Samurai Champloo Fan Fiction ❯ The Ocean Called Us ❯ The Ocean Calls to Heal Him ( Chapter 1 )

Disclaimer: I do not own Samurai Champloo nor its characters.

 

 

Fuu. Something about her had always bugged him, gnawed at him even now so many years after their journey had ended. Whatever it was Mugen wasn't the sort of man to dwell on it, especially since its hold had diminished to a minor annoyance. Still her hold on the scruffy man left a dull emptiness that he couldn't drink away, fight away or fuck away. It irritated the hell out of him.

 

Most days were all right. Most days were normal, some days weren't. Mugen was most aware of it on those lonely days when even the sanctuary of the brothels afforded him no comfort, companionship, human warmth or release. He felt it when he crossed a group of travelers with a woman in their midst or even something as simple as a pink kimono, a flying squirrel. It even hurt, almost physically, when he'd lie awake at night staring at the night sky and allow himself to let his guard down, let the memories surface and consume him after all those years.

 

Four years had passed to be exact since they parted ways. He'd neither seen nor heard anything of either Jin or Fuu. For the first year he'd been on his toes feeling, knowing he'd run into one of them. He hadn't. Over time he stopped expecting to see Fuu in a brothel he visited or Jin sitting demurely in one of the teahouses he passed. Sometimes Mugen felt like the journey had been a dream, but the scars on his body proved otherwise.

 

Over the past four years Mugen had pretty much reverted back to his careless, reckless and selfish ways. The lessons that he had learned on the journey pushed aside, not conducive to a life lived alone on the edge of acceptable society. Few people had ever accepted him and without his companions, it seemed like no one did anymore. He had no one to voce for him so people just kept their distance, like they had before that annoying girl and sissy samurai came into his life.

 

He wondered if they were still alive. He wondered where they were, what they were doing. Fuu would be around the age he had been when they had been on their journey together. He wondered if she had gotten married, had kids? Something in him didn't like to think that. At those times he'd be content to imagine she was a waitress or even a laborer. When he was feeling generous he'd make up a picturesque life for Fuu. He imagined happy children running around a cozy home by the sea. Fuu would either be pregnant or bouncing a small child on her hip. She was radiant and had the soft glow of a mother. He imagined for her the sort of happiness that didn't exist in real life, but deep in his heart he couldn't bring himself to imagine otherwise.

 

He could see it all; all except the husband, the father of all those happy children. Sometimes for a lack of a better imagination and the fact that he couldn't leave the story unfinished he would imagine that Jin and Fuu had reunited and fell in love, but imagining those pale children didn't bode well with him. He reasoned that he was just being realistic. Jin was probably with that other woman from the brothels and as far as he knew nothing but a platonic relationship had existed between Fuu and the ronin.

 

Then there were times when he would imagine darker skinned children, his children, but that never went very far because those kind of thoughts only made that empty spot feel even emptier. It also brought up questions that Mugen didn't want to think about.

 

When he thought about Jin he didn't wonder that much. He just figured he was still wondering around trying to regain his honour, brushing his hair, dressing like a geisha, fighting some prix from the dojo, etc., the typical day in the life of a “femme fatale” samurai. Most days Mugen could care less about what the hell Jin was doing. He could be leading a life dedicated to picking his nose for all Mugen cared. The emptiness wasn't because of Jin. He'd figured that out long ago.

 

Stupid bastards. Mugen could never remember when he'd thought so much about things beyond his own survival let alone other people's survival. Coming back to the real world he racked his bony fingers through his wild, untamed hair and then dusted off his black happi, then crudely adjusting his black and white striped cut off hakama. The clothes he'd once worn had old ago been shredded and discarded. Actually the only things besides his scars that had lasted from the journey were his metal lined geta and his sword. Everything else was gone, even his jade earrings had been hawked.

 

The clothes he wore now were of a finer make and quality than what he had before but essentially the same as the previous ones, expect they had a bit more of a traditional Japanese flair. Mugen wasn't one to complain though, especially because of how he came by them. He'd handled some punks that had been tormenting an elderly seamstress. She'd not only paid him, but made him some new threads. Mugen had to wait around while she custom made his new clothes, but she'd housed and fed him. Mugen wasn't one to complain, especially when people were being so generous and for no apparent reason. If Mugen had been a man of hygiene he would have realized that the old woman had merely taken pity on him. He'd looked pretty pathetic when he had rolled into her town. She might have thought twice before taking him on if she would have known how much he would bicker with her about the clothing. Mugen would never know how much he compromised the seamstress' perspective on traditional Japanese clothing.

 

The stint with the old woman was the last time he'd really come in any form of intimate contact with another human being, let alone had a decent meal or place to stay. So four years had passed and Mugen was still wandering aimlessly. He survived by stealing and odd jobs here and there when he felt his conscience flaring up. As of late he'd kept inland, but the islander and pirate in him had started longing for the ocean. Hoping the ocean would clear his mind he heeded the call and set out for the nearest port.