Standard Disclaimer:  Rurouni Kenshin characters are the property of creator Nobohiro Watsuki, Shueisha, Shounen Jump, and Sony Entertainment.    

A/N: Konban wa! I am the immortal Imbrium Iridum, a wonderful and illustrious fanfic author--*Battousai raises eyebrow at her* *she sighs*--Okay, okay, so I’m Imbri, and I’m some poor teenager trying to write mediocre fanfiction -_-;; I’m a hapless fangirl, and I’m not sure if it’s legal to write a fanfiction of a fanfiction, but oh well. Yesterday I sat down and read the whole of Calger’s Rurouni Kenshin archive--*sighs*--and I just felt inspired, I guess.

When I read the scene where Hitokiri Battousai is sitting by Shinta’s bedside, I found it strangely poignant, and I wondered how he had got there and what was going through his mind…so I wrote what I was thinking down, and voila! We have a painfully short, one-scene fanfic!

Prism - Guest Vignette: Tainted Mirror

by Imbrium Iridum

Kenshin the Battousai awoke from a dream of blood and fire with a dry gasp and a wrenching pain. It took several long, aching moments for his amber-gold eyes to clear; in his mind, he still saw the shadowy after-images of his dreams, and was yet unable to recognize his surroundings.

Swords and starlight disappeared; Kenshin realized he was in some sort of infirmary, dressed in plain white patient’s clothes, lying with his sore back against a blissfully clean futon. He took a long, shallow breath of relief—he was safe in this infirmary, it was no battle field—and the breath positively caught fire in his chest, tearing at him ravenously with pain.

One long-fingered hand scrabbled at the thin juban he was wearing—his chest: it burned, it ached, his lungs were surely in flames from the pain. Kenshin managed to shrug off the white material, and his shaking fingers felt, rather than saw, the deep, bruising gouge etched across his chest and belly like a terrible purple grin.

The ougi. And he remembered.

“Rurouni!” he whispered hoarsely into the still, tired darkness of the infirmary room. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to hurt you; it was a madness that caught me…I apologize! Rurouni, did you hear me? I apologized! Now you’re supposed to accept the apology and come comfort me, dammit!”

But the Rurouni didn’t hear. Kenshin closed his eyes and searched for him, this other awareness that was truly himself and yet an individual, as well. But throwing his ki out to find the Rurouni was like throwing a ball out with no one there to catch it; the awareness jumbled and bounced about without finding the other man. Either he was in too deep a sleep to feel the Battousai’s mental prodding, or he was…

A panic set in, one that Kenshin had to swallow to keep down.

What if the wanderer is dead? Queried a small, frightened voice deep inside the Battousai. What if we killed him? What would we do, then, Hitokiri? The voice, much to his dismay, sounded uncomfortably like Shinta. He struggled to ignore it, but the voice was louder now, and accusing.

You murderous viper! Rurouni is all of you that is good and just—and because you don’t understand him, you kill him! Maybe not physically, but your anger and irrational wrath towards him wears him down, bit by bit, like a statue in the wind. Kenshin squeezed his eyes shut; the voice was like a roar in his head, threatening to split him apart with its angry words. His breath came ragged and short now as he suppressed tears, making his burning lungs cry for reprieve.

Kenshin doubled over coughing, and blood spotted his white futon like some sort of morbid abstract art. There was blood in his mouth, and he gagged, remembering drinking sake but only tasting blood.

Battousai heard his Shishou’s words: “Sake is good, ne? You’ll taste it someday, my baka deshi, but remember this: when something as good as sake tastes as rotten as blood, surely there is something rotten inside you.”

Is there something rotten in me, Shishou, eating me alive?

It was suddenly too much. Kenshin scrambled to the empty basin beside the futon and was abruptly, violently sick in it. He felt dirty inside and out, wiping his mouth with his sleeve and gagging again. Trembling, Kenshin managed to scoot back into bed, drawing the covers over his shaking form. He was hot to the touch, and yet he felt chilled inside.

A slight fever, he told himself. Your fault for fighting out in the rain, ahou. I truly am a stupid weakling, eh, Shishou?

But again, nobody was there to answer him. This was no wonder—he doubted anyone with half a brain would come to visit an assassin, no matter how sick he claimed to be. And after the stunt he had pulled…nobody would forgive him for that. The family all loved their Rurouni far too much to forgive his murderous other half for trying to kill him. Well, that was not completely true—Shinta would forgive him; he always did.

And then the thought slapped him hard.

What of Shinta?

Was the little one alright?

Kenshin struggled out of bed again, mentally cursing his feet to movement. Not that Shinta cared if he was strong or not. If nothing else, Shinta was the heart of Himura’s three selves: he knew the other two parts far better than they knew themselves, and his nature was as blind and loving as that of the small child he represented. Kenshin shuffled along miserably, stumbling occasionally because of his feverish, light-headed state, and was very glad that nobody was awake to see him roam about without his usual cat-like grace.

He hit his shoulder on the doorframe and a sudden pain flared up. Kenshin launched into a long string of curses, some of which Kaoru would blush to hear come from his mouth. He slid his sleeve off of the offending shoulder—the material was wet and sticky with his sweat and some still-drying blood—and cursed again. The wound was all bandaged now, but it must have been a hell of a deep strike. Had the Rurouni given him that as well?

Mou, mou, mou, MOU! Rurouni, when I get my hands on you, I’ll--

You’ll what? Kill him? Ooh, good plan! That worked SO WELL last time, too!

Kenshin shoved the icily sarcastic voice into the back of his head and stalked into the room. He stopped when he realized his mistake; this was not Shinta’s room, it was Rurouni’s. And the wanderer wasn’t alone, either; Kenshin’s stomach did a nasty flip when he realized the form curled up next to the Rurouni was Kaoru, all black hair and white skin. She had fallen asleep caring for her husband, his other half.

Kenshin felt as if he had stumbled upon something very personal and unfamiliar, yet so very familiar--something that was achingly his. He felt, horribly enough, like an intruder, even though it was his wife lying there, and his split self as well. Kenshin wanted to touch her. He wanted to tell the Rurouni he could be trusted. He wanted to tell the whole family that he was human, too, and that he loved them in his own caustic ways.

But on what basis could they believe him?

They wouldn’t believe him, he realized, and there was nothing he could do to force them.

He felt sick again, but there wasn’t anything left for his stomach to heave. Swallowing repetitively, he lurched on, forcing himself to concentrate solely on that dimly shining star of ki that was Shinta.

Kenshin found him, of course, farther down the hallway that tipped and tilted crazily beneath his shuffling feet; he broke into a sticky sweat as his fever continued to rise. Everything wavered before his tired eyes like the after-images of nightmarish dreams. But he concentrated hard, and found his childish other-self.

The room was not at all unlike the one he had found Kaoru and Rurouni in—for a moment he even wondered if he had somehow gotten turned around in his wooziness…until he saw the small, exhausted heap lying on the futon.

He paused, and a lump formed uncomfortably in his throat.

“Forgive sessha,” he gasped, and fell to his knees.

The small boy was curled up like a kitten on his mat, shaggy red hair hanging into his closed eyes, exposed skin shining whitely in the moonlight, his face a pale thumbprint in the dark. He was a study of opposites splashed with blood: red hair, white skin, black shadows. His breathing was wet and shallow, the sound of birds ruffling their feathers in the darkness.

At first look, Shinta seemed to be fine. Maybe even sleeping peacefully. But Kenshin, even without ki, could sense the pain and sorrow hanging about the boy like a knotted, twisting cloud.

In that moment, Kenshin wished with every fiber of his being that he hadn’t berated the child earlier, that he wasn’t always yelling and cursing at the cherubic splinter of himself. He remembered the giggling boy who had tackled him into the laundry tub, scattering clothing and bubbles. The look on Shinta’s face had been exuberant with abandon, purely happy to be with Battousai, and play with him. And what was Kenshin’s first reaction? To take out his own irate embarrassment at being caught off-guard on Shinta, yelling at him. He had stripped him of that jubilant happiness just with his harsh words. And for what?

And he cried. He took the little boy’s hand and kissed it, and wished he could take his pain, but in the end he couldn’t deal with Shinta’s pain any better than he could deal with his own. He touched the tiny, gouged chest and the little wounded shoulder. He wept, and the unfamiliar hot tears slid down his hot skin and pooled on the hot hand that was fisted in anger.

Anger at himself, the stubborn, self-righteous fool; anger at the wanderer, the peace-drunk, disillusioned old man; anger at Shinta and his youthful weakness; anger at Yanagi, the twisted fraud, bloated on his own power, who had done this to them in the first place.

Kenshin wanted to scream, he wanted to rant, he wanted to vent his anger somehow, but the sight of Shinta, curled up and whimpering in his sleep suddenly deflated his anger like a popped balloon and the tears flowed once more. He laid on the futon with his younger self snuggled close to him and sobbed.

I am broken, now, he realized with a spike of sorrow. What use is a warrior who protects those he loves when no one loves him in return?

Instinctively, Shinta felt his pain and reacted. He inched closer to Battousai, nuzzling himself into the safety of his proverbial ‘oniisan’s’ arms. Kenshin hugged him gratefully until the tears stopped, feeling suddenly very tired and old. But he was at peace, now, despite everything.

Shinta forgave him.

It was his fault—all of this—but he forgave him and still wanted him near. The wanderer had said that Shinta was simply looking out for their peace and well-being. He was the literal glue that held the three together; a mediator of sorts.

Kenshin kissed his hot little forehead and fell asleep lulled by his soft breathing.

This time, there was no blood or fire haunting his dream plane: only light.

When he heard the footsteps in the hallway, Kenshin awoke groggily and slid out of bed. Unfortunately, that sudden dizziness returned and he let it take reign. He crumpled, the upper half of his body resting on the bed just below the child's feet, his head resting in the crook of his folded arms, his face hidden. There was a creak of a foot on the floor. Kenshin looked up and asked “Oro?” to the darkness before he even caught himself. The Battousai usually frowned at the little by-word that was thought of as uniquely the Rurouni’s, but in this quiet moment of misery, it was like having a little bit of his peaceful self with him. He heard the nervous pause in the doorway, the slight giggle at the familiar ‘oro-ing’ form huddled on the floor, and knew it was Kaoru even before her soft voice said, “Kami-sama! …Kenshin? Are you all right?”

Am I all right…?

The guilt washed over him again, and he buried his face deeper in his arms, hoping to hide the prickle of tears in his eyes.

Kaoru knelt next to him, her gentle hand on his shoulder. Her touch was cool on his hot shoulder, and he welcomed the contact. Anything to get his mind off of Shinta’s precarious health.

“It’s all my fault…Mada honno kodomo desu, Kaoru-dono. ”

Oh, Shinta…why am I such a shattered part of you? Why can’t I fit into the mirror--am I such a radically made piece of glass?

Am I so tainted that I cannot be a part of the whole?

Hitokiri Battousai, the awesome, feared warrior, suddenly was overcome again. He hung his head and allowed his weakness to show.

And Kaoru felt his pain and drew him near.

Glossary:

Konban wa: good evening
Ja, sayonara: well, goodbye
Ne: right?
Baka deshi: Hiko’s affectionate tag on Kenshin, meaning stupid apprentice
Sake: Rice wine
Shishou: Master
Ahou: Moron
Sessha: This unworthy one
Oniisan: brother
Kami-sama: God
Mada honno kodomo desu: He is a mere child

Calger's note: I was truly in awe as I read this. There it was, my own plot, analyzed and expanded on take advantage of an unexplored moment in Battousai's character development, which Imbrium so perfectly and touchingly described. For me, it really validated what I've been writing for so long (believe it or not, since last July—9 months!!) and actually made me aware of some things going on with the characters I hadn't consciously realized were there. Always a good thing ^_^ I've never had such an honor before, and I really do see this as an official part of the story, hence why I'm posting it as its own chapter. Please please review this bit and let Imbrium know what you think of her work! ^_^

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