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Hajime and Tokio: Chapter 13 - The River of Time

by Angrybee ::: 03.Nov.2003

"Ten years. It's only two words, but to live it is a long time." -Saitou Hajime, Part 52, Volume Seven, Rurouni Kenshin

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Kyoto - 1866.

"I never really noticed before how quickly the Kamo river flows in the summertime. Rushing through and past Kyoto, as if it knows the violence here and does not wish to linger."

Okita Souji knelt on the grassy bank, dipping his cupped hands into the water. The blood coating the small man's palms tinted the liquid a strange pink before Okita parted his fingers, allowing the mixture to drip into the river.

"If you just close your eyes and listen, you can hear them. At first, they may seem indistinguishable from the cacophonous sound that composes the symphony of water's journey. There. Can you hear them, Saitou-san?"

Saitou had to admit that, in fact, he could -not- hear whatever it was that Okita strained so valiantly to pick out from the river's noise. Nonetheless, to say so would only prolong the lecture, so the more stoic of the pair merely grunted in response.

Pulling a strip of white cloth from inside his gi, Saitou halved the fabric and slid it down the length of his blade, expunging the night's gore from the tempered metal. These trips to the river had become more frequent of late, and though he would never voice his observations to the good natured Captain, Saitou knew that Okita's insistence on these short diversions had something to do with the growing sickness he so carefully tried to hide.

"You see, Saitou-san, they are all here. The blood from every battle that lacerates Kyoto's streets makes its way here, after rain and snow, to the shores of the Kamo river. It wishes to move through this city and past it. And if you listen, you can hear, just beneath the crash of the waves, just beyond the currents, the hushed voices of those men who bled for this city. Once soldiers, now liberated souls, they whisper their goodbyes to the city as they travel home."

The fact that Okita had his ear cocked upwards as if he really could hear something sent a vague shiver of warning down Saitou's neck. Nonetheless, the First Captain had always displayed an intermittent penchant for these types of introspective soliloquies, so Saitou put aside the very brief and preposterous thought that Okita might try to drown himself sometime in the near future. With a small sigh, Okita wiped again at his bloodstained lips and chin, and then allowed his hand to dangle in the water.

"Goodbye, my friends. I'm afraid I can not travel with you, not yet. Not quite yet."

As he sheathed his sword, Saitou looked up into the boughs of the tree above. From that standpoint, it appeared almost as if myriad stars had become caught in the branches, cool pinpricks of light ensnared in gnarled wooden fingers. If Okita had seen it, Saitou knew, he would have likened it somehow unto the era, or the Shinsengumi, or something else dreadfully profound. But, for Saitou, it was only what it was, an optical illusion.

"Captain Saitou! Captain Okita!"

Both of the Shinsengumi Captains sensed the man running through the streets towards the river long before they heard him. He appeared moments later, looking far too ragged and out of breath for Saitou's taste. Must be a new recruit, for Saitou certainly didn't recognize him.

"You must come quickly, Captains, at the request of Captain Harada. There has been a most horrible battle."

Okita stood, wiping his wet hands on his gi as he nodded to Saitou, whose hand had already settled on the blade of his katana.

They followed the young man through the winding streets of Kyoto, past high stone privacy walls and doors locked tight against the nightly violence. The abrasive odor of blood permeated the night as they arrived at an intersection littered with Shinsengumi men, some living, and a devastating number now dead. More than a half dozen corpses lay cracked open like eggs, spilling their life into the dusty road. Limbs and organs, now separated from their masters, dotted the ground, sickening decorations to a hellish pageant.

A disquiet murmur rippled through the ranks of those Shinsengumi still living, a contingent of Harada's men, as the other two Captains arrived. Harada himself, who had been leaning against a bamboo fence, pushed himself upright. "I'm glad you've both come. Damn shame. Damn fucking shame."

"What happened here, Harada?" Saitou asked, peering down at a fallen comrade who no longer possessed both of his ears.

"These men had been dispatched to transport some documents pertaining to the arrival of an important politician within the city. We were en route to meet up with them when we heard the screams. But, by the time we arrived, the culprit had vanished. And I say vanished, because he couldn't have left the scene more than a few seconds before we arrived, two of the men were still gasping for their last mouthfuls of air. That one, over there, managed to say one word before he expired: 'hitokiri'."

Okita knelt near one of the dead, a man whose left arm had been bent at an gruesome angle, undoubtedly a painful break sustained in the battle. "What do you think, Saitou-san?"

Saitou stayed mute on the subject as he stepped over one of the bodies to inspect a spray of blood on the ground.

"After this long, do you think the Hitokiri Battousai has returned?" Harada asked, squatting down against the wall.

"No," Saitou replied, looking towards Okita who nodded minutely in agreement, "Battousai is a killer by duty, but he stops there. This one, this killer, he revels in his profession. He could have killed all of these men cleanly, but he chose to leave us a sign of the terror he feels he is capable of exacting."

"You mean there's a new assassin?"

"Not just an assassin," Okita replied, lightly running his fingers over the dead man's face to shut the expressionless eyes, "A monster."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Meiji 11 (1878). May 2.

The five men clustered in Okubo Toshimichi's private office all wore solemn faces, even Okita Souji. Okubo and Police Commissioner Kawaji both sat in straight backed chairs on opposite sides of the grand desk, while Saitou and Okita leaned against a wall beside a brass-decorated grandfather clock. At the door, Mishima Eichiiro crossed his arms, looking stoically resolute as he stood on watch against interruptions.

"This is, indeed, grave," Okubo murmured, pressing his hands together and leaning his chin on two outstretched fingers, "None of the troops we sent have returned?"

"None," Kawaji replied. "And from the positions of the towns he has already taken, we can only assume that he will target Osaka or Kyoto as soon as he feels ready, which could be any day."

"Kyoto. He'll take Kyoto," Saitou said, glancing at Okita, who closed his eyes in agreement, "There would be no reason take Osaka separately. It will fall automatically if he gains control of Kyoto. No reason to fight two battles, if he only has to fight one."

"Our men can't touch him, or this so-called Juppon Gatana that backs him. If this comes to a full blown battle in Kyoto, the populace will, at the very least, be terrified, and at most be lambs to the slaughter." As Okubo spoke, he turned aside in his chair, looking out the grand window of the manse into the streets beyond. "You've been quite silent. What do you think, Okita-san?"

Okita's eyes remained closed during the brief pause before he spoke. But, upon opening, they crackled with an vibrant intensity that proved mildly startling to anyone who had not been acquainted with the small man during the Bakumatsu. "Revolution in the name of change is one thing, but revolution in the name of spreading fear and exacting revenge is another. We must send a man capable of killing Shishio."

"An assassin?" Okubo asked, turning away from the window to look again at the two disparate figures standing against the wall. Hesitating slightly, the old politician dipped his head, almost as if regretting his next question. "You will go then, Okita-san?"

Okita's fingers briefly brushed across the hilt of his katana, checking its placement both temporally and spiritually. "I'm afraid I can not. My conscience will not allow me to raise my sword in defense of this government. As for Shishio Makoto, his evil has been wrought by your own egotistical follies, by the decay and defects in your own virtues. If I were to kill Shishio, I would be putting my seal of approval upon what you have done." Looking up at the taller man next to him, he added, "Besides, I can already tell Saitou-san has a better plan, anyway."

Without moving his head, Saitou's gaze shifted from Okubo to Okita. It always proved mildly disconcerting when Okita read his mind. Nonetheless, after knowing each other for almost fifteen years, it would be a dull man, indeed, who wouldn't realize that Saitou -always- had a plan. Always.

"Saitou-san," Kawaji said, "Is this true?"

"Yes. You won't like it. But, provided my instincts are on course, it will be our best chance to defeat Shishio."

"And if your instincts prove wrong?"

"A wolf's nose rarely leads him falsely, Commissioner Kawaji," came the cool retort as Saitou snapped his fingers in the direction of Eichiiro. "Officer Mishima, we're going to need the information Officer Shinzui's been collecting on the conspiracy to kill Himura Battousai."

"Right away, sir."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Two men, one built lean and long like a katana, the other short and deceptively harmless looking, stood on the stone bridge overlooking one of the many tributaries of Tokyo's Kandagawa river. The setting sun, dallying in its journey behind the hills to play for a moment with the rippling waters, cast the area in a peach colored glow.

"The waters flow much more quickly in April," Okita observed, speaking to his now-smoking friend, "After the runoff from the melting snows of winter." Turning to lean his back against the bridge railing, Okita continued, "I did think about it. Several times, in fact. Plunging myself into that river back then, filling my lungs with something besides pain and sickness. I thought the water would wash everything away, carry me away from my own doubt, away from the pity that became more evident every day on the faces of those closest to me."

Watching a line of ash fall into the river below, Saitou's voice responded low and tenebrous, "Why are you telling me this, Okita?" His question's irritated edge came not from not from the subject matter, but from the revelation that Okita Souji would actually doubt himself. When he believed his friend dead, Saitou would often beseech the man's spirit for guidance in times of moral lassitude, because Okita Souji never doubted his direction, never disputed his own actions. To know that Souji, the prophet of certainty in virtue, struggled with his own inner dilemmas did not strike Saitou as even moderately helpful in the light of the upcoming battle.

"In life, we are but mortal men, my friend," Souji said softly, "But, as soldiers we must become something transcendental. In what you are undertaking, you must have no doubts. You must continue forward and not look back until the deed has been completed and your mission accomplished."

Saitou chuckled at this, the wry smile expressing genuine amusement, "Is this my pep talk, Okita? I heard you give the same speech to your men before the Ikeda-ya affair."

Okita's grin and accompanying laugh bested the setting sun in glamour, "Yes, well, I gave all the other speeches to the Meiji politicians."

"Hn. You'd better come up with some new material, Okita, before those politicians find out you're a hack."

"Still, Saitou-kun," Souji said, becoming serious once again, though his smile did not diminish, "That time forged us, as sure and strong as the metal blades we carry. And unlike this Rurouni which Battousai has become, we can still draw strength from that era."

"Aa," Saitou replied, squinting a bit as the sun dipped into the water, producing an orange line of light cut by the choppy black waves on the river. "Unless he becomes the hitokiri once again."

"I'm almost jealous of you. I never got to finish my duel with the man. It seems someone stepped in right when I had him cornered."

Saitou turned his head to regard the other man with mild incredulousness. "You can't be serious, Okita. At the time, you were too ill. You would have died."

"Yes, but I would have taken him with me." Okita's smile faltered only minutely before he continued, "I thought it much preferable to drowning. Then, at least, my men would have had something they could hold aloft with pride, rather than have to live with the knowledge that they had followed a leader so weak he resorted to suicide to end his pain."

"But, you didn't kill yourself."

"And the Hitokiri Battousai didn't die either. It seems lucky for us, ne?"

Neither men spoke for the longest time. Several couples passed them, crossing the bridge in their evening strolls. Young and old lovers alike traversed the old stone structure, speaking quietly to one another on all sorts of everyday topics. Their gardens. Their children. Money. Dinner. The pesky neighbors. Saitou's grip tightened on the railing as he exhaled smoke into the pristine night air.

"Are you going to tell her, Saitou-kun?"

"Do you expect I would lie to Tokio?"

Okita pushed himself away from the stone railing and turned to face the river once again. "She'll be angry, don't you think?"

"Hn. Only if I am lucky." Saitou replied, the cause of his smirk lost on Okita. Saitou dropped his cigarette into the river below, where the hiss of fire hitting water was lost in the sound of colliding waves. Okita felt the rapid change in the other man's ki before Saitou spoke again. It plunged from brisk to wincingly arctic. "Souji..."

"Yes?" Okita asked, concern filling his voice.

"If I...." Saitou pressed his lips together and held his head immobile, like a granite rock forcing itself not to shatter under the pressure of a sledgehammer. Okita glanced at his friend's hands, which had begun to grip the railing so tightly his knuckles had turned white. He started again, his voice as commanding as ever, "About Tokio..."

"Don't worry, Hajime. If anything should happen, I will look after her."

Saitou's grip on the railing eased slightly, and the blood rushed back to his hands.

"Should that come to pass, tell her not to cry for me, Okita. I hate crying."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Having decided that the warmth of the evening wasn't quite enough for his taste, Snowflake curled himself into a ball at Tokio's hip. Looping her needle into the fabric draped over her side, the quiet woman's hand left her sewing to scratch underneath the fat feline's chin. Snowflake purred deeply in response, closing his eyes in dreamy pleasure.

"You're much easier to please than my husband." Tokio whispered to the cat. "I suppose he is working late. Perhaps Okita-san has returned, hm? Well, lets go set out some supper for Hajime, and go to bed."

As Tokio rose, she heard the distinct sound of her husband arriving home, his western shoes clacking on the engawa followed by the brief pause of their removal. The shoji opened a moment later, and Tokio greeted her husband by moving across the room to take the overshirt of his uniform and his gloves.

Her husband seemingly lost in thought, Tokio did not dare disturb him to ask if he wanted dinner. Always better to merely place it in front of him in the hopes that he would eat. With this in mind, Tokio put away her husband's things and headed for the kitchen.

Saitou watched his wife move about the room. Eight years they had been together now, and she still never ceased to amaze him. A rare creature, this Saitou Tokio. Any other woman would have asked him why he was late, if he wanted dinner, whether he had news of their traveling friend. Not Tokio. What she ultimately wanted from him, he had never known, but she seemed content enough with what he had given.

Her hair had been pulled back into a ponytail, making her look even more youthful and fresh. At twenty-four, she certainly appeared more adult than she had when they met, but their vegetarian lifestyle had kept her body svelte and compact. His wife still carried herself with an air of quiet humility which shrouded the fervent dignity locked within her heart. A long beige scarf trailed down the back of her green yukata as she walked to the kitchen, each step setting off the soothing clacking of tiny beads which tipped the fringe. The noise set itself in time to the gentle sway of her angular hips as she stepped, charming him as relentlessly as the notes of a Pied Piper.

Stealing silently behind his prey, Saitou stalked her into the kitchen, where Tokio began to prepare his dinner, oblivious to his presence.

'What will you say, Kitty? I know you as assuredly as I know my katana, but in this affair, one that strikes so closely at the events which still haunt you, can I expect your reaction to be based on reason, rather than fear?'

Saitou stepped to the side as his wife turned a bit to rummage in a cabinet for some unknown ingredient, remaining easily out of her line of sight. 'How the hell am I supposed to explain this to you?'

Positioning himself only a scant foot behind his wife, Saitou listened to her breathing for only a moment before reaching out to encircle her neck with one hand of splayed fingers. Tokio inhaled deeply in surprise, turning her head to catch a glimpse of her attacker. Finding only her husband, Tokio turned back to her task, her movement limited by the strong hand stroking the underside of her chin.

Leaning forward to revel in the sugary smell of Tokio's hair, Saitou spoke, making his explanation as short and precise as possible. "Okita found the man who employed Kamatari. His name his Shishio Makoto, and he was once an assassin for the Ishin Shishi. He poses a definite threat to Japan. Okubo has asked me to organize the effort to stop him."

Saitou watched as his wife's hands flinched, but then immediately resumed chopping vegetables. "When will you leave?" Tokio asked, her whisper as serene as ever.

"I'll go undercover starting tomorrow," he replied dryly, not particularly looking forward to dealing with this Shibumi character that Officer Shinzui had been tracking. "There is something else, Tokio. Our plan to subdue this criminal involves using Himura Battousai."

Without thinking, Tokio's fingers moved towards her neck, where her husband's waiting hand caught them. His other hand slid down the length of Tokio's forearm, and by pressing lightly on the joint of between thumb and wrist, caused her grip to falter enough on the knife so he could remove it and toss it aside. Not that he was afraid she might purposefully cut either of the room's occupants, he just didn't want her to thoughtlessly drop it on her foot.

Tokio stood extremely still, and if she even breathed, Saitou was unable to discern it. Finally, Tokio turned away from her cooking to search her husband's serious face.

"Use him? Use him how, Hajime?"

"We will use a hitokiri to kill a hitokiri," he replied, watching his wife's face struggle bravely to remain impassive. "And then I will go to Kyoto and eliminate whichever one survives."

The last part he hadn't even told Okita. But, of course, once that moronic Rurouni became the Hitokiri once again, they couldn't just let him roam around Japan after his mission was completed. It was in the nature of the hitokiri to be used to kill, and Japan didn't need any such resources wandering past to tempt its unsavory elements. No, whichever of the two assassins survived, it would be Saitou's duty to destroy.

Tokio's honeyed eyes grew wide, "You will fight him?"

"I will most definitely fight him. First to convince him to return to being a hitokiri, and then, if necessary, once again to put him down."

Tokio's face contorted as she bit on the inside of her cheeks to force herself to not say what she so desperately wanted to say. For the first time, she wanted to beg, to plead, to beseech her husband not to go. Not this time. Not to do this. Sure, she craved revenge against the man who killed her parents, but not like this. But a promise to the man before her kept Tokio's tongue bound. This would be the most treacherous and dangerous road, but she had long ago committed her life to his. Tokio knew she would wrong him deeply to not lend all that she could towards the fight he felt he must complete.

In the hopes that he would not see the doubt written on her face, Tokio pressed her face into her husband's chest, coating her cheeks with the acrid odor of cigarettes, and the musky fragrance of her husband's skin beyond the barrier of his shirt. A strong and knowing hand placed itself on the back of her head, pulling her closer.

"Are you angry with me, Kitty?" Saitou asked as he stroked her hair. Tokio felt his words resonate from inside his chest, vibrating her torso.

"I..." Tokio looked up as she dislodged her face from his black undershirt. "I shall only be angry if you do not return to me."

"Why would I not return? Surely you are not suggesting that you doubt my skills as a swordsman?"

"Well, Hajime, you are getting quite old," Tokio whispered, trying to force herself to smirk, "And you let Okita's blade nick you on the neck. Right here, if I recall correctly." One dainty fingernail traced the miniscule scar that still remained from the cut, the ephemeral touch causing the hair on the back of Saitou's neck to stand on end.

Saitou's eyes grew wide as he let out a sharp growl, "If I had known it was Okita -Souji-, I would have parried accordingly."

"So, then, my husband is saying he was unprepared for a fight?"

Tokio felt herself being lifted from the ground, the fingers of a swordsman pressing almost painfully into her ribs as her back met the nearby kitchen wall. Having turned away from the one light source in the room, a solitary lantern, Tokio found herself staring into a face hidden mostly by shadow. Save for his luminescent eyes, only the sharp edge of Saitou's jaw and the ridge of his nose remained lit. "I assure you, wife, I have enough strength and fire to take on Okita, Shishio, even Battousai. That you, of all people, would doubt me..."

Sandwiched against the wall, Tokio finally found one hand and wiggled it free to reach towards the shadows of her husband's face. Her fingers brushed across his lips, stopping him mid-sentence. Her eyes reflected the lantern's light, becoming alive with the dare that tumbled from her lips. "Prove it."

In that instant, all bets were off. Lips collided with lips, each of the pair demanding more of the other than they ever had before. Tongues made no hesitation as they passed the twin gates of lips and teeth, furtively searching out the taste that each, after eight years, still found so exotic. Honey and sweet brushing past the bitter tang of smoke. If her mouth hadn't been so occupied, Tokio would have smiled at her thoughts. Could one become addicted to cigarettes without ever having smoked them?

Saitou shifted his hands from Tokio's ribs to underneath her hips, pulling her upwards with one movement, coaxing her legs to curl around his waist. 'Old man, indeed. Unprepared for a fight? I'll show you. I'll have you again and again tonight, until you admit that you are wrong. No. Until you beg me to stop. Maybe not even then.'

Tokio's hands clawed at the back of Hajime's head, trying desperately to force him to break their kiss. She needed air, no, she needed him. At this moment, both seemed necessary for continued existence. As her thoughts became hazy, she moved her hands over his shoulders and back, tugging the black shirt free enough to run her hands underneath. Deft fingers traced the musculature of his back, only to turn her fingernails into daggers a second later, ripping them down his spine.

This, it seemed, proved enough to cause her husband to instantly reconsider his assault on her lips, as he emitted a snarling groan and ground his hips against her own. Tokio's head hit the back wall, reeling from the sensation.

"Hajime. Your...katana. Perhaps you should...remove it, mmm?"

Dipping his head to ferociously bite at the junction of her ear and neck, Saitou guided Tokio's arm to his left hip before growling into her ear. "Its in the other room."

Tokio would have made a reply, but found herself speechless as her husband had somehow untied the thin belt of her sleeping yukata, and now brushed his thumb across her bellybutton, momentarily fascinated by the small divot in her stomach. Tokio squirmed, covetous of his touch, his skin, rapaciousness overtaking her body so completely that she yanked at his shirt haphazardly, trying fruitlessly to remove it. Deciding the damn thing wasn't coming off without his assistance, Tokio gave up on that project and tried his belt.

"Greedy little Kitty, aren't you?" he taunted, "No wonder the damn cat is so fat, he takes lessons in gluttony from you."

"And who, exactly, do you think -I- learned it from, Hajime?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Tokio's eyes rolled back into her head as her neck arched. Good god. Where the hell was she? Melting. The world had melted away only to be replaced with a pulsating white light which sent delectable shocks of pleasure through what -might- be her body. Excruciating bliss, which at each turn stormed through every nerve she possessed, had caused a prolonged incoherence.

And then, a face. Maybe not a face that others would ever deem handsome. Not pretty and smooth, like Okita's face. No. Jagged and irascible, with eyes that scrutinized her every whispered whimper. Hajime. -Her- Hajime. His mouth caught in a roguish smirk of victory, her husband's fingers brushed back and forth against her lips, as if physically able to catch his own name as it issued forth between quick breaths.

"Hajime..."

"Aa?"

"I have something I...have never told you. And I don't want you to go...until you know." Where she found the strength to move her arm, Tokio had no clue, but she did. Placing it aside his face, Tokio regarded the man to whom she had become forever entwined.

Above her, Saitou shifted his weight in a way that made Tokio gasp. "Well, what is it?"

"I just want you to know that I love you."

The smirk on Saitou's face seemed to fade, only to be replaced with a rare smile, one not laced with disgust, or sarcasm, or condescension. Just a simple smile, as small and fleeting as it was, a gift that filled Tokio's heart with so much joy she found herself terrified. Overwhelming happiness had never, exactly, been her forte.

"I know, Kitty, I know," he murmured, leaning down to touch his forehead to hers. Their bodies, joined together in sacrosanct union, craved each other only a fraction as much as their twin stoic hearts. As the movement of Saitou's hips deigned to reply to his wife what words could not form, Tokio placed the lightest of kisses on his cheek.

"Yare yare, why did it take you eight fucking years to tell me?"

A tremor of silent laughter shaking through Tokio's body, she replied, "I didn't want to make a fuss."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Saitou sat on the edge of the futon, watching the sleeping form of his wife talk to herself in the gathering pre-dawn light. He'd only slept an hour, but if he knew Tokio, she'd be sleeping well to noon. After all, he had been a bit hard on her, turning cry after whispered cry of "No more!" into tear-filled begging for just the opposite. Yup. He had definitely won. Hadn't he?

Goddamnit, he needed a cigarette.

As he drew the soothing smoke into his lungs, the upcoming mission began to percolate back into his mind. The mission. That was, after all, why their night of lovemaking had been so passionate and prolonged. Though neither husband nor wife would put voice to the fear, both knew that the night could be their last. And, neither wanted to waste a moment of the unsaid goodbye.

Tokio sighed in her sleep and turned onto her side, her arm seeking someone who sat just outside of her reach. After searching in vain for the warmth of the body she sought, one of Tokio's eyes opened sleepily to find her husband smoking, in, of all places, their bedroom.

"Won't you come back to bed, Hajime?"

"No," he replied, "It is time for me to go."

Tokio rubbed at her face, trying to force it awake, "Shall I get your things?"

"No, Kitty," he murmured, brushing some hair out of her face with one gloved hand. He'd already gathered the few things he would need. An extra uniform. His katana and concealed swords. The western pocket watch that Tokio had given him, but which he never wore due to the fact that it might get broken if an unexpected fight were to arise. "Go back to sleep."

As he rose, Tokio watched her husband walk towards the bedroom's shoji. He paused only for a moment, forcing himself to not look back, to say the words they always uttered upon parting. "I shall return."

He waited only long enough to hear his wife's whispered reply.

"I shall be waiting."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Meiji 11 (1878). May 7.

The evenings' springtime rain had left the city smelling clean, though Saitou knew in but a day's time the resulting puddles would turn foul with mold and refuse, a smell he would now forever associate with this Shibumi fellow. That man oozed rank foulness from his pores, spending every waking moment trying to claw his way to the top of the dog pile.

Nonetheless, as of yet, Saitou had not been able to discover from whom Shibumi was taking his orders. That annoyed him. It annoyed him quite a bit.

Saitou stood for a moment under an easement, watching the intricate dance of brightly colored umbrellas moving through the marketplace as the last drops of rain fell to earth. He leaned against the outer wall of an old shop, his torso half hidden in the shadow of the awning above, contemplating his next move. Shibumi wanted him to kill Himura as quickly as possible, but he had decided upon a less expedient affair. Best to show Shibumi some progress by visiting the dojo whilst Himura was out, and at the same time leave Himura enough evidence to make him grow eyes in the back of his head. Hitokiri eyes.

Akamatsu was already getting nervous, Saitou could tell. That impatient little insect. All it would take would be time, and Akamatsu would come crawling in, begging to fight Himura himself.

"Hey there, Sonny. Say, why don't you have a seat? You may think this rain is about to let up, but my old knees tell me otherwise."

Saitou hadn't even noticed the ancient woman who had shuffled out of the shop. She lowered herself carefully onto an old chair, and began an elaborate process of re-arranging her shawl.

"No thanks, I'll stand."

"Not me, not me, not me," she mumbled, her gnarled fingers shaking as she pulled a section of her cowl over her head. "Been done too much standin' already in m'life. Ready for some sittin', I am. Say, you're a policeman, arentcha? My boy's a policeman out in Kyoto. I keep tellin' him he works too hard, but he has that little wife of his to take care of now. She's in a delicate way, you understand?"

Deciding that he could not escape conversation with this old bat without walking into the rain and chancing his cigarette being extinguished, Saitou grunted a reply, "So ka? You must be proud."

"Yup. Just wish my old man had lived long enough to see his grandchildren, you know? Died in the Boshin War. Told him he was too old to go a'fightin' anymore, but he never did listen much to me. Whelp, not me. I gotta get m'self to Kyoto to see that grandbaby."

Saitou's eyes flickered towards the entrance of the shop. Inside, he could see the outline of racks upon racks of candies, bins of sweets waiting for the children who never came around anymore. And then he realized why he hadn't immediately noticed the old woman, why he had come to rest against this particular building of all the buildings in the market.

The woman, and her shop, smelled exactly like Tokio.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

May 10. Morning.

"Tokio-san! Tokio-san! Fucking hell, Tokio-san!"

Naoya ran through the house on Taito street like a diseased rat looking for a porthole to jump off a sinking ship. The clatter so startled Tokio that she dropped one of the wagashi she had been placing in a box, causing the sugary confection to shatter on the floor.

Snowflake eyed the dropped food and darted quickly from his perch in the corner in an attempt to supplement his dinner. Unfortunately, all he found were the waiting arms of Tokio, who hefted the obese animal upwards one second before Meshibe Naoya came screaming into the kitchen.

Tokio blinked, and waited patiently for Naoya to compose herself. The teenager took several breaths, knowing that the look on Tokio-san's face meant that ladies did not shout, especially indoors. Finally, Naoya said, "The horse is missing. So's the cart."

Tokio tilted her head to the side, not exactly understanding what her young friend meant by the statement. Hadn't she tied Stormy up to the post last night? Yes. And the cart would certainly be in the side yard, where it always was. Wouldn't it?

"What do you mean?" Tokio whispered.

"I mean they are -gone-. Not there. No longer in the places they should be. I think you've been robbed, Tokio-san."

Tokio allowed Snowflake, who had been wiggling in her arms in a desperate attempt to get free, to fall to the floor. The cat landed gracefully, despite his weight problem, and haughtily sauntered past Naoya into another room.

Taking her scarf off the peg on the kitchen wall, Tokio deftly wrapped it around her neck. Motioning for Naoya to follow, the two stepped outside, walking quickly around the side of the house to where the cart usually rested when not in use. And, in fact, it was missing. The only evidence of its existence were two deep ruts in the ground.

The horse, too, no longer appeared to be tied to the post. Tokio ran her fingers along the length of the wooden fixture, seeking cracks, breaks, or other explanations for the animal's disappearance. Still, it would be ridiculous to assume that the horse would affix -itself- to the cart, open the side gate, and take off for places unknown.

Exasperated, Tokio put her hands on her hips. 'Horse thieves! In Tokyo, no less! How utterly disconcerting. Now the day shall be a loss. I suppose I shall have to go to the police station and make a report...'

"Fujita-san will be peeved," Naoya observed.

"Peeved?" Tokio asked, the girl's diction drawing attention momentarily away from the crime scene, "Peeved, Naoya, are you certain? Peeved and not, perhaps, 'pissed'?"

"Nope. Definitely 'peeved'. And maybe 'vexed', as well."

The ripple of impressed amusement which fluttered across Tokio's brow was not lost on the younger of the two women. Tokio crossed her arms and tapped her two fingers lightly on her forearm in thought. "I suppose they took the bridle, too. But, how? Everything was locked in the shed."

Naoya shrugged and walked over to the small outdoor shed and poked at the door. Finding it unlocked, the teenager stepped inside, only to startle Tokio once again with her exclamation. "Oi, Tokio-san. There's a note! And it is addressed to you!"

Naoya re-appeared holding a bulging white envelope. This she handed to Tokio, who held it up in the morning sunlight to read the word written in the exacting calligraphy she knew so well.

"Tokio."

It couldn't be.

Opening the envelope, Tokio found a short unsigned message inside, as well as a thick brass key. The note read:

"Kitty,

Had need of the horse and cart. Use this instead."

On the back of the yellowed paper was an address.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

May 10. Afternoon.

"Sleep."

Sagara Sanosuke's head hit the dojo floor with a sickening thud. Saitou stood, looking at the kid. He wouldn't be getting up for a while. And the wound in his shoulder would definitely serve a dual purpose, both alerting the Battousai to Saitou's presence, and dissuading the damn ahou from following Himura to Kyoto. That was all he needed, some bratty kid distracting Battousai -and- getting himself into trouble.

Sagara was, after all, an innocent. A complete idiot, but innocent. And, disturbingly, he rather reminded Saitou of himself at that age. Impetuous. Idealistic. Trouble waiting to happen. If the moron knew what was good for him, he'd stay right here in Tokyo.

Unfortunately, morons hardly ever possessed such foresight.

Saitou toed the kid's uninjured shoulder, and Sanosuke let out an unconscious grunt. Yeah. He'd live. No vital organs struck. Eiichiro had been spying on the dojo for two days straight. If his information was correct, and it always was, the dojo's residents had only gone to lunch. They'd be back soon enough.

Shrugging, Saitou turned towards the door of the dojo and headed back into the sunlight, offering some parting words of advice to the unconscious kid. "Learn how to dodge, idiot."

Speaking of people adept at dodging a punch, Tokio would probably have discovered some missing items by now. Ah, to see the look on her face. But, oh well. At least it would keep her busy. And a busy Tokio wouldn't have time to brood.

Leaving the dojo by the same way he came, the front door, Saitou turned down the road and headed back towards the inn across the street from police headquarters. His concealed sword lay in two pieces back in the dojo, and he really didn't feel like walking around town weaponless any more than necessary.

Nonetheless, everything was falling exactly into place.

He'd even sent that pig Shinzui on the most ridiculous mission ever: Escorting a wrinkled old lady, a cart full of her belongings, and a horse all the way to Kyoto. Sure, he -did- need the spy to be in Kyoto, but the thought of Shinzui having to put up with that crotchety octogenarian for a week or more also happened to be highly amusing.

Almost amusing enough to fully justify the costs that giving her the horse, cart, and escort, didn't cover.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

May 10. Afternoon.

Naoya picked up a small box of imo kinsuba from the shelf and blew lightly on the paper lid, causing a cloud of dust to take flight. After coughing a bit, the young woman opened the paper lid of the box and poked indelicately at the desiccated tea cakes.

"It's...it's a confectioner's shop, Tokio-san."

Tokio, who had been quietly peering around the antiquated shop, had, indeed, already come to this conclusion, by virtue of the fact that she had the foresight to read the horribly faded sign over the door. The door to which she now held the key.

"Hello? Is anyone here?" Naoya called, wandering into a back room.

Tokio shook her head slightly at her friend's antics and examined the room. Quaint, certainly, and in desperate need of cleaning and repair. Shelves tilted at awkward angles, threatening to spill dusty packages of festival sweets. Bits of cobwebs hung haphazardly from the ceiling beams, as if someone had had enough care to swat down the spiders, but not quite enough energy to scrub away the residual evidence of their existence. Glass and porcelain jars of candies had become smudged with the grime of a thousand handprints. Even the walls appeared to be caked with the a sticky residue of airborne sugar mixed with dirt.

"Oi, Tokio-san, there's all sorts of stuff back here. Paper and boxes and jars and ribbons and stuff. And a big pantry and an oven..."

Opening a neglected package of pumpkin-flavored candies wrapped lovingly in pink paper, Tokio popped one of the sweets into her mouth. A bit stale, but still tasty. Where exactly was the person who had made all these treats? Fingering the key in her hand Tokio turned to look out the door, through sparkling strips of dust, into the marketplace beyond.

'Hajime. That man, that confounded man. How did he...'

Well. It would just have to remain a mystery until he returned.

"Wow. I don't think this oven has been cleaned since before I was born. I can see clear through to the Tokagawa era," Naoya called from the other room.

Tokio wrapped her arms around herself. Hers. A shop of her very own. Her mind felt blank with wonder, consumed by awe. As Naoya finally emerged from the back, Tokio reached behind a counter and picked up a rickety broom.

"Come, Naoya, we have a lot of work to do."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Meiji 11 (1878). May 11. Evening.

A barrage of gloved fists pummeled into the gut of Himura Battousai, causing a small jet of blood to issue from the small man's mouth.

Behind the pair, near the door, the other dojo residents looked on with mortified awe. The fight had gone on and on, through the stabbing of the small rurouni, through the breaking of Saitou's katana. Himura had even landed one of his famous Hiten Mitsuruugi Ryu moves on the back of Saitou's head, and still the two men were fighting.

It didn't seem likely that they would stop, not now, not until one of them was dead.

But they had fought, not only with katanas, but also with words, with ideals. Like a debate turned riotous, neither man wished to back down from his point of view.

That is, until the Battousai proclaimed exactly what Saitou wanted to hear. Himura intimated that he would kill the other man. -Kill- him. For Saitou this, added with the sharp gleam in the redheads eye and the sudden chill in his ki, was enough proof that the Hitokiri yet lived inside the rurouni. Still, though he had suspected that to be the truth, it had an effect on him more powerful than he expected. Almost instantly, he had mentally re-written his plan. Kill Battousai now, and then kill Shishio himself. Sure, it might take more effort to track down the other hitokiri all alone, but it wouldn't be impossible.

The urge to finish the decade old duel coursed through Saitou's veins. To finish it for Okita. To finish it for Tokio. And most of all, to finish it for himself. This should have ended long ago, in the streets of Kyoto, with Battousai on the end of Okita's blade, and Okita on the end of Battousai's. But he had intervened. He had stymied fate. And now it was time to finish things.

Whipping off his jacket, Saitou caught Himura around the neck and lifted the delicate man into the air, pulling tightly at either end of the fabric. Breaking his neck would be a fitting end, a proper punishment for the wound Battousai had inadvertently caused Tokio. Yes. Let the fabric cut through his neck, through the very bone beyond.

That is when Saitou felt something hard connect with his chin.

The two figures went flying apart, both coming to land sprawled several feet apart from one another, breathing heavily. Saitou wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to figure out what happened.

That damn iron sheath. How stupid of him to forget. Well, it didn't matter now.

"Its time we finished this," Saitou said, pulling himself to his feet, his eyes never leaving his opponent.

"Yes," Himura agreed, ignoring the wound in his side as he, too, stood.

Both men let out terrific shouts as they flew at one another, each intending to slaughter his opponent as quickly as possible. No one in the dojo drew a single breath, as they waited, transfixed, for the inevitable.

"Stop!"

The single word pierced the air like a bullet. Both men froze, their eyes darting towards the doorway. A man in police uniform stood there, shouting angrily at the pair.

Commissioner Kawaji looked, not 'peeved', no, definitely 'pissed'.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Meiji 11 (1848.) May 14. Afternoon.

"Oh, Tokio-san, please, please, no more," Souji squealed as the smirking woman placed yet another helping of yokan in front of him. Tokio crossed her arms and shook her head. Yes. He was going to definitely have to try this batch, too. If he didn't, there was no telling when she'd talk to him again. As Souji dipped his finger into the dark pudding, he said, "You're trying to fatten me up to kill me, aren't you? Please, Tokio-san, I don't want to end up in cakes. I'm far too pretty to become a teatime delicacy."

As Okita batted his eyelashes in a mock plea for his life, Tokio tittered silently. Well, maybe she had been forcing a little too much food down his throat this afternoon.

Naoya's dust-ensconced head peeked out of the doorway and shot a glare at Tokio, and then at Okita. "You're a strange little man, Okita-san. You sure you didn't get bonked on the head or something during the Bakumatsu?"

While Tokio's attention was turned away, Okita deftly flipped his plate to the side, causing the shaped blob of pudding to fly into the air and land somewhere on the roof of the shop. Naoya hid her raucous amusement by ducking back into the shop to ostensibly continue sweeping.

When Tokio turned back around, she found Okita's plate to be empty. Seeing the look of confusion on his friend's face, Okita endeavored to turn her attention away from stuffing him full of sweets before she decided to bring out something -else-.

"I'm glad I came by," Okita said, moving a nearby stool closer to Tokio, to offer her a seat. "We haven't really had much of a chance to see one another since I left to follow Kamatari, hm?"

"Its quite alright, Okita-san," Tokio whispered, taking a seat next to her friend, "I know how busy you are. Though, I must wonder how you knew where to find us this afternoon."

"Aha. Yes. Well, one only has to follow the trail of sugar-poisoned children lining the streets of Tokyo to find you, Tokio." Okita replied, dodging the truth. Both of them knew, of course, that Saitou had told Okita where to find Tokio, but neither really wanted to bring it up. In fact, Saitou had come by Katsu's manor early two mornings previous.

And he had left only a half-hour later, with Okita's katana.

Somehow, Himura Battousai had succeeded in breaking Saitou's sword clean in half. But, Souji didn't much mind lending his famed katana to his friend. Not for this, not when Saitou had revealed that he would likely be using it to kill the man who had been a rival to them both.

"You're a horrific liar, Okita-san," Tokio whispered, looking out into the bustling marketplace, her face as impassive as ever. "I take it he hasn't left the city yet, then?"

"No, not yet," Okita said softly, "Tomorrow or the day after, most likely."

There was, of course, so much more to be told. But, Saitou had sworn Okita to not breathe one word about the duel with Himura Battousai to Tokio. Knowing would definitely only cause her to worry.

"Besides, I'm a fantastic liar. I made you think I liked all your sweets, now didn't I?"

Tokio pursed her lips and swatted gently at her friend's shoulder with the back of her hand.

"Itai! Itai!" Okita exclaimed, rubbing his shoulder as if truly hurt. He called to a passing marketgoer, "Did you see that? Don't come here. This shop sells only abuse! They lure you in with sugar, and then they beat you up!"

The market patron only shook his head sadly and walked on.

"What are you going to call the place, Tokio-san?"

Tokio pressed her fingers to her lips in thought. She hadn't really considered that the shop would need a name. But, once one popped into her head, she knew she wouldn't be able to think of anything better. "Snowflake Sweets", Tokio whispered, a small smile crossing her face as she thought of her pastry-obsessed pet back home.

"Well, Madame Proprietor of Snowflake Sweets, why don't I come by this evening and take the three of us to dinner to celebrate, mm?"

"Yes!" Naoya called, poking her head out the door once again, "Yes, please, Tokio-san? I could wear that new kimono that you made me. It is far too nice to wear for everyday. Please can we go?"

Tokio looked back and forth between the two faces, knowing that both of her friends were trying their hardest to distract her from thinking about her husband. 'There really isn't any need for them to be so worried,' Tokio thought to herself, 'I know he will be fine. He promised he would return to me. He promised. I must have faith in him.'

"Very well," Tokio whispered. "We'll go. Thank you, Okita-san."

Naoya showed her approval by doing some sort of odd dance step with the broom. But, Okita merely smiled and stood, "Well, then. I should go. I have some things to take care of before tonight."

The trio said their goodbyes. Naoya and Tokio headed back into the shop to continue cleaning and repairs as Souji disappeared into the marketplace.

Okita Souji walked through the streets of Tokyo at a leisurely pace. A remarkably nice day, Seichii certainly would have written a lovely poem about it. But, then, Seichii could write about anything and make it interesting, grass growing, oddly shaped clouds, a child's dimples. Anything. And he'd make it inspiring just by virtue of the fact that he described it so clearly. You could fold up one of his poems, put it in your gi, and no matter where you went, if you read the poem again, you were right where Seichii placed you.

Seichii. Had it been so long since his twin died? Even now, Souji felt as if he could still sense his brother's presence. As if Seichii always stood just right outside of his field of vision, watching Souji's every move, reading his every thought.

Sometimes, it tore at his heart, being two men, following two paths at once. To remain true to his Shinsengumi ideals, but also honor his brother's wishes, his sibling's life seemed truly difficult at times. No man could serve two masters for long, and remain unchanged.

Okita stopped on the stone bridge where, only a few days before, he had spoken with his best friend. Reaching into his gi, Okita took out a small hand-bound book and opened it. Not that he really needed to read it to know what it said, he'd read it so many times that he had every word memorized. Every swish and stroke of his brother's handwriting had long since been imprinted on his mind. The poem that Seichii had written for him right before he'd left to join the Shinsengumi. They had gone to the river near Mibu, and spent the whole afternoon together. Souji had carried the poem everywhere since that day his brother died, and had even gotten it bound to keep it preserved.

"The river flows so quickly now

That spring has come again.

It journeys without memory

Of joy, of loss, of sin.

And in the water's cool embrace,

I lose myself once more

Like a child that time forgot

A swordsman nevermore."

Souji found himself shaken from his reverie by a great commotion traveling across the bridge. A boy ran haphazardly through the street, tossing papers into the air, yelling at the top of his lungs. Tokyo's citizenry grabbed wildly at the papers, some breaking into tears, the others into obvious hysterics.

As the boy ran closer and closer, Souji tilted his head to make out what the young man was saying.

"Extra! Extra! Governor Okubo has been assassinated!"

Souji grabbed one of the fluttering papers out of the air. His hands shaking, he read the hastily-written article as his legs gave out beneath him. On his knees, his hand went to his mouth as he struggled to make out the words.

Governor Okubo was dead.

'Oh Seichii. What does it mean? What does it mean for us?'

Okita caught a glimpse of a sparkle of movement right outside of his field of vision. Looking to the side, he watched as paper after paper hit the water below, drifting quickly downstream on the springtime current, the ink becoming rapidly blurred by the river's touch.

And then Okita saw what he knew he could not have seen, a rapid flash of coppery orange darted around one of the papers. The tiny fish was motionless only for an instant, and then disappeared into the murkier depths of the water below.

"The river of time flows quickly, Souji," his brother's voice seemed to say, "No matter the season. A man can stand in the shallows and watch, or he can build a dam to irrigate many fields."