Rurouni Kenshin Fan Fiction ❯ The Red Death ❯ Anguish ( Chapter 3 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

A/N: Hn...everyone seemed to think the connection was severed. Iie...Kaoru just can’t reach Kenshin the same way he can reach her. She was overcome by his pain again, and was left once more with agony of his tears. Only this time... it is fear and pain she must cradle, instead of regret and remorse. Gomen, my friends, for not making it more clear. KnT

In my research into the Bakumatsu, I have discovered I need to adjust my timeline. I have discovered by watching the Samurai X OVA that Kenshin was actually only 13 when he first joined the Kiheitai (Ishin Calvary) under the command of Shinsaku Tagasugi. He trained there for several months before Katsura enlisted him as a Hitokiri. By the time he was 14, he was already a seasoned assassin. When he met Tomoe, he had murdered well over a hundred men and had been with Katsura over a year. He was 15 then and it was the year 1864. This means, Kenshin joined the Kiheitai in 1862. His first kill took place some time in 1863.

It is currently, 1866. It is one year (give or take) since the incident in the Ikedaya Inn where the Bakufu enlisted the Shinsengumi to ambush the Ishin Leaders during a ‘summit’ meeting with the other clans. They thought to catch Katsura there and either capture or kill him. He was not present, but his envoy was killed. Another of his envoy, Furadaka, was captured and tortured for information. Myobi, the leader of the other clan, commits seppuku that night and avoids capture. He had already cut ties with Katsura, which is why he did not attend the meeting. (In the OVA, this is where Kenshin and Tomoe go to Otsu and Kenshin has half his scar.)

Kenshin still has half his scar. We just haven’t dealt with it yet. Just for clarity sake: Kenshin is just past seventeen. Per the OVA and Manga, he leaves the Inshin Shishi in 1867 after becoming ‘a murder machine’ and plowing his way through legions. Just as Hiko warned him he would. He was 18 when he left. I very carefully mapped his age. Took me the better part of one morning and watching the OVA’s as well as researching the War. It was interesting.

One last piece of information. The Shinsengumi was comprised mainly of the actual Samurai who rose up trying to re-establish their own way of life. They suffered the most when trade was introduced into Japan because before the rise of the farmer and the merchant, they were at the top of the ‘food chain’. After, they became almost penniless... they had the most to lose by Japan becoming a foreign trade port. The Shinsengumi was established in the early 1860's but came into their own in 1863 when they were set aside as ‘the special police’ in Kyoto. They were supposed to stop the ‘lawless actions’ of the revolutionaries and lawless/wandering Samurai. It didn’t exactly work out that way. The Mimawarigumi were the bodyguards that protected the Daimya in Kyoto. Kyosato (Tomoe’s fiancé) was a member of this government created branch of the police.

1866-Bakumatsu

Chapter Three
Anguish

Anguish, cold as the northern ice lakes,
torments a spirit consumed by flames.

Pain, hot as the fiery depths of hell’s deepest core,
burns a heart frozen by guilt.


Death, hard as the task masters whip,
lashes the humanity of the lost soul.


And Remorse, sharper than God’s tongue,
fills the empty shell of what was once a man.



Long into the night Kaoru cradled the anguished soul of her beloved. The frozen trembling essence of him burrowed deep inside of her, and she curled herself around him, pulling him far into the reaches of her warmth. He was terrified, the fingers of his spirit clawed at her heart, seeking a comfort she couldn’t refuse. Demon that he was, she could no longer deny he was the mate to her soul. Tragedy promised to stalk them, but love would always bind them.

She could not lie to herself another day.

It was like holding a frightened a child, but the feel of his mind was so faraway. She could neither find nor touch it. The contact with his rational self was denied her, but she didn’t know why. She didn’t understand what was happening to him. Only this clinging, sobbing child came to her, choking her with his fear and hunger for comfort. The touch of him was an icy burn to her exposed psyche and she shivered, wrapping herself around him protectively. He felt frozen to her- frozen with the loneliness of a long forgotten soul. And she knew he was alone.

He was a child alone, crying in the dark of his own isolation.

Slow, and with purposeful care, Kaoru rolled onto her back and looked up at the ceiling. Her vision was blurred by the blood, and she used the corner of her blanket to wipe her eyes. It helped a little.

She tried hard to think of a way to calm Him, but not knowing why he cried made her task more than difficult. It wasn’t the man who reached out to her this night; it wasn’t the Demon Killer who stalked the streets, his katana stained with the blood of the slain. Iie, it was the child of his soul. A forgotten child, and irrational child, a terrified child, and she needed to find a means of comforting him. Her woman’s heart demanded it, needed it...wanted it.

She was unsure what sort of role she played in his life up to this point. Was she the innocent observer he’d chosen to recollect his deeds, or was she the one meant to harbor what was left of his humanity inside her heart where it would not be touched by those same deeds? As the mate of his soul, surely it was the latter, but since when did the Gods give an innocent to the Damned as a mate? Perhaps... Kaoru shook her head and covered her eyes with her arm. It was a foolish thought, yet...

‘Perhaps, it is this child I am meant to save, not the Battousai... but is not this child the Battousai’s true self?’

She was confused. The fragments of his soul were many. The Demon, The Murderer, The Lover, The Child. How many more were there? Was he even human anymore? Perhaps that was not even for her to decide at this moment. The Gods did what they did for a higher purpose. It was not her place to ask why, yet... her heart ached for him. She ached for him.

Who was this Battousai? Would she know him if she saw him? Would his eyes tell her who he was, or his presence? If she met him on the streets, would she recognize him, or would she pass him by? Somehow, Kaoru knew she would know him. Her eyes would only have to see him once to know who he was.

‘Red hair... golden eyes... I would know you, Anata.’ She thought. ‘Hai, I would know you.’


O.O


He knelt on top of the roof, his sword held tight to his shoulder, his breathing harsh and shallow. The vision was gone, but the memory was clear.

Red hair... a flash of violet eyes...

‘Okaa-san...’

She was beautiful. He remembered. So long ago, but he still remembered. Her hair was like... like... liquid copper. It fell like silk through his fingers, and he played with it for hours as a child, sitting on her lap, watching it dance in the lilting breeze like dragonfly breath. She was the only beautiful thing he remembered, but she was dead. He saw her dead.

He remembered.

“Iie,” Battousai clamped his eyes shut tight, willing the memory to sink far back into the sludge of his past. He would no see her like that-not dead, not that way. “Iiee!” He shoved himself to his feet, swaying unsteady for a moment. A wave of nausea and dizziness crashed down upon him like a curse from heaven. He pitched forward and almost fell, but by using his saya as a crutch, he stopped before hitting his knees. Pushing himself back up, he staggered across the roof and eased himself over the edge.

He crawled back into his room, pulling the shutters closed behind him, and then laid out his futon. Washing his hands and face were mechanical actions and accomplished with minimal thought. Reaching into a drawer, he pulled out a clean yukata and exchanged his gi and hakama for it. He then folded his outer clothes and put them away. The habitual routine of the tasks effectively took his mind off the disturbing memories just as he hoped they would, but it was a short lived victory. As soon as he slipped between the blankets and closed his eyes, his mind became the unwilling prisoner of his past.
It was one night he could not escape sleep, and as the jaws of morpheus rose to consume him, the small boy he’d once been screamed in horrified terror, running from the carnage and smells of death that awaited him in the bottomless pit of Battousai’s nightmares.

He ran from the blood, the cries of death, and he ran from the cold. But more than that, he ran from the memories... ‘Okaa...!’ He sobbed, looking over his shoulder, searching... searching for the moldering, bloated ghoul that haunted his dreams. ‘Iiiee... Leave me alone! Leave me...’

Tiny feet carried him across the frozen black that had been his home for an eternity, his breath puffing out in balls of steam that blocked his vision. It was close; so close he could feel the burn of the decayed fingers reaching for him, trying to pull him down into the flames where it existed. Tears blinded him and then froze to his face, turning his flesh white, leaving his violet eyes glittering like crystalized rain drops. ‘Iiieee!’

It brushed his cheek... warmth... life... peace... and he reached for it, sobbing, clawing, stumbling. Hair, black as the night, but soft-softer than anything he remembered touched his skin. It was so warm. A heart beat... he could hear it. He ran toward it, scrambling through the dark. And then he saw it. A light. It was blue... pale and beautiful. It promised him something wonderful, he could feel it. It was safe... it was warm... he stumbled and fell, scraping his knees, but knew he couldn’t give up. He was close. So close... A voice, a voice so sweet it filled him a new burst of energy, and he climbed, determined and shaking to his feet and threw his body toward the blue light.

Then he ran-ran on tiny feet that carried him swiftly through the darkness towards the only hope he’d glimpsed in years...

He ran to Kaoru.

O.O


Inside her memories she recalled her mother, the lovely porcelain face with eyes blue as cobalt, smiled at her, and she drifted into the reassurance of the love she remembered. Songs and lullabies from her childhood flittered through her mind, and visions of green meadows filled with colorful wild flowers spread out before her. The sun was high and warm in the azure sky, and fluffy clouds of misty white floated lazy, and serene in the sea of endless blue. Faraway, the snow-capped mountains guarded the horizon, waiting for the day to end and night to begin. This was her sanctuary. Her place of peace and solitude.

She closed her eyes and willed her mind and heart to open, coaxing the terror stricken child to inside the safe haven. ‘Come to me, little one...’ she called, sending the light of her soul into the dark, looking for him. ‘Come... I am here.’

O.O

Laying on her back, she began to count the clouds and birds that drifted through the air. The breeze smelt of jasmine and white plumb. It was Spring.

“Can I lay with you?” The voice was small, whispered, high pitched.

“Yes, of course.” She replied, holding out an arm, beckoning the child. “Come, you can put your head on my shoulder, just here.” It took only a moment before he was snuggled close to her side, the rich red of his silky hair nestled under her chin, his cheek pillowed on her shoulder. “Is that better?” She asked, stroking his ponytail gently, feeling him relax against her side.

“Hai,” he wrapped his arm around her neck and pressed even closer. “You’re warm.” He said.

“And you are very cold.” She observed, taking the open sleeve of her kimono and draping it over his small body. “Don’t worry,” she whispered, kissing his smooth forehead through the shaggy tumble of his bangs. “I’ll keep you warm... I promise.”

“Can... can I...” he hesitated, then buried his nose against her pulse point. “Can I stay with you?” He finally asked, in a rush of words.

“Hai,” she tightened her arms around him, cupping the back of his head to hold him against her. “You can stay as long as you like.”

“Doumo,” his voice quavered. “Doumo...”

“What is your name, little one?”

“Shinta,” he answered, grabbing a handful of her hair like babies do. “My name is, Shinta.”

“Go to sleep, Shinta.” She said, stroking his hair, letting it slide through her fingers then tenderly massaging his nape. “Go to sleep, little one. I will always be here.”

“You won’t leave me?” He sounded so afraid.

“Iie, little one. I won’t leave.”

“My Okaa left,” he whimpered and she felt the wetness of his tears on her neck. “She died and she never came back... except... except...” He shuddered and stopped talking.

“Except what, Shinta?” Kaoru leaned up and looked down into the child’s face. Gasping softly, she found herself gazing upon the most beautiful boy she had ever seen. His tousled hair was blood red with streaks of gold and orange while his large, innocent eyes were the most astonishing color of Summer violets. This was no murderer. This was no demon. If ever the God’s had put an Angel on the earth, it was this child. Kaoru was both entranced and heart-broken. “Tell me, Shinta.” She coaxed, cupping his face. “What do you mean, ‘except’?”
“She... she...” he shuddered again, and hid himself against Kaoru’s breasts. “She comes back to get me now... but she’s dead. I... I see her... but she’s... she’s dead... she’s all rotted up and covered with worms... her eyes are hanging out and her hair’s coming off... she’s not my Okaa anymore.”

“Kami-sama,” Kaoru’s throat constricted and her chest closed in upon itself. Pain sliced through her heart and the image of Shinta’s beautiful mother filled her mind, only it was his memory of her dead, decayed body Kaoru saw. The moldering flesh covered with oozing sores, the once lovely face bloated beyond recognition, and the worms... Worms and maggots wiggled and twitched all over her body. It was a sight no child should have seen. “Shinta... sweet, Shinta.” She pulled the child closer to her heart, and held him. His tears wet her kimono and matted her hair. “It’s not real, little one,” she crooned. “It’s not real...”

“Make her go away,” he pleaded, locking his arms around her neck. “Please, make her go away...”


O.O


‘Shinta...’

He leapt to his feet, his katana drawn, ready to strike any who dared intrude into his small, private world. But as his sharp, golden gaze roved the small room, Battousai found nothing. Nothing but his few paltry belongings, his roses, and the open window. Open window? His brow furrowed and he moved with measured steps toward the aperture, certain he closed the shutters before going to bed.

Outside a cool breeze blew, fluttering the limbs of the taller trees and sending the drier leaves spiraling to the ground. The sky was still a dark, midnight blue, and the moon and stars remained bright. It was still several hours before dawn and the streets were quiet.

He couldn’t understand what woke him up, and he climbed back up on the roof to check the perimeter around the inn. Looking off each of the four sides, he found nothing out of place and his senses told him there were no intruders or strangers lurking nearby. Frowning in confusion, he crawled back into his room and pulled the window closed, making sure he secured the lock. Padding back to his futon, Battousai slipped back under the quilts and rolled so he was facing the window. He held his katana close to his chest, the haft comfortable in his hand. Everything may appear to be normal outside his room, but he was beginning to feel there was something amiss inside.

He watched the window for over an hour, but nothing happened. Finally he admitted to himself that he was being overly paranoid. The vision of his mother had obviously upset him and he forgot to close the window. The explanation comforted him enough that he allowed his eyes to close and the quiet of what he knew as sleep to pass over him once more, but a part of him stayed alert, waiting, watching... it always did.


‘Shinta...’

His eyes fluttered open and for a moment he saw it; blazing red hair and brilliant amethyst eyes surrounded by a halo of purest white light, then he blinked and it was gone. Bolting upright, he clutched his katana to his chest while his eyes darted around the room, searching, but there was no one there besides himself. Everything was in perfect order just as it had been the night before. There was only one problem.

The window was open again.

“Okaa?” His voice sounded small, frightened, like a small child who is afraid of the dark. He stood on trembling legs, his free hand out to the side, fingers spread as if they would keep him from toppling over. Wide golden eyes, full of innocence and bewilderment darted around the room, searching shadowy corners and shifting light for anything that might not belong, but they could see nothing–nothing his rational mind knew didn’t exist. But the window... the window was open after he knew he closed it. The window was open...

“Okaa-san?” He knew it was impossible for her to be there. She was dead. He’d seen her dead, her body bloated and full of worms and maggots, festering and decaying until it didn’t even look human anymore. They’d burned her; the villagers. They’d heaved what was left of her and the rest of his family onto that smoldering pile of burning flesh, and burned them. The acrid smell of kerosene and smoke was still firmly embedded in his memory. No matter how many years passed, he knew he’d never forget.

His eyes closed and with them came the memory of something else.

‘Angel...?’ He jerked upright and stared at the window one more time. It was vague, but it still lingered. The fragrance of jasmine... blue skies... green meadows... her arms around him, the sound of her heart beating under his cheek... her promise... she promised...

‘You can stay as long as you like... I will always be here....... Shinta...’

‘Shinta?’ He caught his breath. ‘It had to be a dream,’ he told himself, walking to the window. ‘She wouldn’t know me as a child... ‘he’ wouldn’t go to her... would ‘he’?’ Then the thought of the specter returned and the unanswered question of the opened window.

“Spirits cannot open windows,” he said aloud, trying to reassure himself, yet, as he stood looking at the pinks and saffrons of the dawn sky, he knew he’d never be able to explain how it happened, unless... He had not walked in his sleep for years, not since...

Battousai spun away from the window and charged across the room. He folded his bedding and futon away in swift, jerky movements, and then he washed his face, hands and feet. He pulled off his yukata, folded it away and shrugged into his gi and hakama. His hair was quickly pulled up into its high top-knot, and then he found his tabi and sandals. Last, he sheathed his katana and slid it inside his belt alone with his wagizashi. He slipped on his wrist guards and tied them in place as he pushed the fusuma open, then closing it carefully, he made his way down the stairs and out the sho-ji at the front of the inn.

He needed to see Katsura. It would not wait until his usual weekly debriefing. He needed to see him now--today. There were questions that he needed to ask-questions that needed answering and Katsura was the only one capable of that.

His feet carried him swift and sure through the early morning crowds, and once more, he barely noticed those he passed, though this time, it was not for the same reasons. This day, his thoughts were preoccupied for a much different reason, and the people surrounding him simply did not exist.


O.O



Kogorou Katsura was still a young man, not yet even thirty, but the responsibilities on his shoulders made him feel as if age had crept upon him and laid waste to his vitality. He was tired. The sake had not tasted good for too long now. He missed Ikumatsu. It was too dangerous these days to keep her close to him, and it was many months since he saw her eyes.

He wanted to go home.

“Katsura-sama?”

“Hai, Katakai?”

“You have a visitor, sir.” Katakai was older than Katsura, but he deferred to the younger man as the leader without question. Besides, his hands were made for fighting, not politics. Katsura was a much better politician, even if his blade was missed on the battlefield. He was needed elsewhere, that was why Katakai chose to watch his back. “It’s... It’s Himura-san.”

“Well, Katakai.” Katsura allowed half a smile to curve his mouth. “Bring him in. The boy has patience, but this is an unexpected visit. It must be important if it brought him out into the light of day, ne?”

“Hai, that’s what worries me.” Katakai bowed. “He looks terrible.”

Katsura frowned. That wasn’t the kind of news he liked hearing about his chief shadow assassin. “How so?” He asked.

“He’s pale.”

“Katakai, Kenshin is always pale.”

“Hai, this I know, but he... looks unwell.”
This remark made Katsura frown. It was cryptic to be certain and unlike Katakai whose concern for the young hitokiri was at the most minimal. It was no secret that the large Choushu warrior cared little for the youthful assassin. He felt the boy was by far to familiar in his relationship with Katsura and did not show him the proper honor his position demanded, but his respects for the depths of Kenshin’s skill were unparalleled. The very fact that he would notice the boy appeared ill was enough to worry Katsura.

Trying to keep the boy in the best of health and in as good of spirit as possible was always his main goal, even if the latter seemed to be all but impossible. Kenshin continued to prefer his own company above that of his comrades, and he rarely sought out the comfort of the fairer sex. Many of the Ishin soldiers believed the boy was still a virgin, some even gossiped that he preferred the company of other boys... and perhaps it was so, but none dared approach him on either matter.

As for Katsura, he believed Kenshin went to the tea houses to drink sake. If someone-male or female-chanced to join him, then he didn’t drink alone. The mysterious world of sex and passion remained just that, a mystery. Quite possibly one the boy didn’t care to explore. Whatever the case, Kenshin’s thoughts, desires, and actions were his own. Katsura wasn’t going to pry... and neither was anyone else. Not if they valued their life.

“Bring him to me, Katakai.” A feeling of foreboding slithered up the Clan Leaders spine and tingled in base of his skull, warning him something ill was afoot. “I will see him immediately.”

“Hai, Katsura-san. I will bring him.”

O.O

uwasouri=Hemp soled sandals. sakana=fish.

He sat quiet and statue still next to the sakana pond, watching the fish swim, his straw hat shielding him from the early morning sun. They lanced through the water like spears slicing through tender flesh, and the comparison intrigued him. Tilting his head to one side, he considered how easily they slid through the water, tiny fins guiding them in intricate patterns that defied the shape of their oblong bodies. They changed directions in an instant, darting from one side to the other, chasing bits of food and shadows as the sun glinted off the mirror like surface of the water.

A spear could only travel in the single direction it was thrown; it’s fate sealed beyond retraction once it left the hand of it’s wielder. Should it strike the intended target, the flesh was rent in two and separated much like the water being split by the fish as it swam. The path was smooth, yet abrupt and often ended quickly, whereas the fish could slip through the water endlessly until captured by a crafty fisherman or until its days were simply ended by the ages.

Indeed, each slid and separated the fabrics of their chosen worlds simply by passing through them, yet that passage was so far distant from one another, and the results terribly different. Fish did not murder water or make it run red with the blood of its life as it died, nor did the spear slip through the flesh leaving it untouched and unchanged by its presence, yet both passed through their worlds with an ease few could duplicate.

He did not think it should be so. Even a katana did not slide through flesh and bone as easily. There was always the drag of the steel as it passed through; small as it might be. He never failed to not notice it. It grated like sand beneath his uwasouri.

He had never cared for spears.

Shifting to look across the courtyard, Kenshin let his gaze fall to green of the grass and he wondered about the reasons he came to see his mentor. How much should he tell him? There was no question he needed to speak to him about the nightmare concerning his Okaa-san, but what about his Angel? Was it prudent to mention Her? A long, despairing sigh lifted his shoulders and he closed his eyes. Would Katsura even believe him, or would the Choushu leader be more inclined to think he had finally succumbed to his demons and delved into the world of madness?

Kenshin wasn’t sure himself if he hadn’t gone mad, especially now. It was so long since he’d dreamt of his Okaa... Abruptly he shook himself, trying to banish the vision that threatened to rise to the surface. Swallowing hard against the lump that lodged in his throat, he instead pulled his long sword free of its saya and gazed hard at the shining steel.

It brought him both comfort and misery–this sword. It was constant, steady, and it never lied to him. But it also filled him with anguish and guilt for the many lives it aided him in taking. It was the bane of his soul, the tormenter of his spirit, and he hated it as much as he loved it.

“Why?” He asked, in a low, tortured whisper. “Why must you do this to me?” Leaning over, he rubbed his forehead against the coolness of the blade and prayed silently. ‘Angel... where are you?’ He pulled back and looked at the reflection of his golden eyes along the mirrored surface. ‘Are you here... are you with me, Saiai?’

Suddenly a brilliant flash of blue skated across the blade, and Kenshin jerked away, his eyes wide, the breath caught in the vise of his chest. The moment was brief, but the clarity beyond contestation.

Eyes, blue as the deepest sea blinked at him from the polished steel, the pupils dilated and surprised, then they blinked once more and were gone.

“Himura-san.” Katakai’s voice called from the engawa behind him, and Kenshin turned slowly to face the large man. “Come, Katsura-san will see you now. Hurry up,” he said, with a wave of his big arm. “Don’t keep him waiting. You know how busy he is.”

“H-hai,” Kenshin nodded, swallowed hard and sheathed his sword. “Arigato, Katakai.” He said, rising to his feet. “I’m coming.”

O.O

Karuson=boy. tatami=floor mat. Do itashimashite=you are welcome. Chi=Blood.
Daisho=dual swords worn together/katana and wagizashi. Yare=Oh. Han=Samurai clan.


“Kenshin. It’s good to see you, my karuson.” Katsura rose from his tatami and approached the straw-hat wearing red-head. “How are you?” he asked, watching Katakai leave.

“Fine.” Was the short reply. “May we talk?” The young assassin asked, his hand resting on the hilt of his katana. “I have questions I need to ask.”

Katsura was surprised. “Questions?” He asked, motioning the hitokiri inside. “What sort of questions?”

“I want to know what happened the last time I walked in my sleep while I was still here at the main barracks...”

“Why?” Katsura cut the boy off sharply, stopping in front of him and blocking his path further into the room. “It was a long time ago, Kenshin. Why do you bring it up now? What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

“I...” The stone-faced youth paused, and then met the sharp look of his mentor from beneath the brim of his hat. “I’m having nightmares again.” He admitted.

“I see,” Katsura said, folding his hands behind his back. “What kind of nightmares?”

“About my Okaa...” Kenshin bowed his head for a moment. “She’s... dead.”

“You... are seeing her?”

“Hai.”

“Come in and close the door.”

“Hai, Katsura.” Turning on silent feet, the hitokiri pulled the fusuma closed and then followed the older man to the center of the room. Kneeling, he removed his daisho, placing them on the floor beside him. Next he took off his hat and set it to the side. “Arigato,” he said, quietly, leaning over to rest his forehead on the floor. “Gomen for not sending you word that I was coming.”

“Do itashimashite,” Katsura reassured the boy, pouring them both a small dish of sake and setting the bottle on the table between them. “Why don’t you tell me what is happening that you have started to dream about your Okaa-san again after all this time?”

“I’m not completely certain why, Katsura.” Kenshin said, taking a small drink from his dish. “I was hoping you could help me. That’s why I want to know what happened that night. I... I don’t remember it very well.” Unconsciously his hand lifted and covered his left cheek. The scar traced a sharp angle over the bone and ended near his jaw. It had faded into a faint line over the years, but remained a prominent feature on his face.

“Does it still bother you?”

“Nani?” Kenshin’s eyes were vacant as he traced the thin line with his finger tips.
“The scar, Kenshin? Does it still bother you?”

“Yare...?” He looked up, coming out of his daze, focusing on Katsura’s face. “Hai,” he said, nodding. “Sometimes it burns--burns like its covered with ice. Does that make sense?” He sounded troubled, and his look was filled with a kind of turmoil Katsura had not seen for some time. “It is almost like I’d fallen in the snow and cannot get up, and my skin’s been frozen to the ground, burning in the ice... Sometimes I think I’m going to touch my face and it’s going to peal off in my hands.” The hand dropped from his face and he stared at the empty palm. “I see it in my dreams, Katsura... my face laying in my hands... I’ve seen it.”

“Kenshin,” Katsura shuddered at the image his young protege’ painted for him, and he refilled both of their dishes. “How long have you dreamed this?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged, emptying his dish. “A while.” He emptied his cup. “Since before the fires last year, although it did get worse after. I’m not sure why.”

“Hn, tell me about your Okaa-san. What are you seeing now?”

“The same as it was when I was younger.” He looked away and stared absently at the murals painted on the walls. “She’s dead... decayed and covered with maggots, trying to grab me and take me with her into the plague fires. It’s always the same... except...” He stopped and looked back at his hands. “Last night, I saw her alive. Just for a moment, but she was alive.”

“In your dreams?”

“Iie, I was awake.” Kenshin shuddered. He had actually forgotten about the vision on the rooftop. Powerful as it was, he’d pushed it to the back of his mind and buried it beneath the horrors of his nightmares. Why did he do that?

“Awake?” Katsura narrowed his glance at the boy, wondering if madness was finally knocking at the young assassin’s door. “Are you sure, Kenshin? Perhaps you fell asleep and woke suddenly...”

“Iie, Katsura. I was awake. It was quite vivid.” Once more his hand rose to cover his cheek. “I was facing the moon... thinking about...” He stopped. “Please, Katsura. I need to know what happened the last night I was here. As I said, I don’t remember much of it... only that... I killed someone.” Kenshin dropped his hand to his lap and met Katsura’s hard eyes once more. “I have to know what I did.” He said in a hushed voice. “And I did kill someone... didn’t I?”

“Hai, Kenshin.” Katsura nodded, placing his sake dish back on the table. “Are you certain you want to hear this? Truly certain?”

“Hai. I must know.”

“Alright then. Forgive me, my karuson, but it is true. You did kill someone that night. You were out of control... like a screaming, slashing wild animal... it was the first time your eyes turned...”
“Nani?!” Kenshin’s face turned white, and he swallowed hard, a look of nausea on his face. “I... did... that...?”

“Hai. No one could stop you. You had your katana and you were running up and down the hallways screaming...screaming the same words over and over.”

“What words?”

“...leave me alone... you’re dead... you’re dead... leave me... I won’t go with you... you’re dead...” Katsura watched the boy kneeling in front of him crumble in upon himself as he revealed the terrible secret he kept from him for over three years. “You know what I’m saying, don’t you?”

“H-hai...” Kenshin rasped, the words breaking in his throat. “Kami-sama...I did it... Oh, Gods... help me...” He leaned over and slammed his fists into the floor, trying to calm his rising panic, the old terror nipping at the back of his mind. “I... I was trying to kill her... wasn’t I? Her ghost followed me into my dreams, and I was trying to kill her to keep her from taking me back into the fires with her... Katsura,” looking up, he met Katsura’s dark, worried face. “I... saw... her...”

“Hai, Kenshin. You did.” Unable to bear the pain he saw in those golden eyes, Katsura reached out to comfort the boy, but Kenshin flinched away. He should have known that would happen. The young hitokiri abhorred being touched by anyone, even his own mentor and that made Katsura’s grief over him that much worse. He would never be able to comfort the boy. No one would.

“It was the night of your first kill, Kenshin.” Katsura forced his voice into a state of calm he did not feel. “You assassinated a prominent Daimya from one of the larger hans left in Kyoto...”

“I remember.”

“Iizuka said you were the best he ever saw. Cool, efficient... you didn’t hesitate a moment, and there wasn’t a drop of blood on you. It was the cleanest kill he’d seen in months. You were perfect–his greatest acquisition... my greatest hope... and your own greatest enemy.”

“Enemy?” Kenshin asked, confused.

“You said nothing that day, Kenshin. Iizuka brought you back, you bathed, cleaned your sword, ate dinner, and went to bed. You didn’t speak to any of your comrades; you didn’t even speak to me.”

“What should I have said?” He asked, his eyes searching the older man’s face. “I killed my first man today... what?”

“That isn’t the point, you never said anything. You still don’t. You keep everything bottled up inside; your guilt, your remorse, your anger... you never let anything out... your never feel anything...”

“It is easier not to feel, Katsura. To feel the pain that exists with the taking of so many lives... it would surely consume me.” Once more Kenshin looked away and studied the murals. Sukura blossoms and butterflies. “I don’t want to feel anything.”

“I understand, Kenshin. Believe me, I do. I have killed men myself. Many men and it is not an easy thing to do...”

“Were you an assassin, Katsura?” Kenshin’s golden gaze slid back to his Mentor, who seemed to be speechless at the moment. “Did you kill men for other men, or did you kill in the heat of battle? How did these men die whose lives ended beneath your blade? Tell me...”

“Iie, Kenshin.” Katsura cleared his throat. “I was not a hitokiri... I have never been an assassin like you. Forgive me, my karuson, I have not been faced with killing in this same context, though I understand what it means to kill a man and deprive him of his life, I do not know what it means to take his life because of who he is specifically. I have never....”

“Murdered?”

“Hai.̶ 1;

“I thought not.” Kenshin poured himself another dish of sake and drank it. “It is not the same.”

“Iie, it is not.”A long sigh crawled free of Katsura’s throat and he, too, succumbed to
another drink. “Kenshin, you are running from your own ghosts, my karuson, and there is nothing, I nor anyone else can do to help you until you stop.”

“I did not come to ask for help, Katsura.” Kenshin replied. “I came to ask questions.”

“I understand that, Kenshin, but in asking questions and expecting answers, you are also asking for help.”

“In what regard?”

“You lock everything up inside of you; your rage, your grief, your guilt, until there is no other alternative but for your emotions to explode. You were young, Kenshin. That first night you should have come to me. I would have helped you through the pain and the confusion. We could have faced it together. Even though you appeared emotionally much more mature than the other boys... I knew it was still going to be difficult for you. Especially as idealistic and pure hearted as you were... you should have come to me...”

“Pure hearted?” Kenshin scoffed and shook his head. “I murdered an innocent in my sleep, Katsura. My guilt and grief took me from my bed while I was still locked in the world of my own nightmares, and I killed someone thinking I was killing the ghost of my dead Okaa... my soul will burn in the eternal fires of hell for that action alone, and there is nothing anyone can do to save me; not now. My soul, what is left of it, is damned. You know it as well as I.”

“Kenshin...”
“Tell me who I killed, Katsura.”

“Iie, it doesn’t matter now...”

“Tell me.” He insisted, standing up and sliding his daisho back into his belt.

“Kenshin...”

“TELL ME!”

Katsura sighed. There was no getting around it. There was no use trying to assuage the boys shattered soul. What was done was done, and now he knew the reason why. “Alright,” he sighed, looking up to face those burning eyes. “Her name was Tokori. She was one of the kitchen girls. We believe she heard you crying in the hallway and came to see what was wrong. You attacked her and there was a struggle. At one point she managed to get away and fled to the kitchen, arming herself with a knife.” No longer able to meet the steady coldness of the assassins gaze, Katsura concentrated on his sake. “You caught her there... and killed her, but not before she marked your face. It took Katakai and Iizuka both to pull you off of her, but by then, there wasn’t much left. You’d cut her to ribbons.”

“I see.”

Katsura looked up, surprised at the calmness of the boys voice, but when he saw the face, he became very aware of something. Kenshin was not calm. He was far from calm. Blood dripped on the floor from the wound over his cheek, and from the cuts in his palms made by his own finger nails as he clenched his hands into white fists of raging grief. His flesh had turned a terrible shade of palest pink, his lips almost blue, and he was trembling-trembling like a leaf caught in an unforgiving wind. The breath whistled through his nostrils in tight, tiny bursts as if breathing caused him more pain than he could bear.

But his eyes were dry. Those glittering golden orbs were blank and unseeing with agony, but they were dry as a desert.

“Arigato, Katsura-san.” Kenshin spoke, his voice low, raspy but tightly controlled. “I will return to the Inn and await my next assignment. Gomen nasai for disturbing you today. I hope I have not completely destroyed the peace of your morning.” Bowing deeply, Kenshin retrieved his hat, strapped it under his chin and left the room.

Katsura shivered. It was much colder today that he remembered it being earlier. Climbing to his feet, he pulled the edges of his kimono together and quietly watched Kenshin leave his home.

It was not a good day.

“Katakai?” He called out the fusuma.

“Hai, Katsura-san?” The large man appeared abruptly.

“Bring me some clean water and a towel. I need to wipe some blood off the floor.”

“Blood...?”

“Kenshin̵ 7;s chi. I’ll explain later... if I can.”

“Of course.” Katakai left to retrieve the items requested, the question hot in his mind. ‘How did Himura-san’s chi get on the floor?’

TBC