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Rating

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Kendo no Go
In the Language of Kendo:
A Fanfic in 100 Chapters

by Akai Kitsune

13: Soothe

~*~

Kenshin found himself hating a lot of things, after Tomoe died. He hated his job, his duty, when they carried him to the dirty brothels which often served as hidden meeting places for the rebellion leaders he had sworn to protect. He hated the smell of sweat, cheap perfume, smoke, and freshly spilled sake that garnered around him and spread throughout the room, seeping into his clothes and making his nose itch, his senses dull. He hated the girls that swarmed at all sides, fascinated by his soft, fragile-looking features, his hair, and his scar - though no one dared to touch it, he noticed.

He hated seeing fear in the eyes of the men who were supposed to trust him, although he had never trusted them. Not after being betrayed twice over.

In those brothels, waiting patiently as the men he worked for met, argued, finally agreed or disagreed - however the discussion went that night - and finally drunk themselves into a hazy, easily entertained stupour, he would watch them, and occasionally wonder how, exactly, they were to rule their proud country if they won the war.

When they won. His eyes narrowed. He had promised her... he would fight.

Even if he did doubt the men he was depending on to help them win, and he didn't really feel guilty about that. How could one respect a man who argued all night, then vented his anger over jugs of alcohol, to drown the frustration? How could one watch such actions and not think that these men were not fit to rule over themselves, let alone a collective of people.
But still, he followed them there, watched their playing and foolish revelry, and when the night was breaking and the watches of the Shinsengumi were changed, he led them back to the inn at which they were staying, thanking whatever gods existed that the men had enough sense to remain silent as they crept through the dangerous streets. He always savored an overwhelming feeling of relief when they arrived at their destination, safe and alive.
 

He hated the brothels - when the women tried to draw him in, as if they could tame the fiery hitokiri of the Revolution - but more than anything, he hated being reminded of her. He often caught sight of a familiar hairstyle, tied low at the nape of a girl's neck and curled around, or cropped short at her mid-back. He saw endless numbers of white kimonos, violet shawls draped over slender, graceful bodies, dozens of pairs of dark, piercing eyes, watching in suspicion, wonder, fear. In spring, for three years, he often walked the streets of Kyoto alone at night, almost looking for her, for something, and his nose would catch the vague, yet unforgettable scent of plum blossoms, senses flaring with memories and the sharp ache of guilt. His heart was far too often overcome by the pain, and he fought to resist the urge to flee the alleyways and return to his latest temporary housing.

But there were memories everywhere, of course. By the window, when he curled up against the sill to sleep at night, his hand gripping the hilt of his katana, he would recall the day he awoke, startled out of a listless sleep with a sword at her neck. In the kitchen or the dining areas, he remembered the tactless comments of Iizuka - another traitor, one he had allowed into his presence as easily as Tomoe herself, though this time by order - when Tomoe had first appeared, her beautiful face a view admired audibly by all, save him. In the yard he visualized blooming flowers - sold by the girl who had greeted them cheerfully on the road to Otsu - and pomegranates - noticed first by a smiling Katsura after a strained discussion about the traitor, even as the man stood mere feet away - or even, cringing as he saw it, the dark bamboo umbrella, resting against the porch, covered in the blood of the ninja corpse he had left at her feet. When he left for his missions, her shawl wrapped protectively around his neck, in summer heat or winter cold, he felt her warm arms against his skin. Upon his return, the silky cloth, stained a dark, brownish red in certain areas - her blood, his blood, forever reminding - was curled around the hilt and tsuba of his katana, to hold him back, to be his sheath, as she had promised him to be.

"You need a sheath..."

His hands twitched in sleep, possessive and haunted, the only sign of distress on the normally impassive young hitokiri.

"To suppress the madness..."

Madness... what an eloquently chosen word. She had succeeded, and failed, at the same time; for, even as she had gained his trust, his love, and softened the dark, murderous insanity within his mind, her death had nearly thrown him beyond all salvation.

Her memories were driving him mad.

Kaoru never really noticed the nightmares, at least until their marriage. She slept on, unknowing; or rather, he hoped she remained unknowing. He hated to disturb her, whether she was down the hall or at his side.

He remembered dreading the moments immediately prior to consciousness, when the fear and hopelessness surrounded him, threatening to close in and crush him, shatter his bones and break down any resistance he might hold against it. When he felt himself reaching out, fingers outstretched and struggling to escape his prison of self-recrimination and grief. When he took his last breath, falling into darkness, and the cessation of agony that helped him to know that he was still alive, then finally breaking free, snapping awake with the smell of blood in his nostrils and the remnant of fear in his eyes.

She never really noticed until one night he woke up screaming her name.

"... madness..."

She had always done her best to soothe his nightmares, banish the lingering fears he still carried with him, even after so long. It must have helped him somehow, to have have warm arms wrapped around his shivering body, gentle fingers stroking his hair, quiet whispers that it would be all right, he would be all right, if he'd only listen and settle down and just go back to sleep.

But comfort could only help so much, could only carry so far into his subconscious thoughts to do any good. Her words, her touch, could only go as far as he allowed them to.

Sometimes she couldn't reach him at all, and he would stare at nothing, hours at a time, remembering things she could only imagine, never really wanted or dared to. Sometimes he cried, not even noticing the tears that slipped down his cheeks.

Most of the time, she cried with him, calling his name in soft, begging tones, praying that he would come back and show her that, really, he was all right, and there was nothing wrong at all. After a few hours, she fell back into fitful sleep, her arms tight around his still-as-death form, his name on her lips and the same prayer in her heart.

She would always stare in wonder at him the next morning, as he stood at the counter making breakfast, or in the yard, doing his usual chores, a bright and carefree smile on his face. "Ohayou, Kaoru," he called to her, his eyes flickering with love and startling wakefulness, despite the seemingly sleepless night they had both had the night before. If he was confused by the rims of weary bewilderment around her own eyes, he made no mention of it. He simply apologized for not being already finished his work, and that it would be done very soon, and if she would like to return to the dining area, there was a pot of tea waiting, and would she please wake Kenji, if she didn't mind.

She didn't mind. But she didn't understand much, either.

~*~