Kendo no Go
In the Language of Kendo:
A Fanfic in 100 Chapters
by Akai Kitsune
46: Samurai
~*~
Hitokiri
Battousai, strongest and greatest samurai of the Revolution. It
was common enough knowledge, passed along by those who knew it to
be true or not, and it was something Kaoru was unsure of until
she met him on the streets of Tokyo one night.
She didn't realize, until a
great length of time after, that it was not true, in part.
He wasn't a samurai at all.
"The son
of a farmer," he had said, during one of Kenji's stories.
She had thought long upon that.
A peasant, a slave, taken in by
a master swordsman who taught him the art of assassination.
'Ten years old,
and he knew how to kill a man six different ways. Maybe more.'
'Times have
changed, haven't they...'
Kaoru wondered, if he wasn't
born into the samurai caste, how he came to have his surname. She
wasn't sure how to go about asking him - truth be told, she was never
sure about how he would react to some things - which made him
seem to understand that she wanted to know.
"Katsura-san told me I needed a name," he murmured one
night, as he scrawled his messy signature on the bottom of a
letter she had written to Misao, giving his greetings to the
little ninja as well as Aoshi and the others. She had been
surprised by his sudden confession, but curiousity had overcome
her impulse to question him further.
"He told
me that every respectable swordsman in Kyoto had a full
name," he continued eventually, his expression wistful.
"And that simply using 'Kenshin' would be too common, too
familiar. So... a few days later, when we finally reached Kyoto,
he just said it. 'Himura,' he said, and I understood what he
meant. I've kept it ever since."
Kaoru watched him, her eyes
wondering. He smiled back at her with a small shrug. "I
think he was trying to introduce the new standards he was
striving for - equality for all, no caste systems or ranks, just
men living together peacefully. It's such a... a strange,
idealistic view, but back then, it really was something to fight
for. Despite whatever may have followed, I will always treasure
that day."
She returned the smile, moving
closer to sign her own name, and snuggled close to him, kissing
his cheek. He rested his chin on the crown of her hair, breathing
in the clouded scent of her perfume.
"Do you
regret taking the name now," he whispered after a long
silence, "Knowing it was created on a whim?"
'Sometimes,' she
thought to herself, looking out towards the dojo, where her name
hung on the wall. 'Sometimes when I wonder if my father frowns
at the loss of his name in history.'
'Even though this
family will treasure it, always...'
'Sometimes...
but...'
"It's
important to you," she replied, before he began to make the
assumption that her silence implied an agreement, "Then it's
not a whim, no matter how sudden it was."
His face lay buried in the soft
pillow of her hair, but she still caught his muffled thanks,
echoing in her ear.
True to his
promise, Kenshin traveled to Kyoto every year to visit the grave
of his first wife. He liked to go alone - it was a private pain,
a secret love, and Kaoru was willing to let it be - and for a few
years, it remained so. One year, however, he asked her - shyly,
unsure - if she wanted to go with him.
Kaoru loved to sight-see, so it
was with great joy that Kenshin offered to show her what he knew
as some of the most popular areas which still stood, despite the
years that had passed since the Bakumatsu. He took her to ancient
temples - "These often served as Ishin safe houses, and I
spent many nights huddled in a corner somewhere to escape the
Shinsengumi," - secret roads - "I took this road
to catch up with a group of escaping revolutionaries and stop
their assassinations," - familiar buildings - "The
man who once lived in that house nearly killed me one day
thinking I was a spy, and yet the very next he saved my life by
pretending I was his son for a day," - forgotten inns - "Okami-san
was the proprietress of the Kohagi Inn, which stood right here
before it was burned to the ground," - things which she
would have passed by without a second thought. He told a great
deal of stories as they walked; gentle stories, stories to make
her laugh, or smile, or tightly hug his arm as his eyes misted
over in memory. He spoke of old comrades, strange meetings,
comedic circumstances that served to make the Bakumatsu that much
more bearable for an assassin, a recovering widower.
Compared to the things she
learned in her travels with him, she was grateful that she had
not chosen to follow Misao's volunteered tour of sweet shops and
clothing markets. The puzzled, skeptical expression of her friend
as she told of where they had gone, was truly priceless.
But so, she thought wryly,
giving her husband's hand a gentle squeeze, was the journey
itself.
~*~
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