Kendo no Go
In the Language of Kendo:
A Fanfic in 100 Chapters
by Akai Kitsune
97: Master
~*~
There had
been but two masters in Kenshin's life; two men from which he was given
instructions and orders, some he followed willingly and some not. He carried
no small amount of respect and admiration for each of these men, quietly and
unspoken.
The first
was, of course, his teacher of swordsmanship, the great master of Hiten
Mitsurugi. Hiko Seijurou may have been loud; he may have been - rather, was
for a fact - mocking; he may have done his best at times to make his stupid
apprentice's life a living hell, but he was very good at what he did.
His skills were rivaled by no one, his wit as sharp as his sword and tempered
by the saya of cool-headed discretion. He was wise in his own way, careful of
the world and selective of his use of the Mitsurugi technique.
Kenshin had never understood
this restraint, in his foolhardy, reckless thoughts that only action would
change the world, and sitting around on a mountain making pots and poking fun
at ignorant, dreaming students wasn't going to cut it. At fourteen, he had
been full of disillusioned adolescence, unable to comprehend the true meaning
of his school. Hiko tried to talk him out of it, but he would not be deterred;
which, in turn, sent him into the hands of the second man.
Katsura
Kogoro was a regal, commanding figure, sensible, calm and collected in nearly
every situation he was presented with. He seemed to know how to deal with
everyone, and acted as a living example of how a proper samurai of Kyoto
should act. Kenshin found himself following the older man's lead on more than
one occasion, obeying his commands without question, trusting him to make the
decisions that would help to change the era they lived in. He knew what a
great asset Kenshin was to the Ishin Shishi, and he never hesitated to tell
the young hitokiri. His voice, whether full of confidence or compassion, was
always clear as his vision of what the future should hold for them all.
Kenshin knew he would have followed Katsura's orders anywhere.
Such was his mistake, he
often thought, regretting his life as an assassin, even as he told himself
that it must have done some good. Swords did not make the era, but he
liked to think he had accomplished something in his contribution to the war.
The alternative was far too painful to consider.
These two
men had helped to change his life, to mold him into the man he eventually
became. He was regretful that he had parted badly with both of them - one as
an obnoxious, argumentative boy, the other as a cold-voiced, dark-eyed
hitokiri.
Even after
living alone for so long as his own master, Kenshin found that his kenjutsu
teacher was still able to make him feel like the petulant little boy he had
been before he left. Hiko was good at making himself seem far greater than
others. It was intolerable, yet inevitable trait possessed by the man.
It was reassuring, though, to
know that part of him was still there, still alive, and not buried beneath
years of blood, and death, and pain. Hitokiri Battousai was still able to look
his master in the eye and scowl at the unfairness of his taunts.
'Hitokiri Battousai
might have - at some point in time - tried to take Hiko Seijurou's head off if
that child did not yet live.'
'I... I feared that
sort of confrontation, all through the Bakumatsu...'
'I remember...'
Although it was an irrational
impossibility - Hiko would never have joined the chaos he had forbidden his
student from entering, no matter how tempting the sides might appear - Kenshin
could recall a certain tightness in his throat whenever he received a black
envelope.
Not just because he knew it
meant another sleepless night...
Not just because he knew it
meant another life on his hands, another face in his nightmares...
'... because...'
He feared that one day, he
would recognize the name on the envelope, know the face of the man he was to
kill.
"If I knew
more about the target-"
What would he have done,
then, he wondered.
"-I would
have doubts..."
Doubts came regardless, but
duty was always able to overshadow such weak thoughts. He was terribly
strong-willed, and once he set his mind to do something, it was as good as
done. The combination of past knowledge and childish stubbornness attributed
to that.
'I suppose I have
never been my own master, then...'
As a child, his masters were
the slave traders.
As a boy, his master was an
undefeated swordsman.
As a teenager, his master was
the leader of a great and unshakable vision.
As a man, his master was...
'... was...'
'I don't know.'
'I gave my life to
the world, to the winding road before me, following without visions, without
dreams, without answers.'
'My master was...'
'I followed the
road with only three things.'
'My sword...'
'My memories...'
'... and...'
A question, buried deep in
his heart, forever rooted to his soul.
'I have run so many
times, but...'
'It all comes back
to this...'
"As long as these
hands can reach them..."
'And I have come so
close...'
"... I won't allow
anyone to die."
As a man, his master was his
vow.
" 'To use the sword
and heart in fulfilling my struggling life' is the answer that I have
discovered!"
And a promise...
'And I'll keep it.
I'll keep it... forever...'
~*~
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