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Against a Sea of Troubles: Chapter 3 - The Ties That Bind

by Haku Baikou ::: 16.Dec.2003

Shinta clutched the small top in one hand and the fabric of okaa-san’s kimono in the other.  He buried his face in her shoulder, wanting to be as close to her as possible, wanting the reassurance of her presence.  He needed the feel of her, solid against him, real and tangible.  He needed to hold onto her to make sure she didn’t slip away.  Everything he knew…his whole world…was slipping away.  

“Shinta-chan,” she murmured softly, soothingly, tightening her arms around him, hugging him tightly to her as if she too needed the close contact.  “Try to sleep, little one.  We’ve a ways yet until we reach town.”

Sleep wasn’t possible.  He was so very frightened.  

Everything had happened far too quickly, his world falling apart in the span of one day.  He and his brothers had come home from the field that sunny afternoon to find otou-san much worse than he was in the morning.  Okaa-san had been distraught and had sent Eldest Brother to fetch the healer.  But by the time the two returned, otou-san was dead.  

Dead.  Shinta-chan couldn’t grasp that.  Still couldn’t, even now, after almost two days.  His father was dead.

Cholera, the healer had said.  Cholera was sweeping through their town.  Otou-san hadn’t been the only one to fall ill.  And even now, it was spreading, quickly from home to home.

Second brother had become sick that evening.  Had succumbed by the next morning.  His strong big brother was also gone.  No more jokes.  No more poking fun at old Jiro-san’s cows.  They would never be three brothers again.  One would always be missing.

Shinta-chan shied away from the thought.  It made him want to cry, and he didn’t want to do that in front of okaa-san.  Okaa-san had enough to worry about.

When Eldest brother had become sick this morning, okaa-san had made a decision.  She’d packed Shinta-chan’s few belongings and called on their neighbor, old Jiro-san to take them to the next village where okaa-san’s brother lived.  

It was a sign of how worried she was.  Shinta-chan knew okaa-san did not get along well with her brother, or any of her family for that matter.  Eldest Brother had once explained to him why okaa-san was so isolated from the rest of her family.  Okaa-san’s relatives were afraid of her, of her strange red hair and violet eyes.  Her own parents barely acknowledged her existence.  

Shinta-chan didn’t like them.  But there was no one else.  Otou-san had been an orphan.  There were no family members on his side.  Shinta was to stay with his maternal uncle then, until okaa-san came back for him when (he had to believe it would be “when” and not “if”) Eldest Brother recovered.  

Shinta knew okaa-san was uneasy with this plan.  Knew it in the way she kept touching him and hugging him whenever she had the chance.  Knew it in the way she kept reassuring him that everything would be well.  He suspected she was scared even though she didn’t show it.  

Okaa-san was brave, the bravest woman Shinta knew.  Okaa-san had cried briefly for otou-san and Second Brother.  But then she had dried her tears and focused instead on trying to keep the rest of them safe and well.  Okaa-san alone remained calm when Shinta and Eldest Brother fought to keep from falling to pieces.  

Okaa-san would save them.  Okaa-san would make sure Shinta would be all right.  Okaa-san would hold the world together.

If only she were coming with him.  If only she’d stay with him at Uncle’s village.

“Kiyo-san,” old Jiro had pleaded with okaa-san.  “Don’t go back.  Please, listen to me.  It’s too risky.  You’ll become si—“

“My eldest is still there, Jiro-san,” okaa-san had said in her quiet, determined voice.  “I can’t leave him.  I take care of my own, Jiro-san.”

The old man had kept quiet then and driven them in silence to the next village.  He waited as okaa-san took Shinta-chan to Uncle’s door and introduced him to an uncle he’d never met before.  She kissed him and told him to be a good boy.  She hugged him tightly and promised to return as soon as she could.  And then she said something strange.  

“Shinta-chan,” she told him, her voice trembling oddly.  “Whatever happens, remember that okaa-san loves you.  More than life itself.  You’re special, Shinta.  You were meant for great things, and don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.  I will always love you.  I will always be with you.  So you be a good boy, all right, Shinta-chan?  Be a good boy, and okaa-san will…will return as soon as Minoru-kun is better….”  She’d broken off at that point, and Shinta was distressed to see tears in her eyes.  She hugged him for a very long time before finally letting go.

He’d promised himself he’d be a big boy and not cry, but he couldn’t keep that promise when okaa-san began to walk away.  He ran to her then, clinging silently to her kimono.  And Uncle had had to come and pry him away.  Uncle had held him tightly by the shoulders as Jiro-san and okaa-san drove away in the old farmer’s cart.  

She turned around in her seat, her eyes on him the whole time as the cart took her farther and farther away.  She waved at him, smiling, but looking so very sad.   Shinta stood quietly, trying to be the brave boy she wanted him to be.  

He waved back.

It was the last he ever saw of her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He sat up, suddenly, despite the pain that flared, a desperate cry dying on his lips, choking on a word remembered from long ago.  A name that had been lost a lifetime ago.  

“Kiyo,” he whispered.  He’d forgotten.  Her name was Kiyo.

He swallowed against the tight lump in his throat.  Brought his breathing back under control.  Blinked past the tears that blurred his vision.   

The dreams were becoming more vivid each time.  Since he’d left the fighting after Toba Fushimi, fragments of his long lost past were surfacing, memories distressing for the emotions they brought with them.  His soul had been dead for so long, but now, everything was coming back.  With a vengeance.  Leaving him barely able to cope with the sudden flood of emotion and feeling that came each night when he couldn’t defend himself against the workings of his own mind.  

He sat as he was, collecting himself, willing himself to calm down, to regain the rigid control he’d learned to exert over his feelings during the Bakumatsu.  

He concentrated on the pain in his shoulder and chest, thankful for the distraction it brought.  Physical pain was something he could deal with, something familiar he could bear.  And even though his sudden movement had brought its own wave of agony with it, he preferred this sensation and welcomed it.  It hurt.  But it was far better than remembering.  

He looked around the room.  Sato-san had gone to town to pick up bandages and other supplies, leaving him alone in the small house.  He was relieved.  He preferred to be alone these days.  Sato-san’s company, though amiable enough, was still a strain.  Being around anyone was a strain.

By old habit, he quickly took an assessment of his condition.  He was feeling a bit better.  His fever was finally down, and all that remained was a slight head cold from when he was exposed to the chill of the water.  It wasn’t bad except when he coughed on occasion and hurt his ribs in doing so.  

Still, to distract himself from the thoughts of the past, he decided to give himself a task.  He decided it was time to get out of bed.  Best to do it now while the old scribe was away and couldn’t chide him for being foolhardy.

He pulled the blanket about himself, draping it and fastening it into a makeshift robe leaving only his good arm free.  With an effort, he managed to pull himself up and stand, clumsy and wobbly, but on his two feet for the first time in three days.  

The room spun.  He barely caught himself in time as he began to fall.  He grabbed the edge of the window and managed to sit down on the ledge, gritting his teeth as the jarring impact sent another throbbing wave through his right side.  The constricting bandages were driving him mad, but he knew better than to touch them.  He leaned his head against the side of the window and closed his eyes, waiting for the discomfort to pass.  

The world was quiet for the moment, reduced to nothing but himself and the sea.  The cold breeze was a comfort, the rhythmic sounds of the waves soothing.  He brushed strands of his hair from his face, idly wishing he had a strip of leather and both hands free to tie it up properly.  He smiled ruefully to himself.  He decided he’d swallow his pride and ask Sato-san to help with his hair when the old man came back.  

He focused on breathing, taking his breaths as deeply as the bandages would allow.  He tried to center himself, to meditate and calm himself as Katsura-san had taught him.  

He finally managed to achieve a modicum of peace.  Staring out at the blue-grey waters and the distant horizon, he could forget for a brief while at least, that the rest of the world existed.  He was alone and did not have to hide anything from any strangers.  He was too weak to do anything but sit there, and that was, in a strange way, quite liberating.  He had no obligations to fulfill.  No one to please or to deceive.  And for a short while, his mind was truly relaxed and gave him a brief respite against his usual baseline guilt.  

He indulged in the moment, pleasantly losing himself to the hypnotic beauty of the sound of the waves.

He became aware, gradually, of the faraway sound of a flute.  

Frowning, he scanned the rocky beach.  Nothing.  He carefully turned his head and looked across the room through the other inland-facing window.  He saw no one.  He could sense no hostile ki.

It was coming from far away, then, the sound from the reedy instrument most likely bouncing off the rock cliffs surrounding the cove.  He relaxed somewhat, the tension melting away a bit as he realized he was in no immediate danger of being discovered.  

He allowed himself the luxury of listening to the music, a windy thread of melody that reverberated off the cliff walls.  The sound was hauntingly beautiful.  Full of feeling.  Sad.  Whoever was playing it was quite skilled.  Not as good as Ikumatsu-dono perhaps, but by no means incompetent.  He pulled the blanket more closely about himself and rested against the ledge of the window, lulled by the sound.  He hadn’t realized how tired he was, how much of an effort getting out of bed had been.  He felt sleep overtaking him.  

He resisted.  Whoever was playing that flute may be far away, but there was still a human presence in the area other than himself.  And years of survival instincts told him he must not fall asleep.

Which was all well and good, but his eyes stubbornly ignored his will.  And closed of their own accord.  

He drifted.  

He dozed.

And awoke with a start to find a pair of large brown eyes peering intently at him.

He shook off sleep and came alert, tensing as he realized he had company.  He was face to face with a child.  A little boy, no more than six or seven years old at most, who stared at him with the frank curiosity of an innocent.

“Who’re you?”  The child asked, tilting his head, studying the young warrior.

Kenshin had no idea how to respond.  Just sat there like an idiot and silently cursed himself, dismayed that he’d allowed anyone past his senses.  Never mind that he was still very weak, and that the child’s gentle ki felt completely harmless.  It was still unacceptable for him to allow a person to sneak up on him unawares.  Less than half a year since he was a soldier, and already, he was growing soft.

“Are you a friend of ojii-san?”

“Not exactly,” he murmured.  “I’m…more of a guest.”

“Oh,” said the child.  “Why are you wearing a blanket?  What happened to your clothes?”

“They’re being mended.”

“What happened to your hair?”

“My hair?”

“It’s red.”

He blinked.  He couldn’t believe this conversation was taking place.  Where had this child come from?  Who was he?

Kenshin was good with children, usually.  But this little boy had caught him completely by surprise, and he still wasn’t sure exactly how he’d explain his presence here.  And the questions the boy asked….

“Did you dip it in paint?” the child went on in his high pitched, sing-song voice.  “It doesn’t look like paint.”

“I was born this way.”

“You have yellow eyes.  My cat has yellow eyes.”

“Oh, does it?” he said feebly.  

“Hai,” the boy chirped proudly.  He wandered around the room.  “Where is ojii-san?”

“You mean Sato-san?” asked Kenshin.

The boy nodded.

“He went into town for supplies.  He should be back shortly.”  Kenshin gathered the blanket about himself and carefully stood up.  Thankfully, he didn’t fall over this time.  “What is your name?”

“Isamu.”  The boy smiled.

Before Kenshin could respond, he felt another presence approaching.  A woman, he guessed, by the feel of the ki.  She approached quickly, and soon he could hear her footsteps by the doorway.  He resolutely fought the instinct to become alarmed.  It was too late to escape anywhere, and he wouldn’t get far anyway.  

“Isamu-chan!” called the woman.  “Isamu-chan, are you inside?”

“Hai, okaa-chan!  I’m with ojii-san’s guest.”

Isamu’s mother entered.  A slim, small woman with a basket in one hand, and a flute in the other.  “Guest?  Who—Oh!“  She broke off as she noticed him.  

“My apologies,” he said quickly.  “I didn’t mean to startle you.  Your son and I were having a chat.”

“Did he ask too many questions?  I’m sorry if he did.  I’m afraid I spoil him so.”  She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the dimness of the room.  “You’re a friend of Sato-san, I take it?  He often has visitors, but I never know when….”

Her voice trailed off as she squinted, taking note of the blanket and the bandages.

“You’re hurt,” she said.  “Goodness, you must sit down!  You can barely stand.”

He shrugged for lack of a better response.

She looked more closely at him and gasped suddenly, her eyes widening.

“Isamu,” the woman said slowly.  “Isamu, come over here.  Come stand by okaa-san.”  

Isamu looked up questioningly as his mother’s tone of voice suddenly became cold.  He obeyed, his eyes wide with confused apprehension.  

She suspected.  She knew.  

Instinct told him to grab whatever was close by for a weapon.  Again, he doggedly ignored it.  He would not arm himself against a defenseless woman.  

“Who are you," asked the woman, no doubt staring at his hair or his scar.  No doubt she already knew the answer.

“My name is Himura—“

“I didn’t ask your name!” she practically hissed as she set down the flute and basket and shoved Isamu protectively behind her.  She approached him slowly, eyes flashing with anger, with defiance.  “Who are you?”

“Okaa-chan?” Isamu asked timidly.

“Quiet, Isamu-chan,” she said absently, her eyes fixed on Kenshin the entire time.  She frowned.  “You’re him, aren’t you?” she said, barely above a whisper.  “I don’t believe it.  I don’t believe you’re here.  What is going on?  Gods.  You’re him.”

They stood within an arm span of each other now.  He couldn’t bring himself to speak.

“Say it,” she said.  “I want to hear you say it.  You’re Battousai, aren’t you.  Hitokiri Battousai.”

She had tears in her eyes.  Her hands were clenched in fists at her sides.  Young Isamu peered out from behind her kimono, eyes wide, frightened.

“Say it!” she said, her voice tight.

“Yes,” he whispered.  He hurt.  And it had nothing to do with his recent wounds.  “I was Battousai.”

It was as if floodgates were suddenly opened.  

“Damn you!” she cried, her voice breaking.  She struck at him, wildly, a flurry of anguished fury.  “You killed him!  You killed him, you bastard!”

He saw her coming at him, but he didn’t defend himself against her blows.  He couldn’t move.  He was frozen, watching helplessly as she broke down into hysterics before his eyes and cursed him repeatedly.  She struck him in his wounded shoulder, and the jolt that went through him, drove him to his knees.  Still, he could not move.

“Okaa-san!”  He dimly heard Isamu’s distressed wail in the background.  All else was chaos.  His vision dimmed as the blows continued, and all he could focus on was the pain in the woman’s voice as she continued to scream at him.  

He felt as if he were floating, as if he were merely observing this scene.  He felt as if it wasn’t real.  He couldn’t absorb what was going on.  Everything had happened too quickly.

You killed him!

Whom had he killed, he wondered.  And who was this woman?

You killed him!

Over and over, she said it.  Sobbing as if her heart were broken.  And he was responsible somehow.  He didn’t know why or how, but from what she was saying, he had caused her pain.  He wanted to say he was sorry for whatever he had done to her.  He wanted to understand what was going on, but he still couldn’t speak.  Could only gasp for air as he tried to hang onto consciousness despite the pain she was causing him.

He couldn’t take much more.  He was falling….

“Fumiko!” a familiar voice cried out.  

Sato-san’s voice.  When did he get here?

“Fumiko!” the old scribe’s voice cut in sternly.  “Stop it!  Stop it, love.  Calm down!”

“He killed him!” Fumiko wailed softly, her energy gone, completely spent.  Her voice was muffled, as if she’d collapsed and was crying into her sleeve.  “What’s he doing in your house?  How did that monster get here?  Oh Gods, he killed Masaki!”

“I know, love.  I know.”  Sato-san’s voice.  Firm, but gentle.  

Shadowy forms were moving about the small room.  Their chaotic movements were making him dizzy.  And the voices were too loud.  He curled in on himself protectively, trying to shut out the sounds.  He succeeded to a degree.  Everything began to fade slowly, the sounds seeming more distant.  

“Hideo?”  Sato-san sounded tired.  

“I’ll take them outside,” Hideo’s voice answered quietly.  “Is the boy all right?”

“Hai, just dazed, I think.  I’ll be out in a minute, Hideo.  Keep her quiet until I can talk to her, will you?”  Sato-san’s voice hovered nearby.  

“Himura-san?”  He felt Sato-san’s hands turning him onto his back.  The movement jarred his shoulder.  His breath hitched on the pain.  And the shadows and the world faded to nothing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a goddamned mess, Noriya thought unhappily as he dipped the washcloth into the bowl of water and wrung it out.  He’d gone into town with Hideo to get supplies.  Nothing more.  It would only take a short while.  He’d never dreamed anything could go wrong in such a short time.

Of all the days, why did his daughter-in-law have to choose today to bring Noriya a surprise picnic?

He’d had the shock of his life, coming home to find a grief-crazed Fumiko, furiously beating her fists into a semi-conscious ex-assassin, with a shocked and distressed Isamu-chan wailing his little heart out in the corner of the room.  

He sighed.  A fucking mess.

He’d managed to pull his normally shy and reserved daughter-in-law off the hitokiri and hand her over to a wide-eyed Hideo.  Gruff, grumpy Hideo, who had no idea what to do with a crying, hysterical woman and was at a complete loss as to how to console her as he awkwardly escorted Fumiko and Isamu outside.  Under any other situation, Noriya would have found his friend’s discomfiture exceedingly funny.

Noriya sighed again and pressed the cloth to the assassin’s face.  Battousai was coming to, frowning and wincing slightly as his eyes fluttered open.  Himura looked sickly still.  The fever was finally gone, at least, but he still had an unsteady look about him.  Noriya helped the boy sit up and asked, “What happened?”

The assassin frowned in momentary confusion.  And then flinched, his eyes widening as memory returned.

“It’s all right,” said Noriya gently.  “She’s outside.”

“Is she all right?” asked the boy, surprising Noriya with his concern.

“She’s fine.  Which is more than I can say for you.”

“Who is she?” asked Battousai.

“Fumiko.  She’s my daughter-in-law.”

Battousai rubbed at his eyes with his good hand and absently brushed the hair from his face.  He frowned, then trained his eerie amber eyes on Noriya in a carefully flat, emotionless stare.  “Who was it?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, purposefully misunderstanding Battousai’s question.  

“Sato-san.”  Battousai’s voice was surprisingly gentle.  “She said I killed someone.  Please…. Who was it?”

Noriya suddenly found the washcloth in his hand fascinating.  He stared at it, wringing it, pulling absently at a small thread that was coming loose from one of the edges.  He was very uncomfortable of a sudden.  He had a strange sensation in his chest:  part pain, part anger, part shame, part… he didn’t know.  He didn’t want to talk about this particular subject.  

He was afraid of finding out the truth.

“His name was Masaki.  He was a guard for a daimyo during the Bakumatsu.  He was her husband….”  Noriya found it difficult to continue.  His throat hurt of a sudden.  “And… he was my son.”

He looked at Battousai then, looked to see if there was any reaction in those strange amber eyes.  And he didn’t know if he was disappointed or relieved to find absolutely nothing on the assassin’s face.  Himura-san was staring at him, gaze rock-steady, breathing even, expression revealing no emotion whatsoever.  

No reaction.  Not even a sign of recognition.  Perhaps Noriya and Fumiko had been wrong then.  Perhaps the assassin hadn’t killed Masaki?  The truth had never been discovered.  

But then again, perhaps the assassin had killed Masaki and simply didn’t care.  

Noriya sighed shakily and looked down.  And was surprised to find that the assassin’s hand clutched at the edges of the blanket in a white-knuckled grip that betrayed all the emotion he’d managed to keep from his face.  

“Did you do it?  Did you kill my son, Battousai?” he asked quietly, terrified that the assassin would actually answer him.  

“Sato Masaki…. I don’t know that name,” whispered the assassin, avoiding Noriya’s gaze.  There seemed to be a glimmer of hope in the assassin’s voice, a chance that he hadn’t killed him.

“You wouldn’t,” said Noriya.  “He wasn’t an important man.  He was just a guard.”  Just a guard to the rest of the world.  So much more to me….

“What was the name of his lord?”

“Kunii.”

A long pause.  “Sato-san….”

“You killed Kunii?”

Himura nodded grimly.  

Noriya didn’t want to believe.  “Still, it could have been someone else on your side.  One of your fellow soldiers, perhaps.”

“There was no one else there that night, Sato-san.  Just me.”

Noriya frowned, astounded.  “But there were sixteen men in his company that night!  There were sixteen….  You single-handedly killed sixteen men?”

Battousai would not look at him.

Which meant there was no question of it anymore.  And the truth that Noriya had skirted around for the last few days was finally out in the open:  This polite young man killed his son.  

He had suspected all along.  Had known it in his mind if not his heart.  But knowing now with dead certainty suddenly hurt more than he anticipated, despite preparing himself for days.  He didn’t know what to feel.  Did he want to kill this young man who had come to be an agreeable guest, if not yet an actual friend?  Did he want to turn him in to the council after all?  

“You should turn me in,” said Battousai after what seemed an interminable silence.  It was as if the hitokiri could read his very thoughts.

“I swore I wouldn’t do that,” snapped Noriya, surprising himself.  “I’m a man of my word.”

He stood up, unable to look at the red haired assassin sitting in his house.  “I wanted to kill you, you know.  When Hideo and I first found you, we almost took your head.”

“Perhaps that would have been best.”

Noriya did turn around then, surprised at Battousai’s calm acceptance of his admission.  He felt oddly angry of a sudden, that the man who took his son’s life should care so little for his own.  “Don’t you want to live?”

The hitokiri shrugged and closed his eyes.  “Hai, I think I do.  But what I want… isn’t necessarily what I deserve.”

Noriya stared at the hitokiri, not knowing what to say.

Noriya found himself shaking.  Damn.  The room was too warm.  

He abruptly walked out, leaving Battousai sitting in the middle of the floor.  Walked past Hideo and a still quietly sobbing Fumiko.  Ignored a wide-eyed Isamu who backed away from him nervously.  Walked away from everyone and stood on the rocky shore, facing the sea.  

He closed his eyes.  Breathed deeply.  

It was all a damned mess.  The whole day was a mess.  A big fucking mess.  Nothing was in order.

“Ojii-san?”  A shy tugging at his sleeve.

He looked down at his grandson.

“Ojii-san, are you angry?”

Was he?  

Noriya ruffled the boy’s hair.  

“No, Isamu-chan.”  He smiled at the boy.  “I’m not angry.  Ojii-san just needs some time to think.”

He took a deep breath.  He took his grandson by the hand.

There was a lot to straighten out.

Big fucking mess….

“Come, Isamu-chan."  He sighed wearily.  "Let’s go talk to your mother.”