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Against a Sea of Troubles: Chapter 4 - In the Company of Strangers

by Haku Baikou ::: 26.Dec.2003

Silence.

“Want another cup of tea?” asked Hideo awkwardly. It wasn’t every day he sat alone in Noriya’s house with a legendary assassin directly across from him.

“Iya,” said Battousai quietly, setting down his empty cup.

“How about a cup of sake then?”

Battousai shook his head.

More silence.

Hideo drummed his fingers lightly on the floor.

“Well,” he said. “I’m going to have me a cup.”

He poured himself a generous amount of the sake and downed it without ceremony. Damn that bastard Noriya for making Hideo play tea host to a hitokiri while he talked with his daughter-in-law outside. This really was unbearable. Morimoto Hideo was not particularly skilled at socializing with anyone let alone a reticent killer who had personally slain half the young men Hideo knew in town.

The silence weighed heavily upon him. But what was he supposed to do? Strike up a conversation with the boy? “Good evening, Battousai-san. Nice weather we’re having. With the storm gone, we should have good sailing for the next few days. Oh, and I hear you murdered my best friend’s son....”

He shook his head and took another swallow of the sake. Stared sourly at the cup and resented his sobriety.

No, Hideo wasn’t nervous at all. He was just shaking because it was cold.

Like hell.

At least Battousai seemed as uncomfortable as he was. The hitokiri would occasionally glance toward the doorway, but otherwise kept his gaze focused carefully downward, trying not to look at anything. Which was fine by Hideo, since it meant those eerie golden eyes wouldn’t be staring at him. Eyes like that could burn straight into a man’s soul, thought the greengrocer uncomfortably.

Hideo cocked his head to the side, listening. He could hear nothing of what Noriya and Fumiko were saying, and that irritated him. Not that he made it a habit to eavesdrop. He just wanted to know if they’d be finished any time soon. Sitting alone with Battousai really was making him edgy.

“Morimoto-san.”

He almost jumped out of his skin. Damned hitokiri couldn’t seem to stop startling the hell out of him.

“What?”

“I never thanked you for saving my life,” said Battousai. “I’m in your debt.”

Oh. He cleared his throat in embarrassment. Thank the gods Battousai didn’t know about Hideo’s little idea to slit his throat while he’d been unconscious and vulnerable on the dock.

“Noriya’s the one who risked his life to save you, not me,” said Hideo gruffly. “You ought to thank him.”

The amber eyes looked up for a moment, and Hideo suppressed a shudder. It was as if all the energy in the room was focused on one point where Battousai sat. The young man was utterly motionless, and yet there was such a presence about him, it was uncanny. Hideo hadn’t felt so unnerved in all the previous times he’d seen Battousai. But then again, all the other times, Battousai had been asleep or weak with fever.

A small movement from the hitokiri caught his attention. Battousai had his hand palm down against the floor and was leaning on it as if he needed the extra support.

Hideo frowned, taking a closer look at the young man. He seemed pale, though that was difficult to tell considering Battousai’s naturally odd complexion. Still, the assassin looked rather drained.

“Oi, you… you need to lie down?” asked Hideo hesitantly.

“I’m fine, thank you,” said Battousai.

Hideo nodded, not entirely convinced. He wasn’t willing to pursue the matter any further, however. If Battousai fell on his face, then fine, Hideo would help him back to his futon. But until that happened, Hideo was not moving an inch closer to the hitokiri if it wasn’t necessary to do so.

Damn that Noriya. He was certainly taking his sweet time. How long did it take to make a girl dry her tears and come to her senses anyway? Knowing Noriya, the old coot was probably taking the complicated way to do it. The two of them were probably holding hands and exploring inner feelings. Gods. With the likes of a philosopher like Noriya, it could very well take them all day, Hideo thought sourly.

Lovely way to spend an afternoon. Hideo was about as comfortable here as he would be sitting across from a wounded cobra.

He sighed. He eyed the bottle of sake and earnestly wished he could drink himself into a stupor.

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

Noriya watched his daughter-in-law dab lightly at her eyes with the handkerchief and suppress another sniffle. She appeared calmer, finally, although her fists were still clenched tightly, and she still refused to look at him. He’d remained silent while she’d slowly collected herself. He’d patiently waited for her to regain her equilibrium before breaching a topic he knew they both dreaded.

“Were you planning on telling me at all?” She surprised him by speaking first.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “I’d thought about it, but I hadn’t yet decided.”

“I have a right to know.”

“Yes. You do. But I was afraid you’d react badly.”

“I didn’t react badly!”

“Fumiko, you hurt him,” he said quietly. “The boy passed out after you left the room.”

“He’s lucky I didn’t do worse. If I were a man…If I were a man, he would not be so lucky.” Tears slid down her cheeks again. She didn’t bother wiping at them. “Do you know how many nights I’ve dreamt of justice?”

“Fumiko…”

“No, not justice…,” she admitted. “Revenge.”

She twisted the handkerchief tightly as she continued. “Do you know how I cursed the gods that I was born a woman? That I’d be denied the opportunity to seek vengeance? Do you have any idea how often I’ve wished I were a warrior? How I’ve dreamed of leaving everything I hold dear behind in order to hunt down Masaki’s killer? To face Battousai, to have him begging at my feet? To show him exactly the kind of mercy he showed my husband.”

“My dear—“

“And here you have him, a guest in your house. Eating your food. Drinking your tea.” Her voice shook. “And sleeping in Masaki’s bed, no doubt…. Why?”

Her large eyes regarded him with ill-concealed anguish.

“How… how could you do such a thing, otou-san?”

Noriya found it difficult to answer.

Her words shamed him, struck at his deepest insecurities, at the part of himself that most regretted his rash decision to spare Battousai’s life. For days, he’d been torn between his guilt and his conscience, and now that Battousai’s part in Masaki’s death had been irrevocably confirmed, Noriya’s misgivings flared anew, and the pain and confusion he felt seemed almost as strong now as it had three years ago when he’d first learned that his son was gone.

Did he have the right to withhold the hitokiri’s presence from Fumiko as he’d considered? And for that matter, did he have the right to withhold such information from the wisdom of the council? Who was he to take matters into his own hands and be the sole judge of Battousai’s guilt or innocence? How could Noriya dare to judge Battousai with no regard to other families’ feelings on the matter?

And gods, what if he was wrong about the boy? What if Battousai planned to slaughter them all once his arm was better?

He shook his head. Bolstered his resolve.

No, he had made the right decision. Despite all his uncertainties, he knew this to be true. And his instincts—no matter how uncomfortable they made him—seemed to be the right ones. He had been right in sparing the boy.

Whether or not he should have kept it a secret…now, that was a different matter.

He looked at his daughter-in-law’s forlorn face. He didn’t know how to explain what he felt. There were too many factors to figure out. And despite his certainty that he was doing the right thing, his heart still hurt, and he still felt conflicted.

He didn’t know if he could somehow make Fumiko see. He wasn’t even sure if he himself completely understood.

But if there was one thing Noriya was sure of, it was that to kill the boy now would be an unpardonable sin. And however badly he felt at his decision to let Battousai live, Noriya knew he’d feel a thousand times worse were he to allow the boy to die.

“Fumiko. Do you trust me?”

She looked at him, puzzled, then nodded.

“I have a feeling… I have a very strong feeling,” he said, “That I’ve done the right thing in helping the boy.”

“Would you care to explain?” she asked slowly with restrained heat.

“I can’t, love,” he said regretfully. “I just need you to trust me.”

“You can’t explain? Not at all?”

“I’m afraid not,” he admitted. “All I can tell you is that Battousai isn’t at all what I expected him to be, Fumiko. I’d wanted him to be a monster so I could have the satisfaction of killing him. Revenge, as you said, would have been sweet indeed. But he doesn’t fit any of the descriptions I’d heard of him. My instincts… my instincts are screaming to me that despite all he’s done, he’s a good man—“

“A good man?” she cried, incredulous.

“Hai,” he said, looking her straight in the eye. “A good man. Fumiko, I haven’t felt something this strongly in a long time.”

She frowned. “What are you saying, then? That I should simply forgive and forget? Iya! I can’t do that. I’m afraid I’m not as charitable as you.”

“You must do what you feel is right, of course,” he said. “But what I am asking is that you give me time. I have hopes, Fumiko, that understanding my son’s killer will ease the pain of it somewhat.”

He put his hands gently on her shoulders. “Allow me to find out if my instincts were correct. Keep his presence here a secret for a while. And afterwards, you do whatever you must. I swore I wouldn’t turn him in to the council, but you aren’t bound by such an oath. Fumiko, I’m not asking you to give up your justice. I’m asking you to delay it for a while. Please. Give me time. I need time.”

“What you’re asking for is… difficult,” she said.

“I have no doubt of that.”

She stared at him a long time. And although he and his daughter-in-law had grown close since Masaki’s death, Noriya was not at all sure what her response would be. He knew he was asking a great deal.

“You’ve always been an idealist, otou-san,” she sighed. The icy edge to her voice was gone, leaving its normal softer tones. She was considering it, he realized. Unbelievably, she seemed to be seriously considering his request. “You always see the best in people. I don’t know if that’s a gift or a curse.”

“Either way… I can’t seem to help it.”

She closed her eyes.

“Three days,” she agreed quietly.

He pulled her in and embraced her. He kissed her on her forehead, proud of his daughter-in-law. “That’s more than I could hope for, love.”

She smiled sadly at him.

“Can you stay a while?” He knew it was futile to ask. “I don’t see you nearly enough these days.”

“Iya. I still want to kill him.” She stood up slowly and carefully smoothed the folds of her kimono. “I don’t think I could calm down a second time.”

He must have looked more crestfallen than he’d intended, for she reached out and lightly touched his sleeve. “Isamu-chan and I can come by tomorrow, if you’d like. I can’t promise I’d be prepared enough to face…him. But the three of us, we could have that picnic that was... interrupted today.”

It was a generous offer on her part. To be willing to ignore the presence of her husband’s killer and come by for a social call…. “Again. Far more than I could hope for, love.”

He looked fondly upon Fumiko as she called softly to Isamu-chan who had been playing on the beach. The young lad came running, cheerfully showing his mother a shell he’d found in one of the tide pools. The boy had seemingly forgotten all about the distressing situation earlier.

Noriya smiled at his grandson. Ah, the resilience of youth.

He stood there for a long time, watching them as they walked up the path toward the village, until they disappeared around a bend in the cliff.

And then he turned toward his house, where the golden light from the hearth spilled from the windows. He felt no warmth or cheer from the normally comforting sight. His son’s killer sat within those walls, a young man whose quiet mannerisms reminded him so much of his Masaki, and whose infamous name reminded him so much of Masaki’s death.

There were questions upon questions he had for Battousai.

But not yet. Not now.

Noriya wasn’t up to handling such a discussion just yet. He needed to be alone. Needed to think. Couldn’t face the hitokiri alone right now without risking a loss of composure.

Noriya took a deep breath and ducked his head quickly in the doorway of his house to find Hideo eyes wide with nervous surprise, and Battousai looking steadily at him, face unreadable.

“Fumiko’s gone home. She’s all right….” He faltered a moment. “Are you all right, Hideo?” he asked his distressed-looking friend.

Hideo swallowed nervously. “Me? Hai. Fine. It’s just…Battousai predicted exactly when you’d step through that door, Noriya. I was a bit surprised. That’s all.”

Noriya blinked and briefly wondered what other strange abilities the hitokiri had, before he turned to Hideo with a request he knew his friend would not like.

“I need to do something, Hideo. Would you mind keeping Himura-san company for a few hours until I return?”

Hideo’s eyes widened even more than they already were. “You wh—?”

“Please, Hideo.”

Noriya really wasn’t up to arguing at the moment. He felt desperate to get away.

His friend must have sensed it, for Hideo’s expression softened.

“Sure, Noriya. Go,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet.

Noriya nodded gratefully, and without a backward glance, turned and headed toward the dock.

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

Silence.

“Well, Battousai, it looks as if we’ve more time to kill.” The greengrocer flinched as he spoke and frowned slightly, as if berating himself for his poor choice of words.

Kenshin nodded in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. He obviously made the greengrocer extremely uncomfortable, but he had no idea what he could do to make the situation easier for the man. It was something he’d struggled with throughout the Bakumatsu, this strange effect he had on people.

In the past, it had occasionally been useful, this unconscious ability of his to intimidate. His mind automatically thought of the times he had to defend Okaami-san’s maids against some of the rougher men at market. Of the times he’d used intimidation while acting as a bodyguard for Katsura-san. Or of the time Iizuka-san had swallowed a plum pit when Kenshin had hinted at his displeasure at hearing the man speak inappropriately of Tomoe—

He shied away from that path of memories as quickly as he could.

Still, now that he was no longer fighting, he began to notice people’s discomfort with him more frequently, and he found that it had begun to bother him now, when in the past he’d barely noticed it. In the past it was a protective quality. Now, there was no use for it. Now, it only hurt him.

Kenshin couldn’t understand his own feelings lately. Since Toba Fushimi, his mind had been in almost continual turmoil. When he was alone, he felt acutely empty inside, the ache of loneliness almost too much to bear. And yet, when he was with people, the loneliness was still there, and he wanted desperately to get away, to be by himself. No matter whom he was with, one person or one-hundred people, he always felt closed off. As if he weren’t really there with them. As if he was separate, apart from the world he lived in. With a few exceptions, it seemed he was never truly comfortable among others unless he was fighting.

“Need anything for pain?” Morimoto-san’s words cut into his bout of brooding.

“Iya, Morimoto-san.” His shoulder hurt quite a bit, in fact, but the pain medications had a tendency to cloud his mind. He didn’t like that.

“You hungry?”

The mere thought of food sickened him. His injuries made anything beyond lying in bed an unpleasant ordeal. But it wasn’t the injuries, really. It was more the encounter with Fumiko-san….

“I’ll make us something to eat,” said Morimoto-san. “It’ll be suppertime by the time Noriya gets back. Don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

Morimoto-san was clearly making an effort to be a courteous host. And considering what Kenshin had seen of the greengrocer’s irascible personality, it must be quite a valiant effort on his part. It was also probably a relief for the man to have something to occupy him, to take his mind off of Kenshin.

“Miso soup and fish sound all right to you?”

He didn’t think Morimoto-san was really expecting an answer, so he didn’t provide one. Kenshin just watched as the greengrocer went about his business, rooting through Noriya’s supplies until he found what he wanted. Eventually, Morimoto-san became caught up in his work, and began whistling to himself as he forgot about Kenshin behind him and concentrated on chopping vegetables.

Kenshin sighed. Morimoto-san seemed an honest man, despite his crotchety nature. Kenshin had the sinking feeling he would never understand such honest people. He had killed for these people. And by doing so, had given up his right to ever be one of them, to ever exist as one of them in this new era that had been created.

He had tried to be like them. In the last few months, he’d gone from village to village, helping out where he could. He’d offered to do their chores and other work in an effort to understand their lives. He’d tried mundane activities such as brewing tea or cooking, as Morimoto was doing now.

But try as he might to imitate them, to go through the motions of their everyday lives, he still couldn’t understand them. He woke up as they did. He did chores as they did. He did yard work. Did laundry. Performed everything exactly the way he saw others doing so. But it was just that. A performance, and nothing more. Actions without substance. Still, he couldn’t understand. Still, he was different. Apart. Alone.

All his life, he had been an outsider. And deep in his heart he knew that for the rest of his days, he would remain an outsider. He was born different. From his early memories of children in the village teasing him, to his brief time with the slave traders, to a Spartan life with shishou on a secluded mountain top, and finally as a shadow assassin with the Ishin Shishi. None of that had ever been within the bounds of normal civilization. And now, now that the war was over, and he had no more purpose to his life other than to fulfill his promise to Tomoe, now he didn’t know what to do with himself. Didn’t know how to live in a world that he had never really been a part of. Even if the Meiji era had never come to be, Himura Kenshin would still have floundered. Would still be at a loss as to how to exist in a world of ordinary people in ordinary circumstances.

He’d kept from killing again, had not used his sakabattou since receiving it. That much, he could do. But that was all he could do. In his mind, he was still the hitokiri. Still Battousai whether he killed or not. Whether he felt guilt or not. Whether he helped others or not.

It wasn’t his current actions that set him apart, that kept him from joining the rest of humanity. It was his tainted past. And that, he knew, was something that couldn’t be fixed, could never be undone. Even if those around him had never heard of Hitokiri Battousai, Kenshin himself knew. He carried the cursed name in his heart, plagued by the memories of his sins. And even if someday he could manage to forgive himself for all of his crimes, he knew he could never forget. Could never be truly free of them. He’d lost his innocence long ago, and here he was, trapped in this age of innocence. There was no place for a creature like himself, a remnant of the old world, a hunter among lambs.

Despite the warmth of Noriya’s house, despite Morimoto-san’s cheerful whistling and the aromatic scents from his cooking, Kenshin suddenly felt terribly, and miserably alone.

And he suddenly missed her presence more than ever.

“Tomoe,” he whispered.

Tomoe, who didn’t care that his hands were stained and his soul defective. Tomoe, who kept him company and took away the aching emptiness in his heart. Tomoe, who’d had every reason Fumiko-san had to hate him…and didn’t.

He’d buried all thoughts of her for weeks. Had been successful at keeping memories of her at bay. But in the last few days, when his mind was sick with fever, such thoughts came creeping back while he was powerless to shut them out.

And today, when he’d seen Fumiko-san’s eyes…such pain-filled eyes….

Fumiko-san would never believe him, but Kenshin knew exactly how she felt. Understood her pain all too well. Knew exactly how the feelings of anger and loss could eat away at one’s soul. After all, everything that Fumiko hated him for…he had the same reason to hate within himself. Battousai had killed Fumiko’s husband. And Battousai had killed Kenshin’s wife. He felt the same hatred Fumiko-san felt, only he couldn’t do anything to relieve the pain. He had no one to strike out against but himself, and even that was denied to him due to his promise to Tomoe. He’d promised Tomoe that he would live, but he never realized how difficult that promise would prove to be.

Tomoe, who would have stayed with him forever, a silently reassuring presence by his side, if he hadn’t destroyed everything in his carelessness.

Tomoe, who would have gently reproached him for brooding so….

Anata, will you not smile? For me?

He blinked, his eyes filled with sudden tears.

“Sumimasen,” he choked, whispered to her silently in apology. As if talking to a memory could give him strength.

The gods knew, Kenshin didn’t deserve to complain. After the pain he had caused Fumiko-san and Sato-san, he had absolutely no right to be feeling sorry for himself.

But still, he hurt. He struggled.

He needed Tomoe’s strength now. He needed that strength to do what normal people took for granted. He needed that strength to merely live, to exist, to do the everyday things that everyone else in the world did without a second thought. Needed that strength to resist the allure of taking the easy way out by falling on his own sword, or slitting his own throat, or a number of other escapes that held such appeal when he was alone and in a strange melancholy mood such as this.

Kenshin swallowed and tried unsuccessfully to blink away his tears. Tomoe really wouldn’t approve of this train of thinking. He didn’t have a right to be crying like a child. Not while he was sitting in the house of a man whose son he’d killed.

He knew he had no right to cry, and yet the tears would not stop.

A small clattering noise from Morimoto-san made him look up suddenly. And he found Morimoto-san watching him in open-faced shock.

They stared at each other for a tense, interminable moment.

“The miso soup is ready,” Morimoto-san said at last in a hushed voice.

The older man filled two bowls and brought them to the mat where Kenshin sat. Kenshin noticed that the man’s hands were shaking slightly. Morimoto-san offered him one of the cups, and he took it and stared at it.

“You ought to have some,” said Morimoto-san. “If you want to heal, you’re going to have to eat something.”

He could think of nothing to say. He still couldn’t bring himself to drink. Just bowed his head and did nothing.

“Oi, it’s going to fall into—“ Morimoto-san sighed and set down his own bowl. He got up to go fetch something and came back in a moment with a leather tie in hand. He offered it to Kenshin.

Kenshin looked at him questioningly.

“For your hair. It’s going to fall in your soup otherwise.” And when the man seemed to realize that Kenshin only had one free arm and couldn’t tie anything, he grimaced and scratched his head. “Ah right. Sorry.”

Morimoto-san looked like he was struggling with something as he stared briefly at the tie in his hand. And then he stood up.

“I’ll tie it for you then, if you don’t mind,” he said, sounding more like he was steeling his courage and preparing to go into battle rather than merely tying someone’s hair.

Kenshin said nothing. Just allowed the old man to approach him, to gather up his hair and tie it quickly and efficiently in a warrior’s top-knot.

Morimoto-san sat back down and took his soup bowl once again. He sat, watching Kenshin. Waiting.

Kenshin took a sip of the soup. It was a little too hot and too strongly flavored for his unsteady stomach. But still, it was better than the medicinal concoctions Noriya had forced him to take. And it was the best thing for him since he was sure he wouldn’t yet be able to handle the fish that Morimoto-san was cooking.

He took another drink and had to admit that it felt good having the warmth of the soup down in his belly. And it felt good to have his hair properly tied up once again. And it felt good to have company, even a nervous and irritable man such as Morimoto-san. For Morimoto-san was trying his best to be amiable. And Kenshin owed it to the man to at least attempt to do likewise.

“Arigato, Morimoto-san,” he said, hoping that Morimoto-san would understand that he was thanking him for more than just the miso soup or the tying of his hair. The old man seemed taken aback to hear him speak, his eyebrows lifting in surprise.

But there was no fear in the greengrocer’s eyes this time.

“You’re welcome,” said the old man simply, and continued to drink his miso soup.

Kenshin took his own bowl and proceeded to do the same.

Silence closed about the two men once again.

But this time, it didn’t seem quite as uncomfortable or awkward as it had before.