like he always knew.

"Ah." Fujiwara inclined her head, tucking a long lock of hair behind one ear. She indicated the open books before them. "I am more than willing to lend a sympathetic ear, Sanosuke, but not at the cost of your studies." She frowned at him. "It's a waste of effort on both our parts."

"Excuse me for having feelings," he shot back. "What's the deal with 'The Tale of Genji', anyway? It's not like I'm going to be needing it -- I ain't wooing any women with any damn harp!"

"It's an important milestone in literature."

"It's boring. Can we move on to Heike Monogatari now?"

The older woman sighed. "You're missing the point," she scolded. "The worth of the tale -- and indeed of most literature -- is not in its intrinsic value, but how it reflects and reveal the circumstances under which it was created."

Sano stared, lost.

"Very well, then. Simple words." Fujiwara chuckled as he bristled, patting his hand. "Personally, Genji do not appeal to me as a character. Four women at once? How lovely. To me, the real appeal of the story lies in Murasaki's vision of the world she lived in, and her critique of it."

She stroked her chin lightly, thoughtfully. "The Heian era was a time of change. Cities blossomed, drawing people from the villages. Including women, who found themselves bereft of support from a larger community. They became powerless, easy prey for men. Marriage customs changed -- instead of the 'visiting marriages' common in the Nara era, men began to move women into their own houses to keep for themselves."

"But I don't know anything about this," Sano protested, wincing as he realized just how pathetic it sounded.

"That's because you haven't read history. The world isn't a collection of enclosed fortresses, Sano. Everything is linked together, feeding off each other until the question of cause and effect becomes moot."

Sano's head whirled, previously unfamiliar thoughts crowding his mind. Is that why people like Saitou were needed? So they could worry about the big things and leave people like him to deal with the small things?

"Is that why you're making me learn all this?" he asked. At her nod, he slumped, resting his chin on his hands. "I'm just a street kid, Fujiwara-san. I was a gangster. What the hell am I gonna do with literature and mathematics and history? What's the use?"

"Japan is changing," she began, a hint of passion colouring her normally smooth voice. "Far more rapidly than it did in the past -- the old ways are clinging on the best they can, but the needs of today are different from that of yesterday's."

"Change's not always good," he grumbled. "And anyway, you didn't answer my question."

He expected Fujiwara to deliver one of her cool speeches, but she surprised him by laying her kodachi on the table. The hazel-eyed woman drew out the blade from its sheath, holding it for Sano's inspection.

"For a weapon to be of any use, it must be fully capable of doing its appointed task: to kill. The blade of my kodachi is sharp for now, but in a few years it will need the services of a whetstone. Perhaps in a few decades, it will acquire a new hilt, or a new scabbard. It will change, becoming something else. But it needs to change, or it will be just another useless piece of metal."

Fujiwara re-sheathed the sword. "Do you know why I sent Hana-chan to the Kamiya dojo, Sanosuke?"

He scratched his head. "She'll never be a swordsman, that's for sure."

"Not for lack of trying. My late husband's choice for her name was most unsuitable," she chuckled, thinking of her fierce daughter. "But you are right. She will never wield the sword in battle. However, the discipline and courage taught in the art will be of use one day. It is a means to an end, not an end in itself."

Her chameleon gaze pierced him. "When you came to me asking for lessons, I did not intend for you to memorize reams of poetry," she said gently. "You will not find a use for Murasaki while haggling for fish. Perhaps. Nevertheless, there's more to learning than books and facts -- there is a different between being educated and being wise. You must first know how to learn, to see pattern in chaos, so you can search for wisdom on your own long after you have put away your books. That is what I am trying to teach you."

"I see," Sano said slowly, digesting her words. And he did see, in a way. The old Sanosuke would have snorted in disdain, throwing Fujiwara's books into the koi pond before going on his merry way. But he was no longer the boy who rushed unthinking into danger, and had wept over unrequited love.

He eyed the kodachi surreptiously. Was he like the sword? Perhaps he needed to be, if he wanted to survive. No, if he wanted to live. One hand clenched into a fist. He would never be like Saitou, or Fujiwara, who gave the Meiji government their loyalty. But maybe, just maybe...

"How goes your training with Himura-san?" Fujiwara's voice broke into his thoughts. She reached out, tracing a bruise on his cheek. "This one looks like a rose," she commented, amused.

"Aw, it's nothing," he grinned, batting away her hand. "I've had worse stubbing my toe."

She gave a genteel snort. "The machismo of the young."

"My best feature," he preened. "Other than my good looks, of course."

Fujiwara laughed. Her fingers slid under his chin, tilting his face down so he could look into her eyes. "I wish you were not bound to another," she said regretfully. "Ah, the fun we could have had, even if for a moment."

His mouth went dry. "I'm not bound to anyone," he rasped.

The hazel eyes narrowed, then softened. "Is this what you want, Sano?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "But I think it's what I need."

To be more than the boy with sorrow and anger weighting his shoulders. To be more than the man who never quite grew up, falling in love with reckless abandon. Fujiwara was not offering the electric passion he felt for Saitou, but the warm comfort of an older friend -- which the amber-eyed man never cared to give.

"Fujiwara-san," he bowed, "I would be honoured if you would... if you would..." Sano trailed off, uncertainty tripping his tongue.

"I know." A hand clasped his own, its touch gentle and understanding as she rubbed her thumb over his knuckles. "You can start by calling me Ryouko."

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