Rurouni Kenshin Fan Fiction ❯ The Four Swords ❯ Chapter Seven ( Chapter 7 )

AUTHOR'S NOTE: YAY A REVIEW!!! MANY MANY MANY MANY HEARTS!!!

 

All of you should take after solarscorpio and review! Make me happy! Let me know you care! I hope I don't have to threaten to stop this fic!

 

Chapter 7

 

Sagara's eyes widened as the man stepped forward from the shadows. The throbbing pain in his abdomen, and the debilitating cuts on his arms kept him down, but he raised his head to look into the man's eyes.

 

Please protect Sano, he begged mentally, praying that his eyes could convey what he could not.

 

The man seemed to understand, for he nodded to Sagara and motioned him to lie down again. Relieved, Sagara allowed his body to collapse beneath him. Blood had begun to flow from the agitated wounds on his arms. Grimacing, he used his coat to try to stop it. Sano wasn't kidding when he said it wouldn't be fair. They'd ensured that he couldn't fight with either sword or fist.

 

“Sano,” he whispered, reaching out to grab the boy's gi. He winced as pain shot up his right arm, but he yanked Sano back towards him and tried to shield him with his body, wrapping him in his arms. Not that it's very much protection, he thought wryly, looking down at his battered body. He might be able to fight—but it would be asking a lot of his damaged shell. “Stay here, okay?” Sano nodded mutely, and Sagara turned his attention back to the newcomer.

 

“This should be a fair fight,” he repeated, striding forward to face the fighter. Sagara frowned. This man… was small, slim, almost feminine in appearance—and, judging from the katana at his waist, clearly a swordsman. Surely… he wasn't proposing a brawl with this man?

 

“In light of that, I should like to request a fight with your best swordsman,” he continued, idly fingering the hilt of his katana. Sagara breathed a soft sigh of relief.

 

The fighter snickered, then laughed aloud. He was about to speak when a voice from Sagara's left spoke up. “Let me fight him.”

 

“Ah, Yoshiko-san. Are you sure?”

 

“Quite. I haven't had a good fight since we got here.”

 

“What if I'm not a good fight?” the newcomer asked nonchalantly, though Sagara saw his eyes were hard as flint.

 

Yoshiko shrugged. “Then you're not a good fight. It won't make much of a difference. If you're fool enough to challenge us, then you're worth taking on.”

 

“Very well,” the man said, assuming an opening stance at one end of the rough circle formed by the army men. “Let's go.”

 

“So eager to fight,” Yoshiko murmured, hefting his own sheath-less sword in his right hand.

 

“If you're cruel enough to considering killing these two—one of them just a boy—then I should crush you immediately.”

 

Yoshiko snorted. “Try it.”

 

Sagara glanced down at the challenger, trying to gauge his skill. The man was young—probably younger than himself—yet his eyes were still cold and hard. A slight smile seemed to be playing at the corners of his mouth. Sagara noted with some surprise that he had not drawn his katana yet. Perhaps his style was one that utilized a swift opening draw, like Battoujutsu.

 

“Normally, I am polite to my opponents. I let them die with honor. You, however, deserve no such pleasantries.”

 

“Shut up and let's go. Draw your sword.”

 

“I don't need to start with my sword drawn to defeat you.”

 

“Then die!” Yoshiko cried, running towards the man, a long downward slash clearly shown by the sword raised over his head. A mistake, Sagara thought. A man that confident usually isn't bluffing. He can read this Yoshiko's moves without any effort. Even I can read them.

 

As Sagara expected, the man watched Yoshiko charge him until just before the strike should have hit, then with one quick, fluid motion drew his sword in an upward direction. The two blades met with a sharp hiss and Yoshiko's blade slid off the other man's.

 

“Your moves are too easy to read. It will be too easy to defeat you,” he said quietly, assuming a new ready stance, sword in hand. The blade was held flat to the ground—a parallel strike. Sagara frowned suddenly. He remembered hearing about this technique from someone…

 

His thoughts were interrupted by a yell from the man as he lunged for Yoshiko. The blade flashed briefly in the firelight as he made three rapid cuts that should have cleaved Yoshiko in half. Shock registered on the man's face, but disappeared quickly, as he saw that Yoshiko was still standing, unharmed. Yoshiko in turn brought his sword back to his hip, then charged. Sagara sensed this charge was different—it wasn't as obvious, as reckless as the first.

 

A clang as the blades met—the man had blocked Yoshiko's strike, but just barely. “So. A user of Jigen-Ryu?” he asked Yoshiko shortly. “The first strike was just to test my strength.”

 

“Hai.”

“What's the user of such a style doing here? Surely the Shinsengumi, or the Ishin Shishi, would have sought your membership. Jigen-Ryu is an ancient and powerful sword style—and any wielder with any skill would be very, very useful.”

 

“None of your business.”

 

“Very well. Jigen-Ryu can only be defeated by a few styles. One of them, I know, is Hiten Mitsurugi-Ryu, the style of the famed Hitokiri Battousai. But another,” he hissed, eyes hardening again, “will be my own—Tennen Rishi.”

 

Sagara could hardly keep track of the fight, as the two lunged for each other. Over and over the swords crossed and uncrossed, the two men leaping in their dangerous dance. They were fast fighters—Yoshiko's Jigen-Ryu depended on power, but the other man's Tennen Rishi depended on speed. Yoshiko was forced into speed by the other man.

 

Finally, there was a loud yell as the man lunged forward, his blade flat and arm outstretched. The tip of his sword buried itself in Yoshiko's chest. Sagara turned away, covering Sano with his body, leaning Sano's face into his chest. This wasn't for Sano to see…

 

Sagara heard the gasps and murmurs around the circle, muscles tensing as he heard them turn into darker mutterings. The man sheathed his sword and came over. Sagara turned just enough to see his face.

 

“Thank you,” he whispered.

 

“No thanks necessary. I could not let anything happen to the boy.” The other man's eyes had softened, and he smiled happily at Sagara.

 

“Come. I think it's time we left this place.” He held out a hand to help Sagara up. Gratefully, Sagara took the outstretched hand and weakly stood, pulling Sano with him.

 

“Don't you dare leave me,” he hissed at the boy, and Sano nodded, clinging to his captain. Sagara finally managed to stand, finding himself half a head taller than his rescuer. Slowly, they both turned to face the now darkly angry circle of men.

 

“On second thought,” the young man said, smiling sheepishly. “We may not be able to go just yet.” Sagara was slightly surprised by the man's seeming good humor, but brushed it off. There were more important things just now…

 

“Can you fight?” he asked curiously. “I highly doubt it, from those charming gashes on your arms.”

 

“Maybe. If necessary,” Sagara muttered, wincing at the pain in his arms. He fumbled for the twin katana at his waist, sighing in relief when he found them still there.

 

“Good, good,” the young man replied, thinking. “All right. You and the boy stay there for a bit, and I'll fight. When you see a good opening, run for it.”

 

“What kind of idiotic plan is that?” Sagara hissed. “I watched you fight. You're good—very good, I might add—but your Tennen Rishi is not meant to take on more than, say, six men. In fact, I imagine it's meant to be a one-on-one technique. You'll die facing that many men.”

 

“Ah, so you are somewhat proficient at swordsmanship.”

 

Sagara growled. “We can discuss the details of our training later. For now, we need a way to stall at least a hundred angry, fighting men.” He was used to directing groups of people, not just two men (one of whom could hardly hold a sword) and a 9-year-old boy.

 

“Have you any proposals better than mine?” the other man asked, suddenly cold. Sagara shook his head sadly. “Then that is the way it will be done.” He turned away from Sagara and assumed his opening stance, a challenge to any of the men facing him.

 

“No,” Sagara said quietly. “I won't let you die like that.”

 

“You fool!” he hissed. “The boy needs you. You need the boy. Or rather, you want to protect the boy from all things. I saw you shield him from death. What is he, your son?”

 

“No. But…”

 

“He's as good as one,” the other man finished for Sagara. “I cannot allow that to die beneath my gaze. While I stand, and while I wield this katana with Tennen Rishi, the innocent will not die, and evil will.” Sagara's eyes widened, but he did not back down.

 

“Then I will help you fight, until Sano and I can escape. And you're coming with us,” he added, drawing both his katana and standing beside the other man.

 

“And what of the boy?”

 

“Sano,” Sagara directed. “Stay behind us, and don't let anyone sneak up on you. Got it?”

 

“Yes sir, Captain!”

 

“Good,” Sagara said, with a flicker of a smile. He turned to the man beside him. “What now?”

 

“I see I have no choice. We wait for them to attack.”

 

A vicious yell brought Sagara's attention back to the front. He brought his two katana forward, prepared to meet the five men who rushed at him.

 

-----------------

 

The two sets of feet moved swiftly in the darkness, but Aoshi's footsteps pounded in his ears. The assassin was silent, moving stealthily and lightly over the ground. He knew where he was going; Aoshi needed only to follow.

 

They paused together at the edge of the camp.

 

“I feel evil. Can you?” he asked quietly. As expected, the assassin did not respond. “I feel… dark, angry ki. There is fighting. Shall we go?”

 

Without a word the assassin lowered his head and moved forward.

 

“I live for the battle,” Aoshi murmured to himself, hurrying after. “This feels like a good one.” Something was nagging at the back of his mind, some little part of him that disagreed with his initial comment… Hurriedly, Aoshi pushed it below the surface of consciousness. Nothing could distract him now.

 

They ran through the camp, over the hard-packed earth, dodging the patches of bright moonlight. At last, they came upon the edge of an angry, swirling, fighting mob. Aoshi craned his neck to see over the men, and turned to his silent companion.

 

“Looks like a couple fighters could use our help.”

 

The assassin turned bright, inquisitive amber eyes on him. “Look, I'm assuming you want to help Nobori's army about as much as you wanted to help him. So why not take out what we can, when we can?” The golden eyes narrowed dangerously, suspiciously. Aoshi was curious as to why he would not want to fight these men. How were they different from Lord Nobori, or the other men he'd killed?

 

“Fine. I'll fight through these men until we can find out who their `spies' are. Then, if you see fit to protect them, you can join in. Agreed?”

 

The assassin said nothing, only merged silently back into the shadows. With that settled, Aoshi turned back to the raging mob. He himself was curious as to the identity of these spies. They were not Oniwabanshu, but they might be Ishin Shishi or Shinsengumi.

 

He gritted his teeth, wishing that he had Hannya or the assassin's skill at jumping. Then he could simply bypass all these other fools… Instead, he drew his kodachi, allowing the blade to flash mercilessly in the moonlight, intending it to draw attention to him. A few men saw and turned to look.

 

“Hey, look! Think he's with `em?” one of the men yelled to his comrades.

 

“No time like the present to find out,” another said, lunging with raised fist for Aoshi.

 

“I don't have time to waste on you,” Aoshi said coldly, bringing the kodachi down.

 

As he fought his way through the men, he felt the cold heavy numbness come over him. He struggled to fight it off. It shouldn't be like this… he thought, barely dodging an attack. There has to be, there should be, a reason… But as he fought with himself, he lost ground against the other men he was fighting. He swore loudly as a katana cut down across his left wrist, and he just barely avoided being cut in two by an axe.

 

Aoshi shook his head violently to clear his thoughts. When he raised his face again, his eyes were cold, dark, and distant. They were depthless, endless seas of black, in which one could become lost forever—just as Aoshi himself had drowned.

 

With a soft snigger he brought his kodachi up fast, cutting a man down from groin to throat. He didn't budge as the hot blood spilled over him. Wordlessly he swung the kodachi to his left, then right, slicing across two men. He began walking confidently, ruthlessly towards the center of the action. As men came at him he simply flicked his wrist, cutting them down like saplings.

 

This was the true power of the Oniwabanshu Okashira… the cold, emotionless hell he put himself through for the sake of his country, the Shogun, and his comrades. There was no match for it in this rabble.

 

Finally, he'd cleared a path to the heart of the fighting. Two men, one of them badly wounded, the other only slightly so, were trying to hold off all the other men. There was essentially no escape for them, Aoshi saw. One of the men turned to look him in the eye.

 

“Here to fight me?” he asked quietly, raising his katana into a parallel position. Aoshi's eyes widened.

 

Shinsengumi, he thought to himself. But really, it made so little difference now… if he could have a good fight, he would even fight for the Imperialists.

 

“No,” he answered quietly. “I'm here to fight for you.” He moved to stand between the two men, and held his kodachi ready.

 

“You fight with kodachi?” the man to his left, the more heavily injured and taller man, asked.

 

“Yes. It is my weapon of choice.”

 

“I would've thought a man with your height would prefer a katana, something more suitable to your reach.”

 

Aoshi shrugged. “The kodachi is less weight to carry, and allows for easier movement. Are we just going to stand around?” he asked snippily to the men facing him.

 

He lunged forward to meet the men who rushed him, blood pounding through his veins. His mind was empty, thinking only of his opponent's moves, working only to read the paths of their attacks. His short, sturdy kodachi took down men easily. His fluidity was beautiful in its grace, but frightening in its strength. He hardly even remembered the assassin, hidden in the shadows until an opportune moment.

 

He simply fought.

 

Suddenly, he was snapped out of his mechanical movements by a sharp cry behind him. As he turned to look, he saw the taller man double over as his knees buckled beneath him. The other, younger, more feminine man with the parallel thrust darted over to guard him. Aoshi noted that he now had new wounds, especially a large one on his left shoulder. He couldn't even gauge the severity of the other man's wounds.

 

His eyes widened, and he stopped what he was doing, lowering his kodachi. Help… his mind whispered to him. They need your help.

 

Slowly, Aoshi walked back to the other two men. Time seemed frozen—no man moved to strike him, he could see them fighting but they did not fight him… At last, he stood beside the man on the ground and raised his kodachi.

 

Raise your sword to protect, his mind chided. Look behind you again. See what it is you are protecting.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Aoshi saw the Shinsengumi swordsman never falter. His cuts were still swift and true, even though he was injured. He is fighting for something more than himself, Aoshi noted dully. And so is this other man… He turned to look.

 

“Captain,” a soft, young voice whispered, and Aoshi felt all his mental barriers break.

 

A young boy knelt beside the fallen man, arm protectively around his shoulders. The man struggled to stand, but fell again to his knees. “No, Sano…” he managed to gasp. “Stay down. Stay low. Just like I told you.”

 

“But… you're hurt…”

 

“I've been through worse. Now stay!” he ordered gruffly, grabbing the boy and pulling him protectively against his chest.

 

The Shinsengumi swordsman turned to look at them. “While I'm down, I can't help you,” the man on the ground said softly. “I'm sorry…”

 

“Don't be,” Aoshi heard himself saying. “Just protect the kid.”

 

As they resumed fighting, the Shinsengumi man turned to Aoshi. “I think I might be able to find help… I came here with others, and I think they may be in this camp somewhere, if I could only find them…”

 

“I can hold them off,” Aoshi answered shortly. He knew it to be true—at least, he thought so. But ever since he'd begun to fight protectively, rather than offensively, he'd felt the shift in tempo. His moves were slower now, his strikes less powerful. His mind was fraught with things other than his fighting ki… Can I really hold them off, at this rate? He knew that if he pushed his protective desires aside, he could easily take down these men. But that would leave the two behind him exposed, so he wouldn't really be protecting them anymore…

 

“I can,” he repeated firmly. Repeat it enough, and you'll believe it, he reminded himself. And if this man really was Shinsengumi, and had come with others, they would be out of this mess quickly.

 

The other man nodded. “I'll be back as soon as I can,” he said, shooting away from them. His sword pierced a tunnel through the throngs of men, and soon, Aoshi couldn't see his retreating back.

 

Aoshi raised his kodachi yet again, prepared for the next wave of attacks. His hand was shaking—visibly—and the men took advantage of that. They lunged for him—all of them, it seemed—swords, fists, scythes, axes raised together against him. He couldn't pick out an enemy to fight… No. NO. FIGHT! His brain was screaming, but his body refused to obey.

 

Suddenly, a dark blur shot out in front of Aoshi, metal flashing in the moonlight. The surge of men ceased, and before Aoshi, crouched in a fighting position, knife ready in his right hand, was the assassin.

 

-----------------

 

Okita sped around tents, narrowly avoiding men and cutting them down when he had to. The wound in his left shoulder needed tending to—but there was nothing he could do now. He frowned heavily as he ran. That other man… the one with the boy needed tending too, more than Okita. Hopefully he could find his men quickly and bring them to the aid of the other two.

 

He'd struggled with the decision as he stood there protectively. The boy (because that was what he was, Okita had seen, probably not older than 16) was good, very good, but something had changed. He'd lost confidence, and his moves had become less certain and deadly. And the man was hardly able to fight and protect the child at the same time. Okita had debated for many seconds as he fought, whether he could leave them alone to fight for that long.

 

But eventually, the hope of Shinsengumi help had called louder. He hadn't been able to hold off all the men on his own… the Shinsengumi were known for their skill as individuals, but, as the man had noted, Okita's Tennen Rishi wasn't designed to take on more than a few men at a time.

 

As he darted through the tents his eyes sought out his fellow Shinsengumi. He had to make sure they were at least safe. They were his responsibility, after all… their lives rested not only on their swords, but his as well.

 

Suddenly, he came upon a group of soldiers guarding a tent. He knew, without a doubt, what they were guarding. Slowly, step by step, he emerged from the shadows to face the men. He could feel his blood dripping out of his wounds slowly, and made a mental note not to slip in his own blood.

 

“Is what you're guarding worth it?” he asked quietly. Really, he didn't want to kill these men, but he would if he had to.

 

“Who are you?” they called back, fidgeting and reaching for their swords.

 

“Your comrades are dying in the center of camp. Soon, there will be more death and more blood. I do not want to make yours part of it,” he said, looking them each in the eye. He raised his sword, laying its smooth, cool surface flat against his right palm.

 

They looked at each other nervously, but said nothing and did not move. “If you stay to face me,” Okita continued, mercilessly, “you'll die. Flee now, and I will spare your life.”

 

Suddenly, his face softened. “Please… leave,” he whispered, very softly. “I do not wish to kill you. You have other places to be, other people to be with, others who need you. It is not my place to kill that which is not evil.”

 

“You speak of evil,” one man, who appeared to be their leader, said dully. “Do you know what evil is?”

 

“I have seen enough of this world to know evil, and to know that it is my duty to kill it when I see it.”

 

“Evil is the Shogunate oppressing the lower classes. Evil is the Meiji Government and the Emperor trying to convince us they will somehow make it otherwise. Evil is being poor and hungry and watching your children starve and die before you because they are young, because their bodies cannot stand the strain.”

 

Okita's eyes widened. This man… He nodded slowly. “So you understand evil?” The other man nodded in return. His eyes were dark, hollow, sunken into his face. A man who had known pain, and sorrow, and yes… evil. Okita's eyes filled with sorrow.

 

“Fighting here… is the only way I know how to fight evil,” the man whispered. “The only way any of us know how. Nobori is giving us our only chance.”

 

“I will not… I cannot take away from you the power to fight evil. That would be too cruel. Every man knows for himself what is evil, and it is within every man's power to fight it as he sees fit. Tell me,” he asked softly. “Am I evil?”

 

The man studied him. Okita sensed the rest of the world falling away… the man and the boy in the center, the young man who was fighting for them, the men who opposed them, his men in the tent just beyond his reach… Only he and this man who studied him remained, their eyes locked, searching each other's souls for secrets that might never be unlocked.

 

“No,” the other man said at last. “You… are not the evil I am fighting. You are only another man, fighting in this world, struggling to find truth and light. Although,” he whispered, so softly Okita barely caught it, “I think you already know more light than the rest of us.”

 

Okita nodded quietly. “Good. I see no evil in you either. Now will you let me pass? If you look in the eyes of the men whom you guard, and search for the light, I'm sure you will see it.”

 

“I trust you,” he said quietly. “If a man like you seeks to save these men, then they must be worth saving.” He turned to the other guards, and motioned for them to stand aside. Mutely, they did as he ordered. “Your friends are drugged and probably won't wake for some time. You may see them, though, to assure yourself of their safety.”

 

Slowly, Okita entered the tent, his mind blank. If his men were incapacitated… Then there is no hope for the three I left behind. They will die, unless I can help them…

 

He checked the pulses of his men, satisfied that they would live, and exited. He paused just beyond the leader of the guards, his back to him. Silently, he turned to look over his shoulder at him.

 

“When your men wake,” the leader continued. “We'll let them go. I'll tell them you're safe, and you've gone ahead.”

 

“No,” Okita murmured softly. “Tell them to go back to Kyoto. I'll rejoin them when my work here is done.” The man nodded. “Tell me… Namae wa nan desuka?” (A/N: What is your name?)

 

“Musashiro Kenji, master of the double blades. I taught all of these men the art of kenjutsu, and we came to Lord Nobori's aid. He promised us that we would expose the lies of the Shogun and the Meiji government, and that we could build a world in which the government is fair to all.”

 

“Musashiro-san, promise me something. As soon as my friends have awoken and are on their way, promise me that you and your men will leave this place and return from whence you came. There is no light to be found here, only darkness. Nobori may promise lofty goals, but I assure you he has not been such in trying to attain them—if they are what he sought in the first place.”

 

“Ah, arigatou my friend. If there is no light to be found here…”

 

“There is more light to be found with your family and village. You are a samurai, I assume?” Musashiro nodded. “Then uphold your family's honor. Fight for light, but only where there is light to be found. Fight against darkness, but only where there is darkness to be fought. I promise you…” Okita paused, gazing skyward at the lit moon in the sky. “If there were more men like you, then we would indeed find more sun than moon in this world.”

 

Without another word, Okita disappeared back into the shadows he had come from. The throbbing in his shoulder had ceased to bother him. There were three lives he'd left behind—three specks of light in this vast darkness that he could not allow to be blown out.

 

-------------------

 

Mieko's hair whipped around her shoulders as she leapt in front of the swordsman wielding the kodachi. She'd watch him slowly freeze up, his movements becoming stiff and predictable. At the last possible moment she leapt in to save him—and the Ishin Shishi man she'd saved over a week ago.

 

Now she faced a wall of angry, trained fighters (or not so trained, she thought, as her eyes traveled over the group). Her eyes narrowed dangerously, and she rooted herself firmly to the ground. She felt the man with the kodachi come up just behind her, and hold it out ready. Time seemed frozen as the others took in her presence. They were wary of her—they did not know her skill, and they feared her because she'd come out of nowhere, without them knowing.

 

She smiled to herself, beneath the face cloth. Let them come. I'm ready. She'd been through four fights in the last day. Her body was alert and awake, and she was at the height of her power.

 

Finally, one man broke the standstill and charged her with a spear. Smiling grimly to herself, she leapt up and kicked out, breaking the spear's movement with her right foot. Twisting her torso, she whipped her left leg around to kick him across the face. Landing gracefully in nearly the spot she'd started, she dared him to make the next move.

 

The other men seemed to have backed away, deferring to the power of the spearman. In accordance, the man with the kodachi had backed away and stood protectively before the child. Mieko understood perfectly. This was a man-on-man duel, one that everyone else would respect and not interfere in.

 

She dropped to a low crouch, which would force him to lower himself in order to attack her. She waited, watching his chest for signs of movement. She saw the twitching and twisting perfectly, and sprang to her right just in time. Pushing off the ground without ever landing, she flew at him again, landing two quick kicks into his back. Grabbing his shoulders, she vaulted herself over to land in front, skillfully knocking his spear aside with her feet.

 

This close, she could sense his hidden power. He was much more than a spearman—there was strength and calm, quiet power rippling through his arms. Without flinching she began throwing punches—rapid, blinding punches with her fists. Every so often she knocked him with an elbow strike, hoping to convince him to surrender.

 

The power she sensed was not ignored by its wielder. Before long, he brought both arms before his face, effectively shielding himself. His arms were so muscular she couldn't break through, and her punches fell uselessly. She sensed the futility of her actions, and dropped her hands. She backed away a few feet, trying to create distance. She was strong, yes—for a woman. If it ever became a fight of strength, she—the smaller, slimmer, and less-trained one—would be the loser.

 

He'd picked up his spear again, and twirled in menacingly. Her eyes narrowed as she watched it gain speed. With a barely perceptible motion, she loosened the knives against her wrists and began to seriously consider using the sword down her back.

 

“He's using the speed—and the downward force—to give it more power,” she heard the kodachi-swordsman murmur, and her eyes widened in realization. He was right. If she got caught in it, things would not be pretty. But if she timed her own move perfectly…

 

She watched and waited for the downward swing. At the moment he stopped the circular motion and prepared to cut, she reached for the sword against her backbone. With a single swift movement she drew it and sliced upwards. The strength of the move was lacking because of the direction of her blade, but strength wasn't what she was aiming for.

 

The wooden staff struck her hard across her exposed left shoulder, and she grimaced. Her left arm was taking a beating tonight… the wound Nobori had given her had reopened, and she had to make sure she didn't slip in her ruby colored blood. Luckily for her, her move had worked perfectly. The sharp, pointed tip was cut away from the staff.

 

“You realize that if you'd been a second later, you wouldn't have a left arm,” the kodachi-swordsman informed her.

 

Mieko nodded briefly to acknowledge she'd heard, and tossed the sword away. It wasn't her weapon of choice, and in this kind of duel she didn't want to be caught trying to use it.

 

The spearman looked surprised, but not completely shocked, that his weapon had been destroyed. “You're better than I thought,” he said to her, gesturing to his ruined weapon. She, characteristically, said nothing.

 

“Well, a duel to the death, ne?” he said, flexing his arms and raising his fists. She, in return, raised her own.

 

A flash of movement out of her right eye caught Mieko's attention. A brief flicker again… and suddenly, the parallel-blade swordsman stood beside the kodachi-swordsman. They conferred briefly, and then they looked back to her. Mieko heard the whispers around the circle, and turned her attention back to her opponent.

 

He lunged, showing the punch he was throwing. But he was fast—faster than anyone Mieko had yet faced. Her own speed barely saved her, as she swept her injured left arm in a block. Unfortunately, she forgot about his other fist, which came to meet her upper right arm with a dull thud—though thankfully not a sharp crack.

 

His large hand had a firm hold on her left wrist, keeping her within his range. It took all of her skill to read his punches and dodge them effectively. Inevitably, though, there came a point where she was unable to dodge. While no punch landed directly, punches grazed her cheek, her temple, her ribs.

 

The longer she stayed trapped, the more she began to remember her fight with Nobori. Then the images of the little boy, cradled against the Ishin Shishi man's chest, the beaten soldier at Nobori's mansion, the dead girl lying on the futon in the inn…

 

With a sharp cry, she brought her right foot up and kicked him squarely in the jaw. With one hand holding her left wrist out to the side, and the right arm punching her, he left his own body largely exposed. The left leg came up to try to break his grip on her arm. When that was unsuccessful, she flipped the knife on her right wrist out.

 

Using the arm clinging to her to propel her forward, she drove the knife into the man's right bicep. This close range was dangerous…

 

“What are you thinking?” the patriot yelled, still holding the boy against him. “You can't fight him that close!”

 

“I… don't… care!” she managed in a strangled growl. That statement would certainly not identify her sex.

 

“He's driven by rage now,” the parallel-blade swordsman said softly. “Something snapped… there is no cool calculation left in him. He just wants to win—and badly. But it'll cost him.”

 

As if to confirm his words, a punch landed hard in Mieko's diaphragm, nearly crippling her. Two arms wrapped themselves around her small throat. Gasping for air, she stabbed backwards, feeling the blood begin to flow against the back of her thigh. He didn't stop. He wanted to win as badly as she did.

 

Tears came to the corners of her eyes as she felt imminent defeat. She'd never known defeat this close… Death… no. Not now! her mind screamed.

 

“Focus!” the kodachi-swordsman's voice rang out. “You know how to get out—now do it!”

 

Slowly, as she felt the energy drain out of her, she tried to refocus her mind. Break the grip, it instructed her. She pulled her arms snugly against her sides, then began inching them upwards. She was trying to find the small space between her body and his arms. If she could sneak her arms in that spot, she could enlarge the space, and break free. Inch by inch she fought until her fists were level with her cheekbones. Then, with a tremendous burst of energy—the last that she had—she shoved outward with her elbows, bringing her arms up to lie parallel to the ground.

 

The man's arms fell away from her, his grip broken.

 

She gasped for air and in pain as she spun around and lunged forward. The bloody knife in her right hand was blocked—but the shining blade in her left was not. It sank easily into the soft flesh of the neck, and she summoned the last of her energy to move away as the blood spilled.

 

Mieko staggered backwards, and nearly collapsed. The parallel-blade swordsman moved to catch her, stabilizing her body. She drew deep, shuddering breaths into her starved lungs. All eyes were on the five of them now—dark, haunted eyes full of hatred.

 

“They want blood,” the kodachi-swordsman whispered.

 

Mieko felt a gentle tug on her sleeve, and she turned around. The Ishin Shishi man knelt at her feet, and she dropped into a squat so she was eye level with him.

 

“Take Sano,” he whispered, gesturing to the boy. “The Sekihou Army is camped to the east, just beyond the main road. Take him back for me…” She nodded, reaching for the boy. He came to her silently, clinging to the man as long as possible.

 

“Sano,” he instructed the boy. “Tell them to leave, now. Go back to Kyoto, and have them wait for me there. If I escape alive, I should be back in no more than a week. If not…” Sano's eyes widened. “Fukihiro is to take my place.” Sano nodded, sensing the gravity of the situation.

 

“Captain…” he whispered, and Mieko hugged him to her.

 

“He'll be fine,” the parallel-blade swordsman cut in. “We'll make sure he gets back to you.” Neither he nor the kodachi-swordsman seemed to have heard patriot's instructions to her.

 

Without a word, Mieko gathered Sano into her arms and disappeared into the darkness.

 

------------------------

 

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Okay, so… Okita's section kind of pissed me off, and I really didn't know what to do with it, so I decided to pull in some random philosophical stuff. Sorry if that got tedious or corny, but I really needed to write something and move on to Mieko's section, which was infinitely easier.

 

I apologize that Mieko's sections are consistently longer than Souzou, Aoshi, or Okita's section, but that's purely a result of Mieko being an OC. I can do pretty much whatever I want with her, without intruding on a preconceived notion of the character. I also apologize that there was so much fighting/action in this chapter, but there's a point, trust me. I've been in AP English too long for there NOT to be a point.

 

The only characters that belong to Watsuki are Sagara Souzou, Sano, Shinomori Aoshi, Hannya, Okita Soushi (sort of), and Saitou Hajime. I'm also borrowing the name (though not the character) Fujita Gorou. I created virtually everyone else, I think.