Kendo no Go
In the Language of Kendo:
A Fanfic in 100 Chapters
by Akai Kitsune
35: Sword
~*~
Kaoru's father had died at the end of a sword, in
the midst of the Seinan War that had rocked the peace of the Meiji era for a few
months. It was so far away from her that Kaoru did not think it was terribly
significant, until he spoke with her and told her that, in a few days, he would
be leaving for Kagoshima. After that day, she kept in regular contact with the
local newspaper deliverers, and collected any and all information available for
the ongoing war. She did not find everything she needed to know - and,
eventually, received a letter she did not want at all. Apparently her father had
forgotten, despite all his teachings, to protect himself.
She nearly fell apart the day she was told of his death, shattered by the
loss of the last of her true family. The visits of Tae, Genzai-sensei and his
granddaughters, or the collective of neighbours and old friends did nothing to
ease her grief. For a long time, even before her father's passing, she had been
a woman of great independence, and the circumstances she was left in were no
different in result. At the end of the day, she was alone in more ways than one.
She could not, nor would she ever blame her father for her loneliness. It was
not his fault that a war had broken out halfway across the country, nor was it
his fault that his opponent had been that much stronger than he. She did not
have the strength or the will to hold a grudge against something that was
completely beyond his ability to control.
It still hurt, though. It would always hurt.
Eventually, life returned to it's pattern, carrying on
with the insistency that remained constant throughout all history. Kaoru chose
to let herself be brought back to the flow of her life, lest she be left behind
in the dust of a lingering past. That was not what she wanted.
So she lifted her head from the misery, bringing her smile back to its
rightful placement on her lips, and continued as if her father was, if not
alive, watching her with the proud approval that was knit into his very nature.
Let what is past flow away downstream.
It seemed to be a crucial part of Kenshin's personal
philosophy, for his own past was a continual search for information for her,
presented in small, scattered whispers of what she had heard and what she had
been told, by others or by himself. Understandably, he was most often reluctant
to speak of it, unless it was not particularly painful or she was
particularly enthusiastic about getting an answer from him. He had never been a
good liar, but he was very, very good at eluding the questions of others, even
his friends.
'Or his wife,' she thought unhappily, after a long bout of
curious interrogation which had earned her little more than additional questions
he would not answer. She was always very careful about when and what she asked
him, but even the smallest, insignificant queries were enough to send him into a
flustered bundle of distractions. Suddenly there was laundry to be done, or he
could hear Kenji crying from down the hall, or perhaps the police chief had
another job for him if he went down to headquarters and checked. Only a few
days, a few hours, that's all. He'll be back with a cheerful answer soon enough.
'Or long enough for the questions to leave my mind completely,
anata...' She was careful to restrain her sighs, knowing precisely what was
on his mind during his silly, impulsive excuses, acknowledging the fact that
he knew she knew, yet chose to ignore it.
'Really, I never will understand you.'
His stammering escapes were usually a sign, though, warning her which
subjects she ought to avoid. Kenshin was exceptionally sensitive to almost
everything, despite his ability to mask his emotions if he so desired, and she
knew that an idle word could send him spiraling into a siege of brooding
silence, or over-cheerful idiocy, depending on his general mindset of that day.
Even the weather seemed to upset him; snow, she could understand, and rain only
slightly less so, but she failed to understand why the first signs of spring
made him slip into an unnatural quiet until she took his hand and demanded to
know what, exactly, was bothering him so much. Another unanswered question.
She had, over time, learned to be careful how far along the paths of his
history she dared to tread, and as she did so, she realized that he was more
willing to open up to her when he initiated the conversation, not she. She held
her tongue as he spoke, keeping it in check to avoid upsetting him. During
playful banter and everyday conversations, she let it have free rein, but not
when the difference between knowing and living in painful ignorance was so vast.
Words can, in many ways, be so much more deadly than a sword, after all.
~*~
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